#just this one moment i think about all the time

[tonycries]

Knight of Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You, heir to the throne and fated to be married off to a royal you’ve never even met. Gojo Satoru, your personal knight and the one man that will not let this happen. He will not.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! princess! reader, knight! Gojo, childhood-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, arranged marriages, Naoya is awful, Gojo YEARNS, flower language, politics, slight víolence, slight angst, matíng presses, cervíx kíssing, creampíes, cúmplay, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, oraI (fem rec), he goes FÉRAL, cúmming in his pants, manhandIing, spítting, biiig stretches, dúmbifícation, cúmflation, p talking, p sIapping, overstím, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.7k

A/N. What happens when ya let a girl listen to Golden Brown by The StrangIers.

“You are not to speak, you are not to look.” The king intertwines his decadently ringed fingers on his lap, the royal signet glinting pointedly amongst them. “You are not to so much as breathe in the princess’s way from tomorrow onwards.”

And it’s only with his hard-earned years as your knight that Gojo stops himself from shuddering where he knelt, head bowing to hide the clench in his jaw.

Though, surely something must have flashed across his features - because the next few words have a familiar warmth that twisted Gojo’s heart much more than his royal timbre, “Satoru, my boy, you understand that this is your duty? Yes?”

“I understand.” The answer is instant, as is the raise of the other man’s brows.��

“And do you understand that this marriage is my daughter’s duty?” Your father barks out a disbelieving laugh into the barren throne room. “We wouldn’t want Prince Naoya getting the wrong idea between the princess and a- a knight.” 

The words make his eyes prick wetly, and Gojo can’t help but bend even lower as he whispers. “I…I understand, sir.”

After all, it was the second thing that Gojo Satoru had drilled into his mind from the very moment he first met you.

The first being that he’s loved you ever since. 

Which - retrospectively speaking - might’ve been an incredibly bold declaration coming from the scrawny, fidgeting six-year-old you happened to catch sneaking in and stealing lilac blooms from the royal garden all those years ago.

He remembers how you’d giggled, looking positively like a little blossom in all those gauzy layers of gown. Piping up from under the lilac tree he was latched onto, “My father says that’s not allowed.”

Gojo had fallen then - literally, startling about six feet from the branch he’d been straddling and straight into a scratchy pile of leaves with a dull thud! Back hurting, head spinning, it was a wonder that he hadn’t sprained anything, but right then and there he remembers thinking he was in heaven.

Because here was a pretty lil’ angel his age ogling down at him, speaking in a regal accent so different from his. “My father says that’s not allowed either.”

Your grin beamed down on him and warmed his skin even more scorchingly than the balmy rays of sunlight filtering in through the leaves. And for the first time ever in his life, Gojo Satoru had stuttered. 

“Yer- yer father sounds stupid.” He had spit out, chubby cheeks puffing out the more you stared at him. What? He was sure he looked ridiculous with all those stray sticks and leaves stuck in his cloudy locks, but did you really have to look at him like…that? 

“My father…” Your lips curled even further, as if you knew something he didn’t. “-the king.”

Oh.

Oh. 

And it’s only then that Gojo notices the thin, silver tiara on your head, a delicate wreath of jeweled flowers that twinkled almost as bright as your eyes. It reflected specks of light into his gaze almost mockingly.

Idiot- it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him that chilled him to the very bone. 

Even at the tender- well, wise and sensible age of six, Gojo had heard from the adults in town all about the torture chambers and p-prisons that the royal palace was home to. 

Just why did he feel the need to escape from his mother at the market to bring her a batch of those wispy, amethyst flowers anyway? 

Sure, they were her favorite but- the royal family would have his head before even she did. And he didn’t even get to butter her up with the lilacs!

“Forgive me!” Gojo had squeaked out in a cry so shrill that you hurriedly took a step back, eyes widening once the interesting boy in front of you dropped to his hands and knees. “Ah- I mean uh- forgive me, your highness- your princessness.” Drooping into a bow so low that his soft tufts of hair brushed the warm ground. Words tumbling out a mile a minute, “It was an accident- I must’ve been um sleepwalking and I pinky-promise won’t do it again-”

“Those lilacs haven’t bloomed yet, y’know?” You’re cutting him off smoothly, and Gojo remembers feeling a pang of irritation- let him recite his apologies before you throw him in a cell, dammit! Right before flooding with confusion, eyes snapping up to meet yours hesitantly. 

Pointing at a pretty white gazebo, overlooking the lake only a few meters away, you’d shrugged your shoulders. “The garden staff puts the best ones in a bouquet over there.”

At which, he’d replied with an exceptionally eloquent, “Huh?”

“Well, what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

It’s only after hours upon hours of picking every lilac flower in sight and chatting about all the worldly topics a pair of six-year-olds knew that you were dragged away by one of your worried attendants. 

And he almost felt…sad about it. Weird. 

The yolky setting sun that day cast shadows for Gojo to hide himself in behind one of the gazebo pillars as he peeked at your retreating back. In-step with an older woman muttering about “losing her job oh- the king will banish her.” 

And if there was one thing that he would never forget - well, amongst everything else - it was the way his heart banged selfishly against his ribcage with a repeated turn around turn around turn around-

You did. And you’d smiled, and Gojo hasn’t been able to step away from your side since.

Well, he had to - to go home that evening and proudly proclaim to his thoroughly cross mother how he’ll become a knight, that is. 

Honestly, even the colossal lilac bouquet did little to deter her scoldings about running off. But despite how bad it was - and the fact that he was sentenced to be confined to his room for a whole month - it didn’t matter.

Gojo visited you the next day, too. 

And the day after that, and the day after that- and again and again no matter how many times you’d teased him about coming so often to see you. Because you were right there no matter what royal duties or lessons dictated, waiting in the lilac garden for him. 

Every day.

When Gojo was eighteen he’d applied for a position in the royal guard, breezing through the demonstrations of physical strength because of course, he did. He’d been training for his very day for years.

And it showed - oh, how it showed. 

It showed in the way he stood almost a head above every other man lined up there, veering numerous inches above six feet. All sculptured, Herculean muscles and arms toned from years spent climbing the palace orchards with you. The strongest. 

He considered himself exceedingly humble, too, of course. 

Humble enough to not brag outright in your face once Gojo had climbed the treacherous way into being your personal knight before the age of twenty. 

“Hah, I can tell your father- erm, his majesty all about where you sneak off to now.” Gojo snickered, flicking your forehead in a way that a princess simply shouldn’t be treated. “Perhaps I’ll bargain titles with him- tell the courts about the way you climb trees, and ride horses and-”

“Snitch”

“Harlot.”

“Knave.”

“Hobgoblin.”

“Satoru.” You’d deadpanned up at as six foot four inches of white-haired nuisance clinging onto whimpers out a dramatic ouch, that one hurt. Desperately trying to keep the smile off of your face, “You’re with me each and every single time.”

Well, was. 

It seemed like the king was to be putting a stop to that very, very soon. With your looming- he gulps to keep the leaden ball of tears away from his throat, your engagement. 

“Toru—” Your voice snaps him out of his hazy little reverie, and he finds himself straightening his back into a respectful posture outside of the throne room. Warily eyeing the way you bound up to him, “What did my father want to talk to you about so suddenly?”

“Ah…” Gojo’s throat feels hoarse. Parched. The smile plastering onto his face wobbly, “Just- just security measures for the visitor we’re going to have, your royal highness.”

Your brows quirk upwards, pretty lips falling open just enough for him to realize you were about to comment on his use of that. That title. 

“Now if you pardon this knight, ma’am-” Gojo pipes up before you can bludgeon him with questions, striding down the luxurious hallway to his newly-assigned post at the royal treasury. Far, far away from your chambers. “-I have been called by Knight Commander Yaga to my-”

“Satoru- wait.”

He should’ve known better than to have thought he could escape you - not when even his own heart didn’t want to.

Lurching up in an almost-nauseating swoop the moment your voice echoes from behind, hitting his glinting armor. “You…are you okay—? You haven’t called me any of those silly formal titles since we first met.” Words practically dripping with concern, fuck- he was sure your face was furrowing. And if it was up to him he would kiss away every tense crevice. 

But no, that was not his place. 

His place was to stand rooted to the spot, face turning only a half-degree to grace you with a soft bow. Gojo knew it wasn’t the epitome of respect, but a singular look in your face right now and he would break.

“I am in perfect condition to carry out my duties, ma’am.” He’s nodding, voice oh-so-brittle in his throat for how hardened it thundered.

“That’s not what I mean.” Stubborn.

Gojo turns back to the winding corridor in front of him, “Then if that is all, I shall be on my way. I hope you have a good day, ma’am.”

“Satoru.”

And if his cheeks were cold and encrusted with a few streaks of salty tears when he reached the treasury, Gojo was only grateful that his fellow knight Ijichi was too afraid of him to say anything.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru was avoiding you - marching the other way if he glimpsed you, running around the palace for menial tasks, he wasn’t even your personal guard anymore, for goodness’ sake! Your best friend was ignoring you and you weren’t sure why. 

Was it because you had to skip out on your daily walks in the lilac garden to greet the visiting Zenin royals? 

No, he was always so understanding of the royal responsibilities that you couldn’t skive off. Besides, his strange attitude had sparked up even before Prince Naoya and his family arrived at your kingdom - ever since that meeting with your father.

You were dying to ask the king what exactly was talked about that day, a meeting so confidential that he didn’t even have the royal advisor transcripting it. But your father was always so busy with the older Zenin couple these days, cooped up in office rooms surrounded to the brim with official documents. 

And that left you with…him.

Naoya Zenin. A prince if there was ever any, who couldn’t talk about anything but that. 

“So…um.” Your eyes dart around the palace gardens, you always did love it here - that comforting smell of flowers wafting in clouds around you. But right now you felt anything but comforted. “How are you liking the garden, Prince Naoya?”

He shakes his brown-tipped locks, eyes narrowing. “Rather plebian for a royal palace, if I do say so myself.”

“R-right…” You’re sputtering in an unlady-like fashion, “We do have orchards too if you wanted to-”

“Of course, the gardens in my palace are much bigger-” He’s waving a gloved hand loftily, nose crinkling into a sneer at the bustling gardeners planting beautiful white blossoms everywhere. Honestly, you were informed there was a grand ball soon - but wasn’t this a bit much? “And we teach the help to stay out of sight.”

“Well, I think they’re really nice.” You’re huffing, brows marrying together. 

He scoffs, “Nice- or useful?”

“Both.”You fight the urge to just storm off then and there - it wouldn’t do good to start a war between the two most powerful kingdoms right now. 

“Ah yes yes- nice.” Naoya repeats airily, words warbling as if he was biting back a laugh. “Suppose the low-borns are tolerable if they’re nice.”

A vision of Gojo - tiny and trembling into a bow in front of you - flashed through your mind, and you find your pretty heels digging hard into the dark soil. That was it.

“Perhaps.” Your voice comes out dangerously even, dangerously. Naoya only raises his brows in faint interest, “Yet, even the least tolerable tch- ‘low-born’ would be more tolerable than a pompous, arrogant-”

“There you are, your highnesses!” 

Satoru. 

You would recognize that low, lilting baritone amongst a thousand others. And before you can turn around to face your best friend that had been missing for days, he plows on, “A little gift- from this lowborn.”

Thud!

Before you can even blink, pale hands reach out to unceremoniously dump a radiant yellow flower crown on Naoya’s blond bangs. And you swear Gojo pushed down on his head harder than necessary.

The first thing you register is the warm wall of muscles pushing up against your back, lecherously counting every ladder of washboard abs and Gojo’s plush pecs in your mind. Mindlessly, you’re leaning back even closer, savoring the way his breath hitches. Harlot. 

The second thing you’re realizing is that Naoya Zenin - for the first time in twenty-something years - had gone quiet. Very, very quiet. Suspiciously so. 

You force your words into some semblance of levelness, “Are you…are you alright, Prince Naoya?”

But Naoya didn’t speak - you didn’t know if he was even breathing. Long face growing greyer and greyer by the second, he doesn’t answer you.

No, instead he’s pointing a trembling finger behind you. “You there…you- what shrub have you placed upon my royal head?”

“Laburnum.” Comes the answer - and just as soon comes a drawling, strangled squawk.

Your first instinct is to look towards the shimmering lake not too far away from you, eyes searching for any trace of those familiar ducks- before gasping in surprise and looking back to the prince. Mouth ajar, still making those undignified noises. 

Him? 

“You- you will-” He hisses, so furious that you have to take a step back - right into Gojo’s waiting arms - to avoid his flecks of spit. “-you will pay for this.”

In only a split-second, Naoya had thrown the flower crown onto the ground and wheezed his way up the flowery pathway back to the castle. What a sight it was.

But nothing compared to the way that Gojo comes into your line of sight and preens. One hand tapping at his cheek in thought, the other held behind his back. “Whoops- I forgot that the king specifically informed me that our honored guest was allergic to laburnum flowers. Guess, low-borns aren’t of good memory. Right, my princess?”

“Satoru- you- you ass.” You’re yelping through fits of laughter, not caring for the way the rest of the gardening staff smiles knowingly. “What if that bastard gets deathly sick? The blame would be on you.”

He rolls his summer blue eyes, “Proudly.”

“I should send you to the gallows for this.”

Gasping in faux shock, “Most salacious indeed!”

And for the first time in so long, it feels normal. 

The breezing heat of Gojo’s body against yours feels normal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to think too deeply about it. Too enchanted by the sheer lack of armor - all billowy white poet shirt and flattering cotton pants. 

“Y-yeah well-” Shit- why was your skin burning this way? The sun wasn’t even at peak temperature for today. Absentmindedly, you’re playing with one of his silk lapels, “Thank goodness we’re losing him in a few days, I asked mother and she said the Zenin’s are only visiting until the fast-approaching ball.” 

“Princess-” It all comes out in a rush, “-that ball. The reason for it is actually-”

“Your highness! The queen is asking for a conference with you!” The curious voices of your maidservants drag you away from Gojo’s arms, into a much less scandalous position.

And yet, with only a nod behind - you still stay standing in front of him. You stay.

“Right…” Gojo’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a deep gulp. Shadowy gaze darting away, “I should get back to my duties, ma’am. Suguru has been abusing his position as head gardener to work me like a mule.”

The way your face crumples with disappointment makes Gojo’s heart feel sliced open. And raw. “Of course. I’ll see you around, Gojo.”

Gojo. Gojo. 

And of course he couldn’t let you walk away - of course he couldn’t let you leave his life just yet. 

So without thinking, without even realizing, he’s clasping a slender hand around your wrist to pull you back. To reel you in. To him. 

Velvety strands of snow-white curtain Gojo’s eyes, and the doughy fingerpads on your skin shiver. Mumbling, “Before- Before you go, my prin- ma’am. I just wanted to give you-” And you don’t know what makes your heart race more - the cherry-red blush painting all over Gojo’s cheeks and up to the very tips of his ears, or the sunny flower crown clasped in a hand pulled from behind his back. “-this.”

Your mouth drops into an awe-struck oh! It was beautiful - trickling blossoms of every shade of yellow entwined gently together. Embedded with celestially dainty buds of an amber so pale it looked almost white, diamonds on a tiara fit for a princess. 

You had a feeling it would be your favorite one.  

All you could think of was Gojo with his staggering hands, and his battle-worn fingers, making something so delicate for you. 

“Is…is this one just as allergy-inducing as the other, Satoru?” You’re breathing, rustled by a breeze so gentle that it almost hurts.  

“No.” Gojo whispers, just as quiet. As if the slightest sign of a raised voice would break whatever saccharinely thick moment this was, “Yellow acacia and yellow carnation. For you, my princess.”

For the way he’d be losing you just as soon as he loses that asshat. 

And even once you’d adorned his crown and been hurried off by a few palace staff, Gojo stared. Even once you were nothing but a speck of royal satin and yellow crowns, he stared. Even once you were gone, and he was left so very alone, he stared. 

Only thanking the heavens above that you always slept through your flower language lessons. 

.

.

.

Over the next few days; wherever you were, Naoya Zenin was to follow. 

And Gojo was sure that it was pushing the young royal closer and closer to a spectacular aneurysm any time that you called specifically for him to accompany you. Blatantly refusing any other knight that came your way.

The pointed third during “romantic” boat rides on the lake, always the guard overseeing dinners, the one to step in with a blunder if your future fiancé got too…opinionated. Gojo was always there. 

It was more like you spent your time trying to make his dutiful façade crack than supposedly entertaining your guest.

Sneaky princess. 

After all - Gojo found himself pacing and arguing out loud with himself any time you did - he was simply doing his job, right? Even if the aforementioned job went against just a few direct orders from the king himself. 

But these were a direct order from the princess. His princess. And Gojo had stopped his procedural traversing and ranting since realizing this. 

Although- the head chef, Nanami’s, veiled threat about turning him into pig feed the next time he heard stomping may have played a slight part in this, as well. 

And it was on such a day that Gojo found himself stationed to guard the inside of the royal drawing room. Spine ramrod straight, eyes flooded with steel while he took in the sight of you and that bastard- Naoya sketching the other in silence. 

It was a dainty, sunlit room, and the hours might have almost been peaceful - if it wasn’t for the split-haired bastard, that is. 

After that flower fiasco and a thorough telling off for misremembering the prince’s allergies, this was meant to make up for a “bonding activity” according to the king; which to him read more like a desperate attempt to push the two of you together before the grand ball tomorrow night. 

Gojo’s chest caves in with a sudden spike of pain, tomorrow night. Your engagement ball, where you will surely be handed off to a man who wouldn’t be worthy of you in a thousand different lives. 

Fuck, had it really been days since already?

It hurt too much, and so he looks towards the prince’s parchment- how insulting. Hundreds of royal art lessons, yet Naoya still couldn’t capture the exact curve of your smile. And those pretty crinkles by your eyes- they were entirely the wrong number! And Gojo’s sure that any fool could see the way your lips-

He was getting ahead of himself. And reminded embarrassingly of the hundreds of sketches of you over the years stowed away underneath his bed alongside a stubby piece of charcoal. 

And he was leaning over the prince in a way that he was sure would get him strung and quartered in the Zenin palace. Or, at least, that’s what Naoya’s daggered glare was telling him. 

With a sheepish smirk, Gojo snatches a glimpse at your artwork. Stifling a laugh at the way you’ve given up on drawing the other man and started engaging in idle scribblings of weasels and hollies. 

“That one looks like him, don’t you think?” He can’t help but whisper from the corner of his mouth, stomach swooping in delight as soon as your eyes light up. 

Tacking on a familiar hairstyle and sneer onto a particularly shoddy caricature of one of the weasels, giggling. “He does.”

Gojo points at another drawing - this time of a bullfrog- honestly, what interests for a princess. “And that’s-”

“That Jinichi.” You’re finishing off for him, carelessly drawing away a few more - quite frankly, Gojo finds everything you do beautiful, but these were appallingly ugly - scribbles of foxes and goats. “That one’s Oji Zenin, and that’s Gakuganji and that’s-”

“Ahem.”

There was only one person who could make the clearing of a throat sound so snobbish. And that was Naoya Zenin. 

Brows raised, feet tapping impatiently on polished marble as he snatches the parchment from your grip. 

Schwing–!

“Toru- no.” 

Gojo doesn’t even realize he’s pulling out his famed, silver sword until you’re stopping him with a hand to his tense bicep. Shit.

Growling through clenched teeth once more at Naoya while he nestles it back into its scabbard with unsteady fingers - only because you asked. 

But the other man doesn’t even flinch - wearing that perfect mask of regal stoicity, though Gojo manages to catch the way his eyes flicker nervously down at the hilt of his sword. Doesn’t show anything other than the tightening of his thin lips as he gazes upon your humorous drawings. 

The impatient tap! tap! tap! of his feet slowing down, stopping - before Naoya throws your paper down onto the floor and stomps. Gojo would’ve almost found it comedic if it hadn’t been for your startled demeanour.

“Excuse me-” He’s hissing, angling his broad body between you and this unseemly sight. Gojo looks dead-on into Naoya’s spit-fire red face, “-but I would have to hope not to remind a young prince of royal etiquette.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, your highness.”

Naoya looks up, death in his eyes.

Gojo thought this might be the end. The missed trip to the dungeons all those years ago was finally catching up to him, and he would be thrown in today for drawing his weapon on a royal but goddammit- if he wasn’t going to keep you safe from his ire for as long as he breathes and then some.

But - to both you and Gojo’s surprise, and perhaps even Naoya himself - he simply turns swiftly on his heels and walks out of the room. Letting the heavy double-doors SLAM! deafeningly behind him. 

It takes a beat. One. Two. 

He counts every raging ba-dump–! of his heart against this ribcage- before the terse silence shatters with laughter. 

“Toru- To- Satoru—!” You’re wiping away genuine tears, “‘No need to call me sir-’ where did you even come up with that-”

“Fuck! You can laugh but I thought I was headed to the gallows.” He’s exclaiming, and it was quite difficult to act as if your laugh wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d heard in his entire life. “Although- it would have been a killer last line. Wouldn’t it, my princess?”

The two of you stare at each other for one singular ba-dump–! Before bursting into peels of undignified cackles that could make an entire court shiver in scandal. 

“Killer- killer alright-” You’re rolling your watery eyes, “This is just as bad as the time you caught Yaga in his interpretive rain dance routine- I thought you were surely dead then.”

Please, Gojo’s stomach and his heart were hurting - though, for very different reasons. “Not as bad as when you wanted to play dress-up with the sacred royal crown and lost it.”

“Don’t remind me, my father was-” That’s when your tear-lathered lashes flutter, a hand coming up to swat softly against your cheek as if to jolt back your senses. You’re groaning over Gojo’s whine, “-my father. Oh no! What will he say about this?” You almost knock your cushy stool over with how fast you’re teetering into a stand, “I must go apologize to weasel- Naoya right away lest relations with the Zenins-”

“Let me.”

Your brows raise, “What?”

“Let me.” Gojo’s repeating, more firmly this time. Thumb grazing briefly down your knuckles as he pulls you back into your seat. 

Just for a split-second - like he couldn’t even think of letting himself touch such a precious treasure. 

He knows you will argue this, he knows your stupidly selfless self will fight to apologize; which is why before you can say a word, he’s marching hastily out of those same doors and towards the luxurious guest chambers. 

Truthfully, Gojo Satoru didn’t give a fuck about Naoya Zenin - but he’ll be damned if you, his beloved, was cast in a hameful light because of his childish actions. 

He has to do something for you, while he still can. While he still has you. While he can still love you.

The corridors are winding, decadent. He takes a deep breath when nearing the slightly-open gilded door of the Zenin suite, that distinctly nasally tone of Naoya drifting in conversation from within. Shuddering in a deep breath, “Pardon m-”

“-drew me as a weasel!” The prince bursts, fury seeping into every hard syllable of his. Gojo stills where he stands outside, hand on the cool metallic doorknob. “I have never met such a vulgar, unrefined-”

“Oh, do bear it until the engagement Naoya.” The gruff voice of a man responds - and he recognizes it from all the recent chiding at palace staff to be the prince’s cousin, Jinichi Zenin. “After that ya can take your time breaking ‘er in.”

What? 

“A boor telling me to break in a wench.” The younger man scoffs, though he sounds much calmer than just moments before. 

Gojo thinks he could throw up all over the gleaming floors, he thinks he wants to keel over and beg at the king’s feet to keep this from happening to you. He thinks he just might. 

But right now, he can’t bring his feet to move a single inch. Pressing himself up closer against the adjacent patterned wall, sharp ear yearning for more shards of the conversation. 

“They’re all the same anyways.” Says Jinichi, “Just give ‘er something sparkly or flowery and keep her sated. Don’t want another one running off before you can dig your claws into the crown, now, do we?”

And perhaps he’s a hopeless fool for praying that Naoya might say something - anything - else. Wishing for the non-existent good in your soon-to-be fiancé, who only grits out a displeased, “Fine. Only because I want to see her pretty lil’ face when I break her to my will.” There’s the sound of urgent footsteps, “But if father doesn’t give me the throne for my efforts then I’m killing her and you, you brute.”

Stood stock still.

Gojo doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to - and right now, ice-cold spikes of anger were the only thing latching him rooted to the spot, not even flinching once Naoya closes the door behind him and walks- seeing him. 

His jaw clenches, eyes harrowing. “You.” 

And Naoya had very clearly taken the opportunity to arm himself in his family chamber, because his spindly fingers itch towards the hilt of his dangerously glinting sword. Just seconds away from-

“Please.” 

Gojo drops onto one knee, the tendons of his neck aching with how far downwards he had it bent into a pitiful bow. “I ask his highness to please let the princess go- to call off this impending engagement. I- I will bear the brunt of committing an offense, and will gladly take any punishment that is bestowed upon me. I just please beg of you to-”

“The same hand.”

“What?” Gojo forces himself to look up with tear-filled eyes, to face the prince squarely in his chestnut gaze. His delighted chestnut gaze. 

Pointing towards his right hand, “The same hand you were to raise your sword at me, the same hand you used to put that wretched toxic flower crown on me-” And then his blade, “-I order you to repent.”

The other man breathes, “Repent…”

“Repent.” Naoya stands up taller, perhaps the most self-confident that Gojo has ever seen him. A barbarous curl of his lips starting to form, “Repent, and I shall consider ending my engagement with the princ-”

CRUNCH!

Pain. Blinding pain was all that Gojo could feel, and…relief. 

He couldn’t even register the steady trickle of warm crimson on his skin and onto the floor in rose-like splotches - even though he could see it through bleary eyes. Head still spinning to catch up with the nanosecond events of drawing his sword and slicing a wide gash down his forearm. 

Through half-lidded eyes, he puts back his bloodied blade into the scabbard and looks up at the stricken prince. 

Repentance. 

“So you love her.” Is all that Naoya hisses. And Gojo can’t lie, nor can he muddy your name. 

So he simply waits quietly, silence speaking enough for eons. Waiting for you to be set free. And if he tried, he could even manage a smile-

Sniffing insolently - though, it sounded more like a snicker. “How valiant, for a low-born.” All that is said before he spits furiously at Gojo’s feet and breezes past in a swish of capes - as if nothing ever happened. “I might even invite you to the princess and I’s wedding ceremony.”

.

.

.

In a palace of thousands, it was only Gojo Satoru that could manage to stand out. 

None of the royal jesters could make the court laugh quite as loud. None of the other knights - no matter how muscled, or chivalrous - could make the ladies-in-waiting swoon just as much. And none of the other reputable men could make you seek him out in every chamber, state room, or training ground just like this.  

It was strange not to see even the barest glimpse of Gojo for an entire day, and the palace didn’t quite feel like a home without him.

“I’m telling you, Nobara–” You’re wheezing out in condensed puffs as your eager right-hand attendant continues mercilessly tightening away the undergarments of your ballgown. “Something’s probably happened to him or-”

“-or he’s being locked up for offending some uppity duke.” She’s rolling her honeypool eyes, one of the few who wasn’t afraid to express themselves this way in front of you. Flitting about the opulent dressing room you rarely liked to use, “You know how that eugh- Gojo is.”

“Which is precisely why I’m worried.”

Honestly, you didn’t even care for a grand ball when you didn’t know where your best friend was. Whether he was in the dungeons or…worse. 

But Nobara wasn’t here to hear you ramble about Gojo Satoru - you oftentimes got the impression that he irritated her too much for her own liking - she was here to doll you up in costly pale blue silks and muslins that draped off of you prettier than a painting. 

And you felt dizzy by the time she let you be escorted off towards the emanating music of the ballroom - with an excited goodbye and a reluctant promise to keep an eye out for Gojo. 

Hair done more intricately than you could’ve even imagined, your jewelry caught every light in the room, a bejeweled flower tiara weighing heavily on your head. Adorning your face in a crown that reminded you of the one Gojo had made you only a few days ago. 

It was almost a struggle to keep your face held high as you took the first few steps down the winding imperial staircase. To the ball. 

You have to stop yourself from tilting your head down at the thrumming masses of decadently dressed-up nobles and clinking champagne to check whether Gojo was hidden away somewhere down there. 

Manners. Posture. Eye contact. 

It was all painfully practised, and so was the tightening of your features as your own father started reading off your introduction. He never took on this task - what was happening?

“And now, for the most important guest of all-” Booming voice thundering in your ears almost as loud as your heartbeat was. The king addresses the congregation in the middle of the dancefloor, more ruler than father at this point. “-my daughter, princess of our beloved kingdom. And the queen of the next!”

Your hand stills where it had been helping you balance in your heels down the stairway- what?

Thankfully, your father carries on - or rather, not thankfully, considering what his next words are. 

“Yes, my people, this may come as a surprise to you all.” He chuckles above the deafening murmurs, and you slowly find yourself scurrying onto the raised platform your father’s throne was seated on. “But tonight is not only a simple celebration of our nation, it’s a celebration of love. Of two nations.”

There’s a beat of silence as he reaches out a withered hand to you, and you find yourself wordlessly taking it. 

“F-father, what-” you whisper, but there’s no response. Your skin bristles with goosebumps, and you’re not sure whether it’s from the summer breeze wafting from the gardens, or from the speech’s implications.

Letting yourself be pulled right into the middle of the stage,right into the spotlight - where Naoya Zenin was waiting for you. Dressed in his finest suit of white silk, adorned with layers upon layers of military accolades and velvety medals. 

The bright, blazing light of the chandelier was scorching, and your hands clench in unease. What was happening?

“That is right, my people.” The king drags your hand up to mesh in an entwinement with Naoya’s clammy ones, holding it up for the eager public to see. “After much consideration and forethought, our royal families have decided that today my daughter is the beloved princess of our nation. But tomorrow, she will be the future queen of the Zenin kingdom.”

There’s cheering - but you can’t hear any of it. In fact, the entire world could be falling upon you and you don’t think you would have noticed. 

All you can feel is the queasy churning of your stomach, and the stern whisper of Naoya’s voice against your ear. Fingers tightening around your own, bruisingly. “Dance with me before I break this pretty hand, princess.”

You’re like a ragdoll, being puppeteered in a rigid beeline onto the dance floor. 

If it wasn’t for one of Naoya’s hands bracing onto your waist, you wouldn’t even have realized that the royal orchestra had started up a gorgeous waltz. A slow, romantic melody that you might’ve otherwise loved if you weren’t trapped in the arms of a fiancé you never asked for. 

“Looking pretty out of it there, princess.” The prince sneers after a few practised motions of your dance, making your dazed eyes stray from the swooning crowd and onto his pointed features. 

And despite it all, you can’t help but feel betrayed. You thought that the two of you might have rapport at your obligation, if nothing else. “You- you didn’t even tell me. An entire engagement and you didn’t even bother to-”

���As a husband, I don’t owe my tch- wife anything.” His nose crinkles at your wandering eyes, the way your feet itched ever-closer to the surrounding people rather than the dancefloor. “Wishing it was someone else dancing with you?”

“Yes.” You’re spitting out before you can stop, trying oh-so-hard not to let your face twist into even a semblance of the fury steeped inside of you. “Anyone but a husband that I never wanted and never will want.”

“As if you deserve any bett-”

Your nails dig into one set of his fingers enough to engrave deep craters, almost enough to make him bleed. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on Earth.” 

Naoya seems stunned for a few seconds - but, alas, just when you’re hoping that you’ve shut him up for good, you’re faced with the fact that the universe isn’t that kind to you.

“You mean you would marry the tch- low-born.” He pulls you into an incredibly rough twirl when the music crescendos, pulling you even closer. It’s all you can do to not fight his grip- “I’m not below finishing off his other hand if that’s what it takes to break you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

Each word jagged. “The knight. You love him, don’t act stupid.” 

Raising your chin in defiance, “So what?” And just as much as confusion filled you, as did panic. Because Naoya’s grip was only getting firmer, his moves much harsher. Opening his mouth to spit out- 

“Pardon me, your highnesses.” A deep bass cuts in, startled- you almost give yourself whiplash peering up into those fathomless mahogany eyes. Yaga’s thin brows furrowing into something heavily-set, “May I cut in for a dance with the princess?”

You don’t wait for an answer from Naoya - and neither does Commander Yaga. Swiftly sweeping you into his engulfing embrace as the orchestra changes into something slightly more upbeat. 

Dressed in a thick suit adorned with even more medals than Naoya - ones you knew for sure were real, unlike his. And you couldn’t help but wonder just how good Gojo would look with his own.

“So…” Yaga starts, once more couples join the floor and his words can’t be heard over the shuffling of feet by anyone other than you. His calloused hands let you lead him through a waltz much more mellow than what Naoya had with you. You always did think that the leader of your knights was a gentle giant. “Begging you to forgive my indiscretion, ma’am but ah- trouble in paradise?”

“Trouble in hell, as expected.” You’re shuddering, gaze bouncing off of any flash of sapphire blue around the room. 

The man in front of you nods gravely, “Right right. I might not be a married man, but even I know that times like these often call for a walk in the lilac garden. You know, to- ah, clear your head.”

Quirking a brow, you stare at him. “What?”

And oh, Yaga simply looked like all the gold in the world couldn’t pay him enough for this. 

“Times like these-” He’s emphasizing, boring deeply into your eyes as if to mean every syllable to strike your very core. And it does. You don’t know why, but it does. “-call for a walk in the lilac garden.”

Oh.

“Oh.” 

Yaga’s lips twitch upwards into an almost-smile, and his rumbling voice is soft for the next few words. “Go, your highness.”

So you do.

You’re realizing, with an ache of such gentle appreciation, that the commander had danced you two until you were practically teetering on the massive veranda. Open to the garden; where every prim hedge, bush, and tree was gorgeously decorated until your eyes sparkled. 

Your breath bates…a choice. Head turning back to the luxuries of a royal ball that was none-the-wiser. 

Then, with a brief hug you bully Yaga into, you run - as much as the delicate heels digging into your feet would allow. Faster. 

If this was any other time, you might’ve felt disappointed at how you weren’t even stopping to admire the beauty of the moonlight-bathed garden. But right now, your heart was only pounding to go faster and faster. 

Nothing else mattered. 

Gojo was leaning on one pillar of the same white gazebo - and he was beautiful. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was a faerie of the night. 

Just a lone, tall silhouette that you could recognize so well; azure eyes twinkling, ivory strands of his hair shimmering with the silvery blue of the moon swimming amongst a dark sky. One he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of until he jolts his head towards the sharp snap! of a twig underneath your rapid feet.

“My…my princess.” He falls onto one knee. 

It all comes out in a whisper - as if Gojo had dreamed of this moment so many repeated times before and wasn’t sure if this was a dream, too.

“Satoru-!”

It wasn’t.

Gojo stands up to embrace you like it’d be the last time he ever would, like you were the one thing connecting him to this life and he was a dying man desperate to breathe. 

Strong arms winding around your waist, you’re pushed against one of the closed-off walls of the gazebo before you can even realize it. Arching off of the cool wooden surface and into his blistering heat. Into every ravenous, panted-out cloud of breath against your ear, “You came.”

He sounded pained. And you were sure you did just as much when you’re whimpering, “You disappeared.”

Gojo lets off a choked-up noise that could’ve been anything from affirmation to blatant shock. Half-lidded eyes boring deeply into yours, he shrugs off the jacket on his non-dominant arm to you with a low bow. 

“May I have this dance, my princess?”

You’re gasping at the sight of starchy white bandages around his other hand, fingers hesitantly falling into Gojo’s heated flesh. “S-Satoru, what happened ah-”

But he drifts you gently into a soundless dance, the distant crickets and swish! of lilac branches your only tune. 

And you never even understood just how much Gojo was a part of your life until he was moving through the exact same steps of waltzing that you’d learned growing up. The exact same once that you used to force him to sit through.

“I thought you were here because you read my letter.” Gojo mutters, lips so close now that they grazed the sensitive shell of your ear. 

You’re having trouble finding your voice, “What letter?” 

“The- the one that I left-” Just for you. His long lashes flutter open in shock, features contorted into something almost devastated. You wonder what made him feel this way. “-the one that I left in your chambers- about the- the prince, and the engagement and-”

“I got prepared for the ball in the dressing room today, I didn’t go to my room.” You’re continuing, voice small. Scared. “Satoru…you knew about the engagement?”

And Gojo’s voice told you everything you needed to know.

You feel your angry flare up hot and red, fists curling into Gojo’s delicate lapels. But that only proves to inch him even closer and make you sound much more breathless than you intended, “You knew about it and- and you didn’t even think to give me a hint that I was being carted off like a prize for some pompous asshat?”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, lips still so pink in the night, wobbling. “I…I couldn’t let you be married, I just couldn’t. I would give my life if it meant you get the freedom to choose who you wanted.” Your dance had stalled, and you almost feel disappointed. “But I’m a coward, and this-” Gojo throws his hands across, voice hitching, “-sneaking around, hiding, running away is the only way I could ever-”

“You should have told me. Not just in the letter.” You’re insisting, running your hands through your hair. Suddenly, something strikes you, “That arm- it’s because of Naoya, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t even have the energy to protest, and that only spurs you on even more. “I-I could have talked to my father- maybe the council and we could have made it so that…”

“So that what?” Gojo’s voice hardens as much as it could with you, which wasn’t very much at all. His fists clench and unclench at his sides like it was taking everything in him to not just…“So that you can be the laughingstock of the kingdom when you marry a low-born knight?”

He was right. They would never accept him, no matter how much you did.

You’re rendered speechless, shivering at the way he rubs his wet eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, I don’t want you- I need you.” And he was so beautiful like this, just centimeters away from you in the escape of the night. “I need you. I need you, I need you- I need you more than the sun above my head, and the air that I breathe, my princess. You have bewitched me, and I am yours. But you cannot be mine-”

You breathe out, “Satoru…”

“-and maybe in another life-”

“Maybe in this one.”

Soft hands rover their way onto the sides of your arms, and Gojo shakes you feebly as if to snap you out of this hypnosis and urge you to run. Eyes wide, yearning. “I have always been yours, body and soul.”

You always have wondered whether there was a method to shut Gojo Satoru up. And, right now, you think you may have found the perfect answer. 

Because his entire towering figure just melts into your touch the very second you press your lips onto Gojo’s plump ones. Soft. Velvety. 

His nostrils flare through a breathy sigh when you tilt your head mere sultry degrees to deepen the kiss. You were addicted to the honey-coated taste of him, the flat drag of his scratchy tastebuds rolling over your loosening maw. 

“Ngh- my princess…” He’s puncturing your kisses with kiss after sloppy kiss, heavy hands wrapping around your body to wrangle you flush against his hardened ones. And you could count every glissade of his washboard abs through that thin poet’s blouse, “I love you.”

You’re not sure if it’s a fragment of your imagination, or- it’s not. 

Gojo manhandles you - and himself - to sit on the opulent gazebo bench with you plopped into his manspread lap, without breaking the kiss for a split-second. Because it hurt to part from your pretty, candied lips, to let those slippery strings of saliva break in the clouded air between you two.

Even if it was to purr out—

“I love you I love you I love you-” The straight edges of his pearly white teeth sinking into your lower lip, groaning from the back of his throat. And your jittery legs shift needily on his warm, meaty thighs, “-I love you.”

“Satoru—” Just about the only thing that you can say right about now, your tone resounds in Gojo’s ears and makes him grunt. Your fingers tangle into his cushy locks, “T-touch me.”

He snickers, one hand clawing onto the crown of your sweat-dampened scalp and wrenching your face away until you’re huffing and puffing cutely for more. “Mmm, how about we use those princess-y manners of yours, hm?”

“Please-”

“Louder.”

“Please.”

“Harlot.” Gojo slides in a looong few digits past those impossibly endless skirts of yours, making your thighs dampen with treacly webs of needy slick. Letting those doughy fingerpads fringe over the covered mound of your pussy, just the very edges. “That was my f-first kiss, y’know?”

He had been hopelessly saving it for you, after all. 

Your eyes roll all the way to the back of your weighted lids as soon as he teases you, mewling. “Was mine too, so we’re even-” Your hips shift in a lazy back n’ forth on top of his heated core, “-just- just want you to touch me.”

“I dunno…” Gojo drawls - drunken. And you feel the edges of his kiss-bitten lips warp around the very tip of your plummy tongue to suck on like his favorite gummy candy, “Wanna kiss my princess just a lil’ bit more.”

Panting, “K-kiss?”

“Mhm.” 

Your eyes shutter in a heady blink, oh-so-cutely ready to crash back into a filthy, filthy French kiss once more, Gojo pulls away-

A noise of disappointment fresh on your lips and just about to spill out, before he lifts you up easily with only a single beefy hand underneath your body. Splaying you out on the sprawling wooden table right beside you, your back hits the ice-cold surface and makes you gasp into the crisp night air.

The lecherous sound of it almost as loud as the sudden clack! of Gojo’s knees collapsing down onto the floor. Your face contorts into a wince because surely it sent a stinging pain up his legs?

“M’quite used to being on my knees for you, my princess.”

But he didn’t seem to care - didn’t even seem to notice when he was much more enamored with the heavenly sight down there.

“These lips-” He smears away your lacy layers upon layers, budging up to nuzzle the soft skin of your inner thighs. And shit- the filmy glaze over his eyes told you that Gojo doesn’t even realize the way his bubblegum pink tongue lolls out over the splotchy spatters of your juices. “-were tellin’ me they feel a little…left out.”

Your mouth waters with a syrupy lamination of saliva as soon as his murked breath strikes your cunt. And the drag of his rumbling bass is so delicious – you couldn’t help but imagine just how it would feel on you.

“Just- just get it on with it-” you’re hissing, fingers latching onto a few thick locks of ivory to drudge him ever-closer. 

“Impatient.”

As if Gojo himself wasn’t impatient. 

As if he wasn’t just leaking out thick wads of drool from the parted sides of his twisted grin at just the thought of tasting you. Sliding the pointed tip of his button nose languidly up the crevice of your puffed-up slit, he breathes you in and feels his cock twitch-

“Oh, princess.” Gojo can’t move, he can’t breathe if it wasn’t around your needy cunt right now. He’s ignoring those shooting bites of pain up the sides of his arm to tug on your useless garments.

Pulling- shit, he always did fucking hate how many layers you royalty had to wear. 

Pulling and pulling until the slow trawl of your undergarments by his nimble fingers wasn’t enough, and he just had to lunge his cottony head over to plummet his pearly whites into your panties and rip—!

A proper, gaping hole where your teary pussy was- and you looked even more gorgeous down there than he could’ve imagined.

Gojo’s face was blank, eyes wide and locked right at your geysering orifice like a man starved. For eons it felt like, until you were bucking up with pure need.

You’re humming in concern, struggling up onto your elbows to stare down at him. “Sa…Toru?”

And at your pretty voice, Gojo twitches. He gasps - full-bodied, like you’d just sent a zillion volts of shock down his sloped spine just by speaking to him. And he was well and fully intent on acting on it-

“Princess…princess princess princess—” Leaking from between his lips like he couldn’t stop, he hits the cute target of your cunt instantaneously with a fat thud of spittle, one. Two. Three, until your entrance was overflooding. He’s drawling the plummy end of his spit-glossed maw across your folds, “Oh, my princess. Just look at you.”

You feel his mess drool off the side of your plumpened pussylips and smear all across your peaked clit with only a simple touch of Gojo’s round-ended thumb. 

Just down-right filthy when he crashes forward to slot the curvaceous nub of his sweltering hot tongue over the brim of your hole. Drawing all over that snug orifice with slow patterns round n’ round-

“Toru–!” It’s the only thing you know at this point. “Toru.”

“Whaaat? Jealous, my princess?” The words clang in your head- and the realization hits you at the same moment Gojo’s thickly viscous swab of spit does on your own tongue. A soft nudge at your slackened chin urging you to swallow-

And he can’t waste a second, can’t spend even a mere moment away from his favorite spot between your legs. Because now that Gojo got a taste, he wants alllll of it.

Stumbling back down in haste to plant so many uncountable smooches on your bawling pussy folds. Skimming his tastebuds just along your quivering hole.

“Shit- shiiiit–” When you’d heard court ladies giggling about this, you didn’t think it would feel this good. Or maybe that’s just because it was Gojo stuffing himself impossibly deeper between your legs. “M-more, Toru–”

Your voice was cracking just as much as his fucking sanity was. 

Trilling out into frenzied shrills when Gojo swerves his eager thumb to pry open your gluey folds even further and give your fattened clit a flick!

You swear you feel Gojo depart his jaw with a giggle when your hips are bucking up pliably off the splintered table and into the bustling hot cavern of his mouth. More. “Easy there, your royal highness-”

“D-don’t call me that–” You’re whimpering, fingers tugging on Gojo’s bangs in some form of retaliation. But, of course it backfires on you just as soon as the force makes your knight moan.

“Wasn’t calling you that.” Gojo rolls his eyes, and your heart races in anticipation when the pointed edge of his chin strikes the drowned ends of your cunt. Lathering his pretty features in all the collective beads of slick raining fountaining out of you. His summer blue eyes flick downwards - and you can’t help but follow. “Was talking to her. Isn’t that right?”

Fuck.

You were fucked. 

And you were losing your mind when Gojo drags you roughly towards the edge of the table with only an ounce of his strength. Mouth making out greedily, heels digging into the fleshy mounds of his back, you can only sob and beg for more more more-

“S’fuckin’ chattier than my girl.” He’s nodding along with every saturated squelch after squelch! resonating in his eardrums - as if it was a full-on conversation with your noisy pussy. “Let’s hope that fiancé of yours doesn’t hah- f-fucking hear.”

But Gojo was acting like he wanted him to.

“Hope the- the king doesn’t find his princess bein’ eaten out by- ngh- a knight.” Barrelling long, slender inches of his index and pointer past your tight ring of mushy muscle. 

Your head throws back when he digs into the velvety depths of your pussy with just a single quirk-

“O-oh my god, Satoru–” You’re gasping in the flowery night air, tummy aching with every pump deeper because he was just so close to where you wanted him. “More- j-just a bit more.”

And yet, he acts like he doesn’t even hear you right now. 

Cupping over one massive palm over his ear and drifting ever-closer, “Wha’s that? C-can’t hear ya, girl- ngh ya gotta be- louder.”

Louder and louder he was getting with the vulgarly fast thrust graced upon your gummy walls. The sound only makes him giggle all drunk on you, “What’s that? Here? That turn you on? Hmmm…”

And just when you’re letting your vision blur with stars- just when you think it couldn’t get any better-

“Mmmm– wan’ another taste-” 

It’s the last thing your ringing ears hear before Gojo’s lurching forwards and burying his nose into your sensitive clit to give your overstuffed entrance a leeengthy lick. Right at the very split-second the globular edges of his digits scratch at that magical spot. 

“W-woah.” Your head snaps up blearily to steal a glimpse at what had Gojo Satoru’s voice so airy n’ cracking in awe. 

Only to see him fluttering his lathered lashes, the slick-gleaming apples of his cheeks blushing. Like some maiden in love. “Got even wetter f’me, your highness.” He’s breathing out, spitting out another voluminous cobweb of drivel and watching the way it sliiides across with the ribbons of slick pouring out of you. “Ohhhh, even b-better than any candy- better than a-any dessert.”  

You yelp when one rugged and grabs a rough handful of your ass and latches his lips even sloppier against your hole. “T-Toru your arm!”

“Oh? This?” He’s glancing down at the bandages as if he’d forgotten they were ever there. “S’nothing for your- hah- personal knight. Doesn’t even hurt, I’d- I’d rather die than let a stupid injury get in the way of what I’ve been dreaming of for aaaages.”

The dual points of pleasure make your toes curl, every part of your body shaking-

Gojo was out of control now. Crazed.

High-pitched bouts of giggles escaping him, muffling around where his candy-glazed cerise lips were latched around your clit and sucking. He makes sure to hold fatal eye contact while he hollows out his scorching cheeks and drags the fleshy nub. 

 “M-making out with your pussy- your pretty, pretty pussy, my princess.” Your heartbeat echoes in rapid staccato with the vicious thud! thud! thud! of his neatly crowned fingertips pecking your g-spot. Each of his puffed-out gruffs making your tongue loosen in a please, “Making you s-so loud, making you feel so good.”

And without even realizing it, he’s rovering the papping brims of his fingers to give your clit a spank. Letting the syrupy beads slide allll the way down his tongue - letting you watch. 

“S’all me.” Gojo slurs out. “Me- me me me me–” Steady rivulets of slick bubbling from the edges of his tongue when his sinful motions get faster. Harder. “Gonna ask who m-made you feel this way n’ it’s me. Your Satoru.”

More ravenous. 

Swirling around slow probes of his sensory tips, it glazes his skin all the way down to his knobbly wrist in a thick coat of sap. Memorizing every gooey ridge and crevice inside your tight channel - shit, Gojo feels his ruddied tip spurt out a jetstream of buttery pre in his pants. 

He thinks he might just burst in his pants if you don’t finish right this second. 

But luckily - or unluckily - for him, you do. Right this very second, after being wrung dry underneath only a few more lapping slashes of his ferocious tongue, tweaking your buttony clit until you cum.

And oh, you’re so pretty when you do.

Your head throwing back with a broken moan of Toru–! It takes every ounce of trained will in his drunken body to not break off from your gooey pussy and watch the way your beautiful face twists. 

Fucked out.

“O-oh, shit–” You’re practically sobbing at this point, wrist aching with just how hard you were pushing Gojo’s readily used face into your fluttering core. Your vision blurs with sparks n’ stars, “-H-how are you so good. Unfair, unfair—”

Babbling away such nonsense with that smart mouth of yours, Gojo thinks he sees utter heaven when your hot juices flood inside his mouth in generous heaps.

Lugging down an open palm underneath his chin to greedily collect the leaking beads that sprinkly in a shiny sheen off of his chin, he finds himself moaning. “Shhh, your knight’s here. Give it t’me– use me, my princess.”

And use him you were. 

Riding out each white-hot peak of your high with slobbering grinds all across Gojo’s beautiful features. Your clit catches on the poking ridges of his mouth and nose and you squeal- “Ngh- b-better when you’re shut up like th-this, Satoru–”

Just for that, he’s spanking your goopy pussy thoroughly. 

All the way until those shots of electricity down your bowed spine are nothing more but prickly tingles, all the way until your thundering ears calm down and you can hear each damp thwack!

All the way until your high has bated and yet, Gojo is still snogging each swollen fold of your pussy like a feast. “M’sensitive–” You sniffle, and he doesn’t even seem to hear you. “Fuh-fuck, Toru, keep doing that n’ m’not gonna let you ngh fuck me.” 

That’s what finally gets his attention. 

You can feel your lips burst with a slight giggle when all it takes is a quick nanosecond for Gojo’s plumpened mouth to jerk away from your cunt with the snap! of wiry slick.

Scrambling onto unsteady feet, he’s teetering over the edge of the wood ever-so-slightly. Muscular body casting a shadow on yours, and you think he’s never looked sexier.

Fawny strands of frosty white curtaining Gojo’s half-lidded eyes, thick thighs pressing against yours shivering; and even from your position homed towards the end of the table, your eyes catch sight of such a massively outlined bulge. 

Staggering. 

One that made your hands ghost down Gojo’s tensed abs, and he’s throwing his perspiration-dampened head with a whine. 

“Need you, Satoru–” You’re managing out, strangled and messy. You’re sure you sound just as yearning as you feel. Fingers tug-tug-tugging impatiently on his gauzy clothes, “Want- you- out of these-” 

And whatever the princess wants, the princess gets. 

It’s as if on command - Gojo’s shedding his billowy shirt like it burned him. And very, very soon were his snug pants to follow, your layers, his sanity-

“Hngh- please.” He’s gruffing out, flinching just as soon as you cup his cheeks to smear away the remaining traces of slick glimmering on top of his blushing skin. Your touch was electric. Tonality painfully hoarse, “Let me fuck you- wanted it for so long. Let me fuck you please.”

Your drenched pussylips stream out a damp spot right across where you could feel his inflated vein poke between your folds. And he felt so…long. “Yes- yes, please.”

Getting the princess to say please?

He’s nodding his head shakily - Gojo could pass out, he could cu- 

Oh, just a few taps of his mushroom tip on the outer edges of your pussy and he spots something creamy topping over your mound like icing. Sweat-slicked brows furrowing, Gojo nudges in even closer to where pooling splotches of cum pours from the strawberry pink divot right in the middle of his head.

He’s cumming and he couldn’t stop. 

Couldn’t do anything but whine at the tender bolts of bliss aching all the way from his toes to his fuzzy head.

“S-Satoru did you just-”

“Shut up.” Oh, you would have his head later for this. “Shut up- shut up and just…”

N’ so he curls a hand at his bulky base and draws out a thick swab at the torrents of seed decorating your cute cunt. Making sure the milky sap formulated a glossy cap on his crownhead, before pushing rigorously in-

“F-f-fuuuuck–” he keens out, a thin line of sweat trekking down the side of his temples. And if he pushed just an inch further, Gojo could feel his hooded eyes well up with fucking tears- “Tight so tight s-sooo hot- so…”

You’re mewling, “Deeper- c-c’mon.”

He was fucking you like he didn’t even realize it - like he was enchanted by each mindless rut pulled from the carnal depths of his hips. 

Two warm hands latch on in a vice-like grip on the delicious curve of your hips, and he’s holding your body still and pushing and pushing and pushing-

“Sh-shit!” Gojo’s voice pitches up embarrassingly high at the end of his slew of swears, buttering up your insides in a muggy few ribbons of pre in response. “But s-so tight- dunno if it’ll even…even fit.”

He sounded hypnotized. 

“Are you- ngh! are you alright, Satoru?” You’re musing out, eyes glassy with a solid combination of lust and utter concern. Before you know it, your hand is reaching out to stroke the ba-dump–! thudding against his pecs.

“No.”

And it takes only the slightest graze of your doughy fingerpads against his flaming hot skin, the slightest touch from you before Gojo rudely swats your hand away and bottoms out-

You don’t even know what you were mad at- were you mad?

You really can’t even remember. Not when the crowned tip of Gojo’s incredible length was planting a sweet peck right into the sponged ends of your cervix, the entirety of his shaft spearheading you so deep that you think he might just be fucking into your lungs. 

So big that he didn’t even have to try to rub the puffy zig-zag of his veins along your sweetest spots, even the most minute gyrations made your toes curl. 

Splitting you apart. Stroking the weepy base of your slit with the hot, rounded sack of his breeder balls so right that it made you putty in his hands.

“Don’t t-touch me, my princess.” Gojo’s nuzzling his tear-stuck cheek against your own, you could feel the warble of his unsteady confessions. “Don’t touch me or I’ll…I’ll cum.”

And when has Gojo Satoru ever lied to you? Well, the upturned jolt of his split-ended tip right into the target of your mushy cervix told you that he wasn’t.

Gojo’s sinking down the edges of his teeth into his wobbly lower lip, he’s forcing his eyes to narrow down n’ obscure his crystal clear image of you to stop himself from cumming. 

“So beautiful, can’t help it–” His breath hitches once he’s pushing apart your trembly thighs and stretching them over the two ends of his broad shoulders. Your ankles pitching down onto the rippling plush of his toned deltoids. “So perfect.”

“S-sweet-talker.” You whisper, mouth as dry as the Sahara with how his thick circumference was stretching out your rubbery walls until they were seering. 

But if Gojo heard then he didn’t snap back - he was too pussydrunken to.

Moving on instinct, on that carnal twinge inside his brain that forced his powerful limbs to lock your ankles with one hand behind his head. To brace an engulfing palm right beside your head and lower himself down, down, down into a-

A mating press. 

Gojo Satoru had you in a fucking mating press.

“So mine.”

And he was pounding all his aching inches into you like it would be the last time. Like he was mazing through your adhesive-like walls and plummeting the leaky end of his cock to knock against your very womb. 

Gojo’s nose crinkles at the sheer warmth you were coating him in, dripping fresh slathers of slick in rings ‘round his hilt. He shivers as it drools down his tight balls, “I’m…I’m really fucking you- ngh! I’m fucking you, my princess.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Your mouth parts ajar, and you don’t know what it floods more with - your pathetic whines, or saliva. Coating a treacly river from each curl of your lips, “More. More, Toru.”

Oh.

You might have just broken him with that. 

Even through your fucked-out stupor, you’re gaping at the way that the hand beside your head curls into an unyielding fist. It has to.

Otherwise, Gojo’s plump cockhead would be sugarcoating your sloppy hole in much more than just copious amounts of sticky precum. He would’ve cum.

“M-more?” You hear from above you, your knight’s bulging pecs vibrating with the plea. Oh, was it a plea - strained, shaking. Gojo sounded as if he was two seconds away from simply bursting into crazed laughter, “More…more. My princess wants- fuck! More?”

Fat ends of his fingers lock around the sides of your cheeks and force you into such an unladylike pout. “Say it- say it, little royal.”

“Shit!” Your core arches up into his hardened one, just as Gojo knew it would when angling his hips juuust right to give your bulging g-spot a long, hard swipe. Your throbbing clit scratching against his pale happy trail. “Yes- ngh yes I want more. Want more, Satoru!”

More. 

And more was exactly what you were going to get. More than you could handle.

Your thighs ache with the struggle to stay open when Gojo tightens his lock around your ankles. Gruffing out a tight, “Take it then.”

He was so sexy, the swelling flex of his biceps enough to make your pussy drool and him slip n’ slide pliantly. Jackhammering away rugged pumps that you feel all the way in your leaden throat.

Your most favorite spots are so bruised that they’re almost tender, curling the base of your spine with tendrils of bliss that make you yelp.

“O-ohhh my god—” The side of his neck dampens as you’re leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make the man pinning you down shiver. His sculpted abs twinging with every massage down your front, “Just like that, a-always wanted to fuck you, Toru–”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Gojo hiccups, the expression upon his features plain pained. Voice dipping into a whine, “Don’t know what y-you’re doing t’me.”

But now that you were babbling away, you couldn’t stop. Not even when he’s speeding up his vigorous cadence until the globes of your ass are left stinging, “M’serious– I always wanted-”

“Shut up shut up- shut up- my princess.” You don’t think that either of you were even lucid at this point, and every pap! of skin-on-skin is followed by the screeching creak of the table below you. Gojo rolls his eyes down at you fondly, “Gotta m-make you cum so you can shut up.”

Otherwise you were going to drive him wild until there’s no turning back.

Before you can let off a moan - or fervently agree - he thumbs over the perked hood of your clit. Drawing- circles? Hearts? No, his own name. 

A tedious little S-A-T-O-R-U that makes your gushing walls clench oh-so-tightly around his sweltering length. Tummy tightening into something so close to shattering. 

And Gojo was rough. Snickering at the way you whine, spilling out wadded volumes of spittle between your parted lips. He breathes, “Gonna make you cum- g-gonna make my princess cum.” You swear he nods down at your pussy and grins, “G-gotta be a good girl f’me, m’kay? Gonna be a good- girl- and…”

His hips slap sloppily against yours, overworked thumb stuttering on a swooping U over your sensitive nub. And the tension in the air pulls tight, tight, tight like the most delicate of strings, before crashing- “-cum.”

You don’t know who cums first - you or Gojo. 

All you know is that as soon as your mind explodes with bursts of bliss - his poor cock does, as well. 

Head toppling backwards, overfilled pussy slopping out waterfalls of sweet, sweet juices, it’s all you can do not to sob. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck-” Your nails rake red, red lines all down his expansive back. Pulling him in even closer until all he can manage are dirty lil’ half-thrusts to pound you through your high. “M’cumming, Toru-”

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s stuttering wetly, sloppily. Pushing the fat battering of his fountaining orifice into the groove of your g-spot over n’ over n’ over. You didn’t know how anything could feel so good. “N’ who made you cum, hm? Who’s f-fucking this pretty pussy, hm?”

“You-” You’re prattling, “You, Satoru.”

“Fuck.” Gojo gapes in wide-eyed craze, breath hitching when you lean over to drag your tongue over the sappy trickle of drool escaping his rose-red lips. “G-gonna make me cum again, swear-”

And he does.

“Can- can we hold hands while I hck! fuck you through your high, my princess?” He bats his lashes, a delicate blush taking over the tips of Gojo’s ears when you lace your fingers together. 

You can feel the splat! of even more heavy seed hitting the bottom of your pussy, swashing a warm second coating to your elastic walls every time Gojo thrusts. He was so solidly inside. Pinpointing specks of pure white with each swab. 

So full. So much of his voluminous ounces that it’s taken to tipping over from between your pussylips and forming a creamy puddle below you. You’re slipping all over it with every slither of Gojo’s cock.

But neither of you can even think to bring yourselves to be disgusted. To care for etiquette. 

Because Gojo drifts his hand over an invisible line where your tummy was being bloated with his length and his cum- and you find yourself aching for more all over again. 

“This looks…” Gojo starts, syllables scratchy and jagged. He’s practically whimpering - whimpering - at the sight of that lecherous cylindrical bulge being fucked into you. 

You’re dripping with him, and his cock twitches ferally at the thought of you all round and glowing. What a pretty mama you’d make. “...looks like the n-next heir to the throne will be a Gojo, my princess.”

Oh, you liked the thought of that.

And looking at Gojo Satoru now - eyes still not fully focused with how ruined he was, skin blushed the same maidenly shade of red that his slobbering mushroom tip was, pretty smile directed at you and only you in this lilac-scented haze - you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.

But, of course, Gojo would never want it any other way, either. Never. 

He clears his throat, sapphire gaze hardening; the intensity of it sending chills sprinting down your spine. Burning with a fervent I love you I love you I love you.

Massive hands intertwined with yours pull into your line of vision, and Gojo takes his dear time pressing a lingering peck onto each n’ every single one of your knuckles. But particularly on the one above your left ring finger.

This was it. 

“My princess…run away with me?”

.

.

.

“Didya hear ‘bout that Prince Naoya?”

“Oh yes- had his bride stolen away by a knight, I hear. Put a knife to his throat n’ took her away in the dead of night!”

“Hogwash! The boy was a looker, she went quite willingly, see- I always did think that Naoya wasn’t good ‘nough for our princess.”

“Wonder what happened after? That Zenin bunch was quite furious I hear, that bratty prince is still out for blood. But ol’ Naobito and some commander came to the rescue- Somethin’ about corruption and Jinichi…”

“Bah! Who cares about that? S’the biggest royal affair of the century- a handsome knight sweeping away the beloved princess? They’re swoonin’ n’ calling him the Knight of Roses already. All I wanna know is how the young couple is doing!”

Yaga rolls his eyes at other rambunctious customers churning gossip-mill, a pint clutched tightly in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other. 

Honestly, he comes to the pub for once to escape from palace duties - and the palace duties seem to want to escape with him! 

And even after so many months since that engagement party fiasco? News really did trickle down slowly when royal scandals were so often covered.

Oh, whatever. He muses, thumb gliding over the glossy parchment- some new innovation from kingdoms beyond the sea, according to what the eagerly-accompanied writing had said. A…a photograph, you had called it.

And Gojo’s surprisingly intricate drawing of you fiddling with the ah- camera gave him an idea of the machinery, though- most of the sketches were of you. All of them, actually.

Yaga gazes on in slight wonderment at the perfect black and white depiction of your smile, rivalling the one of Gojo Satoru’s beside yours. Beaming, sleeves rolled up and fatigued with a day of hard work, so in love. 

It was oh-so-positively sweet.

The cherry on top? Well, Yaga couldn’t quite decide between the matching bands glinting on each of your left ring-fingers, the glimpse of a pretty lil’ cottage behind you two, and the massive bouquet of undoubtedly deep red roses Gojo was presenting you with.

Or perhaps it was the hand you were resting absent-mindedly on the obviously rounded curve of your tummy.

How fortunate, he tucks away the photograph into his coat with a smile and orders another pint. Knight of Roses, indeed. 

A/N. Yearning is my kink mhm. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[muffinlance]

Consider: Post-canon Zuko wakes up in the body of his childhood self, the morning of That War Meeting. Would he still speak against the plans, knowing his fate? What do you think he would do differently the second time around?

"Turned away at the doors, Zuzu?"

"Shut up, Azula," her brother sulked. But sulked weirdly, after staring at her too long and too wide-eyed, not like she'd surprised him but--

But like he hadn't expected her to be there. At all.

He turned away. ...He turned back. "Hey, Lala? Do you think you could help me practice that one set?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

She narrowed hers. "Which set?"

"The one I'm bad at."

She scoffed. Pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "That's all of them, Dum-Dum."

He didn't shout or stomp or yell about the nickname. His lips twitched.

"It's okay," he said. "If you're afraid you won't be a better teacher that my instructor..."

It was the most obvious manipulation ever.

Perhaps if he proved an adequate firebending student, she'd work on his courtly survival skills next. Honestly, it was good that not even Uncle Gets-Cousins-Killed had been fool enough to take Zuko into that war meeting. She could only imagine how terribly that could have gone.

"Keep up," she said, and turned her steps towards the training grounds.

He did. There, and during the katas she ran him through.

Azula kept her eyes narrowed.

"Hey," he asked, "do you know how to bend lightning yet?"

As if he could have missed it, if she'd been able to get more than sparks. "I will soon," she said.

"You will," he agreed, and flowed through his next set. The one she'd only just mastered.

Father didn't notice how weird Zuzu was being. Uncle never noticed anything. Zuko ate dinner and asked a servant for seconds and didn't stutter or flinch or lose his appetite when father asked, coolly, what he'd done with his day. Azula's shoulders tensed, because one mention of how she'd squandered her own training time teaching him--

"Azula hogged the training grounds. For hours," Zuzu scowled, exactly like a petulant thirteen year old.

Exactly like he hadn't been acting all day.

By the time Father was looking her way, Azula had her usual smirk in place. "I'm sure there would be room for both of us," she said, "you're not afraid of a little friendly fire, are you, brother?"

Zuko sulked. And ate his seconds, like he was enjoying each bite. There was something in his eyes, like a joke no one else was getting.

---

Father died that night. A heart attack. There were the faintest of burns to either side of the treacherous organ; the royal physician hypothesized that he'd grabbed at his chest, fingers burning hot in his final moments; so hot they'd only exacerbated the problem.

The royal physician would never have been brought any victims of lighting strikes. Those that occurred in the capital did not generally require a doctor in the aftermath.

Zuzu ate a hearty breakfast.

He didn't order seconds. Azula gave him points, at least, for not being tacky.

---

The sages named Iroh as regent.

They named Zuko as Fire Lord.

"No," the tiny Fire Lord in his perfectly miniaturized Fire Lord robes said, sitting at the head of his war council. "We're not doing that. And I'll be reviewing all recent battle plans, as well. What's this I hear about a division of new recruits being deployed to the front?"

He did not mention how he'd heard of the 41st Division. No one asked.

"Prince Iroh, surely--" one of the generals tried to appeal.

The young Fire Lord's regent was looking as startled as the rest of them, for a moment. Then he sipped his tea, and smiled.

"Your Fire Lord is correct, of course. A change in our leadership--a change the other nations may mistakenly view as weakness--will necessitate a change in our strategy."

"Now," said their lord, "what, exactly, is our overall objective in this war?"

War, the new Fire Lord decreed, was not an end unto itself.

---

The new Fire Lord continued to have time, to pretend to be trained by her. Azula watched him. Adjusted her footwork. Did not tolerate, and was not offered, any commentary on who was teaching who.

"What did you do with my brother?" she asked, as they flowed from one set to the next. As her hands, poised to throw fire, just so happened to be pointed his way.

He missed a step. It didn't look like an act.

"I'm, uh. Right here?"

She didn't bother to dignify that.

He didn't bother to look worried about her hands, one movement off from a true attack.

He looked around, then grabbed her sleeve, and tugged her further from any walls that may hide ears. The royal family's private training grounds were wonderfully large, and wonderfully open.

"It's me," he said. "It's still me. Just. More of me? Longer of me?"

She narrowed her eyes. A familiar expression, by this point. "Explain."

"...I found the Avatar," he said. "And this is definitely his fault, but--but I guess it started at a war meeting, when I was thirteen."

Azula listened. It was a very Dum-Dum story.

[bluelockmaniac]

📽 "𝐂𝐔𝐓! ... 𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐂𝐔𝐓!?"

ft. actor!itoshi rin x costar!reader

synopsis. it was finally time to 'act out' the long awaited kiss scene with your celebrity crush, itoshi rin! but when the director yells 'cut!' . . . you both don't stop?

notes. gn!reader, 1.1k wc. popping back in for a bit hehe :)

three months and at least twenty-five near heart attacks later, you were finally about to film the long-awaited kiss scene with none other than the man of your dreams– itoshi rin. and, as fate would have it, it would be your first kiss too! killing two birds with one stone had never felt so terrifyingly thrilling.

having been chosen to co-star with the famous actor in a conventional romance movie had already been surreal enough, but now, after what felt like an eternity of rehearsals and stealing glances at your celebrity crush, it was finally time to place your pretty lips right where they belonged– on his.

the set was filled with blurred murmurs as the crew made their final adjustments, the cameras maneuvered to align their lenses perfectly, the lights flickered as the technicians adjusted them to a soft glow. surprisingly, you were not feeling nervous (rather, excited) though the same could not be said about rin who was seated on the plush prop couch in the middle of the carefully arranged living room set, his fingers drumming impatiently against the cushion.

you took your place behind the apartment door, knuckles barely grazing the wooden surface as you waited for your cue.

the movie director then cleared his throat into his fist and raised the clapperboard. “quiet on set,” he bellowed, and the room instantly fell silent. 

“ready,” thump 

“set,” thump 

“action!”

and the scene commenced.

you knocked on the door and a heartbeat later, rin’s voice floated from the inside– low & collected. 

“the door’s open.” 

short. simple. but most importantly, steady. it seems like he had finally settled into character.

twisting the doorknob, you stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind you. the air between you shifted the moment your eyes met rin’s cerulean gaze. you looked away almost immediately, heat creeping up your neck. pretending to be in love with him wasn’t very difficult when, in truth, there was no acting at all.

“i didn’t think you’d actually come.” rin’s voice was calm. he placed his mug down on the table, then threw his arm over the back of the couch as you approached and sat next to him.

“you called, didn’t you?” you turned toward him, tilting your body slightly as you took the time to scrutinize his face. his expression was unreadable, but you knew the script. furrowing your brows, you breathed out a soft huff. “liar,” you murmured. “you knew i was going to come.”

a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. then, without hesitation, his arm dropped from the couch, sliding effortlessly around your waist as he pulled you in, closer, until you felt the warmth radiating from him. 

“yeah,” he admitted, “i did. you’ve always been easy to read, after all.”

your heart skipped a beat, but you kept your composure. barely. “cocky as always, i see.”

you scooted closer to him, the space between you turning into nothing as you buried your face into the warmth of his neck. your hands moved to rest on his chest, and you inhaled the familiar, rich scent of his cologne before sighing softly. 

“i missed you, kai,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin.

secretly you wished there would come a day when you could whisper rin instead, not his character’s name.

there was a long silence and you contained your excitement for what’s to come like the competent performer you are. after the silence had stretched long enough, your trembling fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you pushed yourself up. your eyes glistened with professional tears and your voice cracked at just the right moment. 

“i said i missed y–!”

the rest of your line was stolen.

without a word, rin’s hands found your face, fingers firm as he pulled you in, and then– his lips crashed onto yours. it wasn’t gentle. not hesitant either. it was rough and a bit reckless, too. it portrayed his scripted (or was it?) longing for you after 'years of absence' perfectly. his lips moved languidly against your own, and when a quiet whimper escaped you– definitely part of the script (cut yourself some slack, it was your first kiss for god’s sake)– you felt him shudder slightly.

your arms snaked around his neck as you began reciprocating the kiss more eagerly, with one tear cinematically slipping down your cheek. rin’s hand skis down to hold your waist while his nose brushes against yours fleetingly every now and then. it may be wishful thinking but with the way he’s passionately kissing you, you start to think that perhaps rin hadn't been acting this whole time. just like you.

“beautiful… perfect…” the movie director whispered under his breath, wiping a tear of pride as he casts glances at the camera crew filming the two successful stars. with a deep inhale, he readied himself, gripping the clapperboard. 

and–

“CUT!” his crisp voice rings through the set, signaling the end of the scene.

but you don’t pull away.

and neither does rin.

rin took pride in his career as an actor. he’d always been a professional, detached, the kind of actor that did what ought to be done and moved on. no strings, no unnecessary connections. but that was all prior to this because gosh hell would have to freeze over before he lets go of you now.

your lips were magnetic, and from the way you crawl onto his lap, fingers tangling in his hair, kissing deeper, he knows you could feel it too. a soft gasp escapes him as he lands back against the plush pillows of the couch, your weight on top of him, but neither of you seem to care.

the director blinks.

huh. odd. maybe you two didn’t hear the signal, though he was certain his voice was loud enough. “CUT!” he tried again, his voice slightly louder.

but you two were in your own world, too lost in each other to register the world around you.

“i-i said CUT!”

still, neither of you budge. the cameras kept rolling, the crew remained silent. someone sniffles in the background. perhaps, the director thinks, this is even better- like real lovers. you two depicted the raw emotions suspiciously well.

and so, when the film was released, that extended moment (the one where neither you or rin heard the call to stop) was actually kept! the movie was a massive hit, and you two may have started dating after this (the only justifiable course of action after the stuttering and embarrassment that came from you two after the realization).

of course, the director’s frantic shouting had to be muted post-production with advanced editing platforms. oh, and–

the part where rin had accidentally moaned your real name instead of your character’s? yeah. that was cropped out completely.

-

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform

[astrolook]

Moon in the houses

Moon in the 1st House: Emotions? Yeah, I’m wearing them like a neon sign.

Mood Swings? Who Needs a Weather App? – One minute, you're on cloud nine, ready to conquer the world, and everyone around you is like, "Wow, you're so inspiring!" . The next minute, you're in a full-on emotional hurricane, and people are like, “Uh, is everything okay?” Yep, they can literally see the storm clouds forming.

You’re basically an emotional X-ray for anyone who needs to know how you're feeling. Super helpful in knowing exactly where you stand.

You have the perfect built-in therapist, your mom, who never asks for a copay and always responds with “I love you, sweetie.”

Moon in 1st gives you a youthful young face. If a man, could be a mama boy. On the flip side, mommy could be overbearing.

When you're happy, you radiate positivity like the sun itself. You make everyone around you feel like they’ve just had a shot of espresso… without the jitters. But when you're in a mood, watch out. It’s like the ocean’s about to swallow up the entire coast. You can go from zero to “I’m emotionally drowning, help!” in 0.3 seconds.

Moon in the 2nd House: The Emotional Shopping Spree - You feel things, and you buy things. Repeat.

When you're feeling happy, it’s like “treat yo' self” day, and suddenly you’ve got 14 new pairs of socks that totally spoke to you in the store. Feeling stressed? Well, it's probably time for a little retail therapy... because nothing says “I’m handling my feelings” like buying a $50 scented candle you’ll never use.

Impulsive purchases. When your emotions take a dive, so does your bank account. "I'm sad, I need a new purse."

When someone asks how you're feeling, your response might just be, "Well, I bought a new jacket, so I’m feeling fabulous."

Your Emotions Are Always on Sale. You're like, “You know what would make me feel even better? A cute new scarf!” Because nothing says “I’m emotionally balanced” like a $15 markdown.

You love investing in things that make you feel good—whether it’s a cozy home, a nice meal, or that perfectly curated playlist you bought (yep, it’s a thing). Your finances are tied to your emotional health like a carefully organized spreadsheet.

Moon in the 3rd House: The Over thinker's Hotline - You think, you feel, you text… then you overthink it all.

Your emotions are running wild and they need to talk. A LOT. Like, you’ll have a deep emotional moment and then immediately text your bestie about it, but also text your mom for a second opinion, and then maybe send a message to a group chat for a third—just to make sure everyone’s on the same emotional page.

You’re the Emotional Wi-Fi of your social circles—always transmitting and receiving feelings, whether anyone asked or not.

You overanalyze everything. Sent a text at 11:30 PM? Now you’re wondering if that emoji you used in your response was “too much.” Did they think you were crying in that voice message, or just, like, “really emotionally engaged”? You end up spiral-commenting under your own messages. "Wait, I wasn’t mad, I swear!" Cue overthinking every single word.

You’re emotionally open, but also maybe one text away from sending an entire novel about your mood swings. If you have a Moon in Aquarius in 3rd house, you are very much into conspiracy theories.

The overthinking is so strong, even Siri gets nervous. “Did I say that correctly? Does it sound too emotional? Let me try that again, Siri, do you think they’ll understand?"

Moon in the 4th House: Home is Where the Feelings Are - Your emotions? Oh, they're all cozy in your emotional fortress… with snacks.

If you're ever feeling down, you know exactly where to retreat: the couch, surrounded by blankets, a mountain of snacks, and probably a weirdly specific playlist of “emotional” songs you know no one else understands.

Your vibe says, "Come on in, let me feed you, and here’s a blanket!" You’re basically the human version of a warm cup of tea.

On the flip side, you can get way too attached to your personal space. Don’t even think about messing with your “comfort zone,” because that zone is sacred. You might find yourself overly attached to places, people, and objects in your home that just... feel right.

If someone says something you don’t like, you might retreat into your home and pretend to reorganize your kitchen for the next four hours. Not because it’s necessary... but because it’s emotionally satisfying.

If there’s food involved and your loved ones nearby, you’re ready for some serious heart-to-hearts.

Moon in the 5th House: The Drama Queen of Feelings - Life’s a stage, and you're always in the mood for a performance.

Your feelings take center stage like you’re auditioning for a Broadway show every single day. You’re all about self-expression, fun, and creating joy—because, let’s face it, life’s too short to not have an emotional karaoke session on a Tuesday night.

Moon in 5th bestows with a girl child. Of course, we need to check whether it is associated with any other planets.

Professions like actor or any artistic professions fits you. You can turn any situation into a joyous celebration and make even the most mundane things feel like a special event.

The flip side? When you're down, it's like the curtains close on the show, and you’re the star in a drama you didn’t sign up for. You may exaggerate your emotions a little (okay, a lot)—an offhand comment from a friend turns into a full-blown emotional musical number. Cue the tears, dramatic exits, and possibly a solo performance on why no one understands your very deep feelings.

You’re basically the person who gets emotionally invested in every movie, reality show, and Instagram post you see and also celebrities.

Moon in the 6th House: The Emotional Overachiever - Feelings? I’ll just organize them into a to-do list.

With the Moon in the 6th House, you take your emotions very seriously—like, spreadsheet-level seriously. You're not just feeling your feelings, you're tracking them, analyzing them, and organizing them with the same precision of a perfectly color-coded calendar.

Your home? Probably a Zen-like temple of organization. You could be a productivity guru and an emotional support animal all rolled into one.

You’re probably the person who compulsively checks your horoscope, wellness app, and to-do list while also making sure you're drinking enough water—because, yes, your emotional health must be on track.

Service - oriented professions.

Probably keeps a journal. Your motto - "Productivity meets therapy!"

Moon in the 7th House: Emotional Rollercoaster + Relationship Drama

You Have a PhD in Relationships – You analyze, you nurture, you feel. Basically, you’re the emotional therapist of every relationship/partnership you’re in.

Emotional Dependency? Yup, It's Real – Your partner's mood? It's now your mood. If they’re happy, you're on cloud nine. If they're sad, well, buckle up, emotional crash ahead!

You Can’t Just "Date" Someone—You Feel Them – It's never just a date night. It's a journey. You’ll be emotionally invested before the appetizers even arrive.

If your partner says, “I’m fine,” but their voice cracks, you’re immediately putting on your emotional detective hat. Something’s definitely wrong.

Your partner's mood shifts and you’re already planning a 5-step plan to emotionally heal them. Just call you “Dr. Love.”

Moon in the 8th House: The Emotional Detective with a Dark Twist

If emotions were a rollercoaster, you’d be the one flipping the safety bar off and screaming, "Let’s go faster!"

Family gatherings? More like family mysteries. You can feel the unspoken tension, and you’re practically Sherlock Holmes, trying to figure out what’s being left out. Every holiday dinner has a side of “What aren’t they telling me?"

When you lose your virginity, you could even hide it from your family.

Being vulnerable with you is like peeling an onion—layer after emotional layer until someone’s crying. Sometimes you overshare, sometimes you say, “I’m fine,” but everyone knows you’re not. You can’t help it.

You can turn pain into growth like a magical wizard. Hurt feelings? Great, now you’re ready for transformation. You take all that emotional mess and somehow turn it into deep wisdom—or a really great, tear-filled diary entry. Either way, it’s epic.

Moon in the 9th House: The Emotional Philosopher on a Soul-Searching Road Trip

Your emotions don’t stay local. You feel them on an international level, like, “Why am I feeling so deep right now? Is this about my past life in a distant land or because I watched a documentary on the Amazon?” Your emotions are basically the United Nations of your soul.

Family & Friends Talks Are Like TED Talks – When you try to explain your feelings to family/friends, it’s less “Hey, I’m upset” and more “Here’s a 45-minute monologue on the meaning of life, and also I read a book on existentialism last week.”

One minute you’re high on life, quoting philosophy, and the next, you’re googling “Why does everything feel so overwhelming?” You’ll go from thinking you’re a wise sage to wanting to crawl into bed and watch Netflix documentaries. Your moods are basically a journey, so pack your bags.

You can't just feel something—you need to analyze, interpret, and probably give it a name. "I feel anxious. Is this anxiety or is it just me tapping into the collective consciousness of humanity?

You’re an Emotional Nomad – You can’t sit still. Emotionally, you need to keep moving, exploring, learning, and growing. "Home? Well, I feel emotionally connected to 17 different places.

Moon in the 10th House: The Emotional CEO of Life

Your emotions are always on display like you’re giving a TED Talk about your deepest feelings.

You don’t just work; your career is an emotional journey. “Am I feeling fulfilled at work? If not, should I change my entire career path? Do I need a promotion to feel better about myself?!” Your job? Basically your emotional therapist, but with more PowerPoint presentations.

Public approval is your emotional fuel, and you’re like, “Did I mention I’m emotionally attached to other’s opinion of me?”

Your mood? It directly impacts your work ethic. When you’re emotionally stable, you’re like, “Let’s take over the world.” But when you're upset? You’re still working, but you’re crying in the break room, making dramatic phone calls to your loved ones.

You’re emotionally invested in how the world sees you. You need to be the best at everything, but emotionally—"Did I look too emotional during my presentation? Was my inner turmoil apparent?" It’s a lot of pressure to keep it all together, but hey, it’s worth the “likes”.

Moon in the 11th House: The Emotional Social Butterfly Who Forgets Why They Came to the Party!

People love your warm, nurturing energy, and your squad is basically a second family. Just be careful—you might adopt every stray friend like a lost puppy. You could even get in trouble for helping your friend.

One day, you're the life of the party, the next, you’re ghosting everyone because feelings. People around you should have learned to just roll with it.

If you are feeling bad, you might turn to strangers online for some emotional support.

You’re energized by like-minded people and might thrive in large social circles, community work, or even fan clubs (yes, you might cry over your favorite celebrity’s life updates).

You might bend over backward to fit into a group, even if it means suppressing your own needs. That’s right—you RSVP to events you know you don’t want to go to, then regret it immediately.

Moon in the 12th House: The Emotional Mystic Who Feels Everything & Nothing at Once

congratulations—you’ve unlocked "Feelings: Hardcore Mode." Your emotions live in the deep, mysterious waters of the subconscious, making you an intuitive, dreamy, and sometimes tragically misunderstood soul. You might love solitude but also feel unbearably lonely, sense energies others miss, and randomly cry for no reason (or is there always a reason?).

Your intuition is next-level. You pick up on vibes, unspoken emotions, and even spiritual messages like a human radio antenna. Your relationship with your mother could feel distant, mysterious, or full of unspoken emotions. Either she was deeply spiritual and nurturing or emotionally unavailable and hard to read.

Unlike most, you actually enjoy being alone. Your inner world is rich, and isolation helps you recharge from the chaos of life.

Even in a crowded room, you might feel disconnected. You crave deep emotional bonds but struggle to express your own feelings.

Emotional stress can manifest physically—sleep issues, mysterious body aches, or just always feeling tired for no reason.

You might secretly love someone from afar rather than openly express your feelings. (Just confess already!). You crave deep, spiritual connections but may self-sabotage by isolating yourself. You love soulmate vibes, but fear vulnerability.

[thebestsetter]

"Men used to go to war, now they..."

Isagi Yoichi

...follow you around like a lost puppy.

Need to cook something? Yoichi can help! (Not really, since he doesn't know batshit about cooking and burns everything he touches, but it's the thought that counts, right?) Are you going out? No problem! He's gonna sit put and still on the edge of your shared bed, watching with a fond look as you rummage through your wardrobe trying to find the perfect clothes to go out! (Even though he thinks all of them look perfect on you) Need help shopping? He's already holding all of your bags for you! (Even if he looks ridiculous holding so many bags, but he refuses to let you touch a single one of them). In the end, he's just a lovesick boy who loves acts of service and some good old quality time, so just let him follow you around, yeah?

Chigiri Hyoma

...gossip and do skincare with you.

He literally hates the girls you talk about without even meeting them in real life. Like, what do you mean that Penelope lady cheated on her husband because he was on a 20 days trip? Ridiculous.

Anyways, skincares are a must in your relationship. You guys do it everynight, and, when he's away (for soccer reasons), you facetime to do it. It became a little tradition: he calls you the night before an important game, askijg if you already treated your skin. Then, when you say that you didn't, his eyes visibly, clearly - and a little comically too - light up (even though he already knew the answer. It's the same one everytime. You never do it without him). After that, you both just talk and laugh, trying to calm his nerves down before the game. Most of the times, the call only ends when one of you end up falling asleep. It's honestly cute how comfortable you are with eachother.

He swears he plays better when you do that. His many hat tricks can confirm that.

Nagi seishiro

...can't sleep if it isn't on your lap.

He physically can't anymore, and it makes him pissed.

His sweet pillows that looked oh so comfortable before must as well feel like rocks right now, because NOTHING compares to the fluffiness of your lap mixed with you petting his head. He feels like he's in heaven everytime you do it. He HATES when he's travelling and has to sleep on a 5 star hotel's bed, because how is it SO uncomfortable?? What the heck??

And you can BET the first thing he does when he comes home after his soccef trips is sleep. For a long time. Like, "hibernating" kind of long. One time, you seriously thought he was dead. But it was just the effect your lap has on him. Deal with it.

Reo Mikage

... spend an unholy amount of money on you.

This isn't even surprising. I mean, it's Reo we're talking about: the boy who has more money than what to do with it. And his financial situation obviously reflects on your relationship.

Looked at that hair product for 0.2 seconds more than the last product you saw? He already bought it! Want ice cream? He'll have 4 scoops, please!

The thing is that he was taught money=love (especially by his parents, who tried to make up for their absence by giving him money), so that's what he thought would swoop you off your feet. But it wasn't. It was the tender moments, the gentle kisses on your knuckles, and the goals dedicated to you. So don't think he only gives you money - he gives you PLENTY of quality time too!

Perhaps a part 2 will be written

[theorist-fox]

I keep thinking about Simon and how impassive he is.

Bit of a brute. 

Socially inept (because he doesn't want to be social, not because he can't be). 

Dispassionate. Bored. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Bastard at times. Measuredly. Likes to keep people on their toes about that.

But God, does Simon kiss like you might die tomorrow.

He grabs your jaw, cocks your head back and dips in. 

Opens your lips with the tip of his tongue and he's not gentle with it.

That's where he pours all his passion into: open-mouthed kisses that make your knees buckle every time. The flat of his tongue on yours, his gaze hooded at first, watching intently to see how he can make you come undone. Only to shut the world out later, drawing in a deep breath as his lids finally fall closed.

His hands match the fervour of his mouth; they pull you in, curve in the hollow of your spine, clutching at your clothes. His fingers in your hair, tilting your neck sideways or however he pleases, just so he can deepen a kiss that's already breathtaking.

Sometimes, he pushes your back to the wall, wrists snatched and trapped above your head using only one of his big paws, while the other one busies itself with your breasts or your tummy. Palm chock full of you—rolls, flesh, cotton (if it's still in the way and he hasn't ripped it off of you yet).

You're fully aware that you could breathe through it all, no biggie, but somehow you can't. He nullifies whatever survival instinct you have the moment he takes hold of you and crashes his lips to yours.

And by the time he's done, your knees are weak and your panties are wet.

To him, this is not inherently sexual. It's just the way he does it—and as you bloody well know, Simon never half-asses a single thing.

Not even kissing you goodbye as he leaves for work in the morning.

[pucksandpower]

#ExposeFIA

Max Verstappen x forensic accountant!Reader

Summary: when the FIA keeps targeting your boyfriend, you decide to do something about it by digging into their financials and learning what skeletons they have hidden in the closet … nothing could have prepared you for what you unearth or the domino effect that follows

Warnings: corruption, kidnapping, violence, and murder

Based on this request

Max slams the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the hotel room. His jaw is tight, his hands balled into fists as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the back of the couch. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor with your laptop open, spreadsheets and case files scattered around you.

At first, you don’t look up — this is just Max being Max after a bad day — but then you hear him muttering in Dutch, sharp and venomous under his breath.

“What now?” You ask, closing the laptop with a quiet sigh.

Max rakes a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. “The FIA fined me again.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “For what?”

“For cursing!” His voice rises, and he gestures wildly, his frustration spilling out like a dam breaking. “In the press conference. They called it inappropriate. Inappropriate! It wasn’t even that bad — just one word!”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh, but he catches it.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” He stops pacing, leveling you with an incredulous look.

“Max,” you say slowly, rising to your feet, “you do curse like a sailor in every other sentence.”

“Not every other sentence,” he protests, crossing his arms.

You arch a brow.

“Okay, fine. But that’s not the point!” He starts pacing again. “They only do this to me! I swear, it’s like they’re waiting for me to screw up so they can slap me with another fine.”

You fold your arms, leaning against the couch. “How much this time?”

“Fifty thousand euros,” he says bitterly, kicking the edge of the rug.

“Fifty thousand?” Your jaw drops. “For cursing?”

“Exactly! It’s ridiculous!” Max looks at you, his blue eyes blazing with anger and just a hint of something more vulnerable underneath. “Lando swears all the time, and no one says anything to him. This is personal, I know it is.”

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Because, honestly, he’s not wrong.

Max keeps going, his words tumbling out in a rush. “They’ve been on my case all season. The penalties, the warnings — it’s like they can’t stand the thought of me winning again. They want to knock me down, and they don’t care how they do it.”

You let out a long breath, watching him as he paces. He’s like a storm contained in human form, all fire and fury and relentless energy.

“They can’t keep getting away with this,” you say finally, your voice low but firm.

Max pauses mid-step, turning to face you. “What am I supposed to do? Complain? They’ll just call me a sore loser and fine me for that too.”

“No, not you,” you say, a sly smile creeping onto your face. “Me.”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the FIA,” you say, your mind already racing. “You said it yourself — they’re out to get you. So, let’s find out why.”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “You want to investigate them?”

“I’m a forensic accountant,” you remind him. “Digging into shady organizations is literally my job. If there’s something fishy going on with their finances, I’ll find it.”

“And then what?” He asks, skeptical but intrigued.

“And then we use it against them,” you say simply.

He stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You’re serious about this.”

“Dead serious.”

Max exhales, running a hand through his hair again. “You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not your fight.”

“Of course, it’s my fight,” you say, stepping closer. “They’re targeting you. And that means they’re targeting me.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eases. “You’re crazy,” he says, but there’s a trace of affection in his voice.

“Crazy for you,” you shoot back, grabbing your laptop and plopping down on the couch.

He groans. “That was awful.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me.”

Max flops onto the couch beside you, resting his head against the back of it. “What are you even looking for?”

“Anything that doesn’t add up,” you say, your fingers flying across the keyboard. “Expenses that don’t make sense, hidden accounts, payments to people who shouldn’t be getting paid. Everyone leaves a paper trail. Even the FIA.”

He watches you in silence for a moment, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “You really think they’re dirty?”

“I think it’s worth finding out,” you say. “Worst case, I waste a few hours and we’re no worse off. Best case …”

“Best case?” He prompts.

“Best case, we blow this whole thing wide open,” you say, grinning.

Max leans back, a thoughtful look on his face. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Compliments won’t get you out of trouble, Verstappen,” you say without looking up.

He smirks. “Didn’t say I was trying.”

For a while, the only sound in the room is the soft clatter of your keyboard and the occasional frustrated sigh from Max as he scrolls through his phone.

“What if they come after you?” He asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Why would they?”

“Because they’re the FIA,” he says bluntly. “They don’t play fair. If they find out you’re digging into their finances, they’ll find a way to shut you up.”

You pause, considering his words. “Let them try,” you say finally. “I’m not scared of a bunch of bureaucrats.”

Max looks at you like he wants to argue, but then he just shakes his head and mutters something in Dutch.

“What was that?” You ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

“Max.”

“I said you’re stubborn,” he admits, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, your eyes already back on your screen.

He laughs, the sound low and warm and surprisingly light given the circumstances. For the first time all evening, he looks like the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on his shoulders.

“You really think you can take them on?” He asks after a while.

You glance up, meeting his gaze. “I know I can.”

Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then do it,” he says, his voice steady and resolute. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

You smile, a little spark of determination igniting in your chest. “Damn right it is.”

For the next hour, you work in companionable silence, Max occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment or a half-hearted complaint about how long this might take. But underneath it all, there’s a quiet sense of solidarity, a shared purpose that feels unshakable.

By the time you close your laptop for the night, you’ve barely scratched the surface of what you’re looking for. But you’ve got a starting point, and that’s enough.

“You coming to bed?” Max asks, standing and stretching.

“In a minute,” you say, glancing at your notes.

He hesitates, then leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Don’t stay up too late, detective.”

You smile, your fingers already back on the keyboard. “Goodnight, Verstappen.”

As he disappears down the hall, you feel a surge of determination. If the FIA thinks they can push Max around, they’ve got another thing coming. Because they’re not just dealing with him anymore. They’re dealing with you.

***

The apartment is dark and silent, the kind of stillness that only comes in the dead of night. Max is fast asleep, his breaths soft and steady, the rise and fall of his chest a calming rhythm. You’re lying beside him under the covers, your laptop propped on your knees, the faint glow from the screen illuminating your face.

You should have gone to sleep hours ago. You told yourself you’d close the laptop after one more file — just one more. But then there was another, and another, and now it’s nearly 4 AM, and you’re running on pure caffeine and spite.

Max shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent in Dutch. You glance at him, your heart softening for a moment. He looks so peaceful, so unaware of the storm you’re wading through just inches away from him.

“Soon,” you whisper, your fingers flying over the keyboard. “Just a little longer.”

You’ve been combing through every financial record you can find, hacking into databases and piecing together spreadsheets like a forensic puzzle. And then, finally, you see it — a string of payments that makes your stomach turn.

The account is buried deep, hidden behind layers of shell companies and off-the-books transfers. But the numbers don’t lie. Over the past three years, millions of euros have been funneled out of the FIA’s discretionary budget and into a series of private accounts.

At first, it’s just suspicious. Then it’s horrifying.

You zoom in on the details, your pulse racing. The money trails lead to names — government officials in multiple countries, shady contractors with histories of fraud, and even one account linked to a known arms dealer.

“What the hell …” you mutter, your hands trembling slightly as you open another file.

It gets worse.

The payments aren’t just bribes or kickbacks. They’re tied to contracts for military-grade surveillance technology and riot control equipment. The kind of things no racing organization should have any business buying.

“Why would the FIA need …” Your voice trails off, your thoughts spiraling.

And then it hits you. They don’t need it. Someone within the FIA is using their funds as a cover to funnel resources for something darker — something illegal.

You feel a chill creep up your spine as you uncover more details. The timing of the payments coincides with major FIA controversies, including rulings that massively benefited certain teams or drivers. It’s almost as if the penalties and decisions were distractions, designed to shift the focus away from what was really happening behind the scenes.

Your throat tightens. This isn’t just corruption. This is criminal conspiracy on an international scale.

You close the file and lean back against the headboard, staring at the screen in disbelief. Your mind is racing, the pieces of the puzzle snapping together faster than you can process them.

The FIA isn’t just targeting Max. They’re using their position as a global governing body to launder money and traffic illegal goods. And if you’re right, they’ve been doing it for years.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, your heart pounding.

Beside you, Max stirs, his hand brushing against your arm. “What time is it?” He mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

“Uh …” You glance at the clock. “Four thirty.”

His eyes crack open, and he frowns. “You’re still awake?”

You hesitate, your mind still reeling. “I found something.”

He rubs his face, sitting up slightly. “What kind of something?”

You turn the laptop toward him, your hands shaking as you scroll through the files. “Look at this. These payments — they’re using FIA accounts to fund illegal activities. Weapons, surveillance tech, bribes. It’s all here.”

Max blinks, trying to wake himself up. “Wait — what? The FIA is buying weapons?”

“Not for themselves,” you explain, your voice trembling. “They’re covering for someone else. Someone higher up, maybe even multiple people. It’s a money-laundering operation disguised as legitimate spending. And the worst part?” You click on another document. “They’re timing these payments to coincide with penalties and controversies. Like yours.”

He stares at the screen, his jaw tightening. “They’re creating distractions.”

“Exactly.” You meet his gaze, your chest tight with anger. “They’re using you — using all of you — to keep people from noticing what’s really going on.”

Max is silent for a moment, his expression darkening. “This can’t be real.”

“It’s real,” you say firmly. “I’ve traced the accounts. I’ve seen the contracts. It’s all there.”

He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “This is insane. How are they getting away with this?”

“Because no one’s looking,” you say bitterly. “They’ve built a system where no one questions their authority. They hand out fines, penalties, rulings — it’s all smoke and mirrors.”

Max shakes his head, his anger simmering just below the surface. “So what do we do?”

“We expose them,” you say without hesitation. “We take this to the press, to the authorities — whoever will listen. We make sure everyone knows what they’ve been doing.”

He looks at you, his eyes blazing with determination. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” you say, your voice steady. “They’ve messed with you for the last time, Max. I’m not letting them get away with this.”

Max leans back against the headboard, his expression unreadable. “You know this won’t be easy. They’ll come after you.”

“Let them,” you say fiercely. “They’re not invincible, Max. They think they are, but they’re not. And now we have the proof.”

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm and grounding. “We do this together, okay?”

You nod, your resolve hardening. “Together.”

For the first time in hours, you close the laptop. The fight isn’t over — not even close. But for now, you have what you need.

The FIA has no idea what’s coming for them.

***

The findings sit like a live grenade between you and Max for weeks. Every time you try to talk about it, the conversation spirals into an argument that feels more like a desperate plea than a disagreement.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table one morning, coffee in hand, staring at the spreadsheet open on your laptop. Max leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like you’re about to pull the pin and toss the grenade straight into his life.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s trying not to spook you. “You can’t post this. It’s too dangerous.”

You glance up, meeting his intense blue eyes. “Max, we’ve been over this. Dangerous for who? The FIA? Because it sure as hell isn’t safe for anyone else if they keep getting away with this.”

He shakes his head, frustration etched into his features. “No. Dangerous for you.”

You sigh, shutting the laptop and leaning back in your chair. “And we’ve been over this too. If it’s tied to me, and they come after me, it only makes them look worse. They’d be shooting themselves in the foot.”

Max pushes off the counter, pacing across the small kitchen. “You think they care about how it looks? These people are untouchable. They’ve been untouchable for decades. What if they don’t care about subtlety? What if they decide to make an example out of you?”

“Then they’ll prove my point,” you counter, setting your mug down harder than you meant to. “Max, they’re laundering money. Funding illegal operations. Covering up fraud. This isn’t just about you or me anymore. This is about them and what they’re doing to-”

“To you,” he cuts in, spinning to face you. “This is about you, schatje. You think I can just sit back and watch them destroy your life? Watch them drag you through the mud — or worse?” His voice cracks on the last word, and it stops you in your tracks.

“Max …”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can take the fines. The penalties. Whatever bullshit they throw at me, I don’t care. But I can’t …” He falters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t lose you over this.”

The words hang heavy in the air. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

You stand, crossing the room to him. “Max.” You reach for his hands, pulling them away from where they’re clenched at his sides. He looks up at you, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with a storm of worry and frustration.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you say softly. “But you can’t ask me to do nothing. Not when I have this.”

He shakes his head, his grip on your hands tightening. “There has to be another way. Something that doesn’t put you in the crosshairs.”

“We’ve talked about this,” you say, your voice gentle but firm. “The longer we wait, the more time they have to cover their tracks. This needs to come from me. Not you, not a journalist. Me.”

Max pulls his hands away, pacing again. “Why does it have to be you? Why not anonymously? Why not through someone else?”

“Because,” you say, your voice rising just enough to make him stop and look at you, “if it’s anonymous, it’s easier for them to discredit. If it’s me — someone with a background in forensic accounting, someone who has proof — it’s harder for them to bury.”

He stares at you, his jaw working, his frustration palpable. “You’re playing with fire.”

“And you’re worth it,” you shoot back, your words cutting through his anger like a blade.

Max looks at you, his expression crumbling. “This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s bigger than that now.”

“I know,” you say, stepping closer to him. “That’s why I have to do this.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Max sighs, his shoulders slumping. “If you do this … if you put this out there …” He trails off, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know the risks,” you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. “But we can’t let them keep doing this. If I don’t say something, who will?”

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. “I hate this.”

“I know,” you whisper.

The next few days are a blur of preparation. You draft the post, meticulously double-checking every link, every piece of evidence. Max hovers in the background, equal parts supportive and terrified, his tension radiating through the apartment.

Finally, the day comes. You’re sitting at your desk, your phone in your hand, the post ready to go. Max stands behind you, silent but solid, his presence grounding you.

“You sure about this?” He asks, his voice low.

You nod, your finger hovering over the “post” button. “It’s time.”

He exhales, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Then do it.”

With a deep breath, you hit the button.

The tweet goes live:

The FIA has been hiding more than bad calls and unfair penalties. They’ve been laundering money and funding illegal operations for years. Here’s the proof #ExposeFIA

The moment it’s posted, your phone buzzes with notifications, the retweets and replies piling up faster than you can process.

You lean back in your chair, your heart racing as the reality of what you’ve done sinks in. Max squeezes your shoulders, his grip firm and reassuring.

“It’s out there now,” you say, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

“Yeah,” Max says, his voice steady. “And they’ll never see it coming.”

***

The world ignites within hours of your tweet.

Your phone buzzes nonstop, the notifications climbing into the thousands. News outlets pick up the story almost immediately. By mid-morning, your name is trending worldwide, alongside “#ExposeFIA” and a slew of related hashtags.

Every major publication, from The Guardian to The New York Times, runs with the story. Formula 1 Twitter is a battlefield, with fans, journalists, and even ex-drivers weighing in. Some praise you as a whistleblower, others call you reckless, but everyone is talking.

Max, watching it all unfold from the sofa, looks like he’s about to break the remote he’s gripping too tightly. “This is madness,” he mutters, shaking his head as he scrolls through his phone.

“Madness is putting it lightly,” you say, typing out a message to your lawyer, who’s already fielding calls from investigative agencies and reporters.

By noon, the FIA releases a statement calling your accusations “unfounded” and “a gross misunderstanding of internal operations.” They promise transparency, cooperation with audits, and a full investigation. It’s almost laughable how carefully worded it is, especially given how many people have already found red flags in the documents you posted.

“They’re scrambling,” Max says, glancing over at you.

“Good,” you reply, leaning back in your chair. “They should be.”

By the evening, things escalate even further. International agencies — Interpol, Europol, and financial crime units from multiple countries — announce that they’ve opened formal investigations into the FIA’s financial practices. Max reads the headline aloud from his phone, his tone a mix of shock and vindication.

“‘Interpol launches probe into FIA money-laundering allegations.’” He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve set the whole world on fire, haven’t you?”

You shrug, though your heart pounds in your chest. “Someone had to.”

But the sense of triumph doesn’t last long. By the next morning, the darker side of the storm begins to roll in.

Your email inbox floods with threats, your social media accounts are bombarded with harassment, and reporters camp outside the apartment building, cameras ready to capture every move. A particularly ominous email arrives from an anonymous account, promising that “justice will come” for what you’ve done.

Max reads it over your shoulder and immediately storms out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back, phone pressed to his ear as he paces the length of the living room. You catch snippets of his conversation. “Former military … no, only the best … round-the-clock.”

When he finally hangs up, you cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

“Bodyguards,” he says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Max says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve hired a team. They’ll be here tonight.”

“Max, that’s-”

“Not negotiable,” he interrupts, his eyes blazing with determination. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care if it feels over the top. If they’re sending you threats, you’re not walking around without protection.”

You let out a slow breath, recognizing the sheer fear underlying his anger. “What kind of bodyguards are we talking about?”

“Ex-special forces,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “They’re the best. Trained for high-risk situations. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, they’ll handle it.”

You can’t help but laugh, though the sound is hollow. “Max Verstappen, hiring a private army. Who would’ve thought?”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he steps closer, his expression softening. “I mean it, liefje. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I know.”

By nightfall, your new security team arrives. Four men and two women, all dressed in plain but professional attire, introduce themselves with clipped, no-nonsense precision. They’re intimidating, to say the least, but Max seems relieved the moment they walk through the door.

The leader of the team, a former SAS operative named Sam, lays out the plan in a low, calm voice. “Two of us will be stationed outside the apartment at all times. Another two will rotate shifts inside. We’ll also have someone following you whenever you leave the building. Discreet, but close enough to act.”

You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort. “Thanks, Sam. Really.”

“Just doing our job, ma’am,” he says with a curt nod.

Max hovers nearby, watching the exchange with hawk-like focus. Once the bodyguards take their positions, he pulls you aside, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Feel safer?”

“Honestly?” You say, glancing toward the door where Sam is stationed. “It feels like we’re in a spy movie.”

Max cracks a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Better a spy movie than a tragedy.”

The following days are surreal. The FIA is in complete disarray, with high-ranking officials resigning or being placed on administrative leave as the investigations intensify. Every news cycle seems to bring another bombshell revelation: hidden accounts, off-the-record meetings, connections to corrupt government officials.

Even Formula 1 teams begin distancing themselves from the governing body. Drivers are asked about it in every interview, and while most offer diplomatic responses, a few — like Lewis and Charles — publicly voice their support for you.

Through it all, Max stays glued to your side, protective in a way you’ve never seen before. Whenever you leave the apartment, he insists on going with you, even if it’s just to grab groceries.

One evening, as you’re scrolling through Twitter, you stumble upon a post from a well-known journalist.

@yourusername’s bravery has set off one of the biggest scandals in motorsport history. But the question remains: how deep does the corruption go? #ExposeFIA

You show the tweet to Max, who nods grimly. “They’re right,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

You lean back against the couch, exhaustion weighing on you. “Yeah. And the FIA is going to do everything they can to bury me before it gets worse for them.”

Max wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “They can try,” he says quietly. “But they’ll have to go through me first.”

You smile faintly, resting your head against his chest. The fight is far from over, but with Max by your side — and a small army of bodyguards watching your back — you feel ready for whatever comes next.

***

Max’s voice cuts through the quiet of the apartment. “Don’t go to Austin, please.”

You look up from your laptop, brows furrowing. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hair is damp from the shower, but his expression is dry — serious, almost pleading.

“I already told you,” you say, your tone firm but calm. “I’m not hiding.”

“It’s not hiding,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “It’s being smart. Let them think whatever they want. You don’t have to prove anything by being there.”

You push your chair back, turning fully to face him. “If I don’t go, they’ll think they’ve won. That I’m scared of them. I’m not giving them that satisfaction.”

Max exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about pride, Y/N. It’s about your safety. They’ve already made it clear they’re willing to play dirty.”

“They’re already under investigation by half the agencies on the planet,” you counter. “They wouldn’t dare try anything now. Not in front of the entire world.”

His eyes narrow slightly, his frustration bubbling just under the surface. “You’re underestimating them.”

“And you’re underestimating me,” you say softly, standing up. You walk over to him, resting your hands on his forearms. “I’m not cowering in fear. I refuse to let them intimidate me.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his hands twitching as if he wants to pull you into him but can’t quite let himself. “I can’t …” He pauses, his voice dropping. “I can’t focus on the race if I’m worried about you the whole time.”

You tilt your head, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Then don’t worry. I’ll be in the garage, surrounded by your team and my guards. Nothing’s going to happen.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the conflict in his eyes almost unbearable. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Promise me you’ll stay close to the guards. No wandering off, no risks.”

You nod, squeezing his arm. “I promise.”

***

The Circuit of the Americas is buzzing with energy as you and Max arrive for free practice. Fans line the paddock entrance, waving flags and shouting his name as you walk toward the Red Bull garage, flanked by two of your bodyguards. Max’s hand hovers protectively at the small of your back, and you can feel the tension radiating off him.

“You don’t leave the garage,” he says as you reach the entrance, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not for food, not for interviews. Nothing.”

“I know,” you say, trying to soothe him with a gentle smile.

Max leans down, his voice low and fierce. “I mean it, schatje.”

“I know,” you repeat, softer this time.

Satisfied, though still visibly uneasy, Max kisses your forehead before heading off to change into his race suit. You settle into a chair near the engineers, watching the monitors as the mechanics fuss over his car. Sam stands just a few feet away, his eyes constantly scanning the room.

Max appears in full gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. He glances at you one last time before stepping toward the car. “Stay here,” he says firmly.

“Go drive, Verstappen,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers on you for a moment before he nods and climbs into the car.

The first twenty minutes of the session pass uneventfully. Max is quick on track, his name lighting up the timing screens. The garage is busy but calm, the sound of the commentators droning faintly in the background.

And then, chaos.

A car bursts into flames on the back straight, smoke billowing into the air. The screens in the garage flicker to a red flag, and people jump into action, radios buzzing with updates.

“Car 23, it’s Albon!” Someone shouts. “He’s out, but the car’s on fire-”

Everyone’s attention is glued to the monitors, watching the marshals scramble to extinguish the flames. The smell of burning rubber seems to seep into the garage, and the noise level spikes as mechanics, engineers, and team officials bark orders and updates.

You glance at Sam, who nods reassuringly. “Stay put,” he says.

But in the chaos, no one notices the shadow slipping through the crowd behind you.

A hand clamps over your mouth, and something sharp pricks the side of your neck. Your vision blurs instantly, the world tilting sideways as your body goes limp. You feel yourself being dragged, but your limbs won’t cooperate, won’t fight back.

Sam’s voice echoes dimly in the background. “Where’s Y/N?”

You try to shout, to move, but the darkness swallows you whole.

And then, nothing.

***

When you wake, it’s like surfacing from a deep, suffocating void. Your head throbs, and your limbs feel heavy, almost disconnected. The first thing you notice is the faint hum of fluorescent lights above you. Then the sharp sting in your wrists and ankles — tight bonds cutting into your skin.

You’re tied to a chair, the cold metal frame unforgiving against your back. The air smells faintly of damp concrete, and the room is dimly lit, industrial — like the basement of a forgotten building.

Panic blooms in your chest as you struggle against the restraints, the rope biting into your skin with every movement. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to think, to focus. You remember the race, the chaos in the garage, and then — nothing.

Footsteps echo down a hallway. Steady, deliberate.

Your heart pounds in your chest as a figure steps into the room. The man is immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back, his face a mask of cold disdain.

The FIA president.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says smoothly, closing the door behind him. He walks toward you, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floor. “I was beginning to worry the dosage was too much. I’d hate to have overdone it.”

You glare at him, your voice hoarse as you manage to croak out, “What the hell … is this?”

He stops a few feet from you, clasping his hands behind his back. “This,” he says, his tone almost casual, “is what happens when you ruin someone’s life, Miss L/N.”

Your heart sinks, but you keep your expression steady. “You kidnapped me?”

“I prefer to think of it as … leveling the playing field,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “After all, you didn’t hesitate to destroy my reputation, my career — everything I’ve built over the last three decades. Surely you didn’t expect there to be no consequences?”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and unsteady. “You destroyed your own career by being corrupt. All I did was expose the truth.”

His jaw tightens, a flicker of anger breaking through his calm façade. “The truth,” he repeats, his voice dripping with venom. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The FIA is in shambles. Investigators are tearing through every document, every bank account. Major sponsors are pulling out. Drivers are threatening to boycott. All because of you.”

“Good,” you snap, your voice gaining strength. “You deserve it. Every single one of you who let this happen deserves it.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Do you think the world will thank you for this? For dragging motorsport into the mud? You’ve made enemies far more powerful than you can imagine.”

“I’m not scared of you,” you spit, though your heart is racing.

He smiles, but it’s cold and cruel. “You should be.”

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Then he leans down, his face inches from yours.

“You ruined my life,” he says softly, his tone icy and deliberate. “So the least I could do is ruin yours.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Do whatever you want to me. It won’t change anything. The truth is out. You can’t bury it now.”

He straightens, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps not,” he says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “But I can make you wish you’d never posted that little tweet.”

You don’t respond, your breath hitching as he turns and walks toward the door.

Before he leaves, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Enjoy your stay, Miss L/N. It’ll be your last taste of freedom for a very long time.”

The door slams shut, and you’re left alone in the dim, silent room, your heart pounding and your mind racing. You tug at the ropes again, desperation clawing at you, but they hold firm.

You have no idea how much time you have — or if anyone even knows where you are. But one thing is clear: you’re not giving up without a fight.

***

The moment Max hears the words, it’s as if the world tilts on its axis.

“She’s gone.”

The voice comes from Sam who’s pale and shaking despite his years of military training. The garage is chaos, but Max doesn’t register any of it. The team radios, the mechanics shouting about the car, the fans outside the paddock — it all fades into a dull hum.

“What do you mean, gone?” Max’s voice is low, dangerous, the calm before an eruption.

Sam hesitates, and that hesitation is enough to snap Max’s restraint. He takes two steps forward, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt.

“What. Happened?” Max snarls, his grip tightening.

“She — someone — must have used the chaos to grab her,” Sam stammers, his voice faltering under Max’s fury. “I was right there. I don’t-”

“You were right there?” Max shouts, his voice echoing in the garage. His mechanics freeze, everyone suddenly aware of the storm brewing in the middle of their space. “Then how the hell is she gone?”

“I-I don’t know,” Sam admits, looking down, shame written across his face. “It was fast. We didn’t see-”

Max releases him with a shove, his hands trembling with rage. He feels like he’s going to explode, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe.

“Find her,” Max spits, his voice low and filled with venom. “Or I swear, you’ll regret ever taking this job.”

Sam nods quickly, already pulling out his phone, barking orders to the rest of the security team. But Max doesn’t wait to hear more.

He storms out of the garage, shoving past anyone who dares step in his path. His vision is a blur of fury, his ears ringing. People call his name — Christian, his press officer, even a few reporters — but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

The first FIA official he sees is standing just outside the paddock offices, talking to a group of staff. Max doesn’t even pause to think. He closes the distance in seconds, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him against the nearest wall.

“Max!” Someone yells behind him, but he doesn’t care.

“Where is she?” Max growls, his face inches from the man’s.

The official — a younger man with wide eyes and a trembling mouth — raises his hands in surrender. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Max shouts, his voice raw and unhinged. He tightens his grip, the fabric of the man’s shirt bunching in his fists. “If even one hair on her head is hurt, everyone involved will wish they were dead. Do you understand me?”

“Max, let him go!” Christian’s voice cuts through the chaos as Red Bull staff rush toward him, trying to pull him back.

“Stay out of this!” Max snaps without looking, his eyes locked on the trembling FIA official. “You know something. You all do.”

“I don’t!” The man insists, his voice cracking. “I swear, I don’t-”

“You’re all complicit,” Max growls, his voice low and menacing. “You’re all covering for each other, just like always. But if anything happens to her, I will burn this entire sport to the ground.”

“Max!” Christian’s hands are on his shoulders now, trying to pull him back. “This isn’t helping. We’ll find her. You’re just making it worse!”

For a moment, Max hesitates, his breathing ragged. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he shoves the man away, releasing his grip. The official stumbles, gasping for air, but Max doesn’t even look at him as he turns to Christian.

“They took her,” Max says, his voice breaking for the first time. “She’s gone, Christian.”

Christian’s face softens, his usual calm demeanor tinged with worry. “We’ll find her, Max. I promise.”

But Max shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “Promises don’t mean anything if she’s hurt.”

He storms off again, ignoring the cameras and the whispers that follow him. His mind is racing, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. Who has you? Why? How?

And then the worst thought of all … what if he’s too late?

***

The shed is suffocatingly small, barely more than a wooden box. Its peeling paint and sagging roof make it look like it’s been abandoned for years, forgotten in the middle of rural Texas farmland.

The search had stretched for days, involving everyone from local sheriffs to federal agents to Interpol. Max hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. He’d barely spoken, except to bark orders and demand updates. And now, standing in front of the shed, his heart feels like it might stop altogether.

“Max,” Christian says, his voice a low murmur from behind. “Let them go in first.”

But Max shakes his head, already moving forward. A Texas Ranger tries to stop him, but Max glares, and the man steps aside, the air between them crackling with unspoken understanding.

The door creaks as Max pushes it open, the sound loud in the eerie stillness.

Inside, the air is stale, thick with the scent of mildew and dust. The dim light from the open door spills into the room, illuminating the figure slumped against the far wall.

You.

Max freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

You’re tied to a chair, the ropes biting into your skin, your wrists and ankles raw from the restraints. Your head is slumped forward, but at the sound of the door, you stir, lifting your face ever so slightly.

Bruises bloom across your cheekbone, your arms, the pale skin of your neck. Dried blood streaks your temple, and your lips are cracked, split in places. But it’s your eyes — glassier than he’s ever seen them, unfocused yet somehow still searching — that shatter him completely.

“Liefje,” Max breathes, his voice breaking.

You blink slowly, struggling to process. And then, somehow, against all odds, your eyes focus on him. Recognition flares, faint but unmistakable, and your lips move, though no sound comes out.

Max falls to his knees.

The world blurs around him — voices shouting, footsteps rushing in, hands grabbing for you. But all he can see is you. He crawls forward, his knees scraping against the rough floor, until he’s right in front of you.

“Y/N,” he says again, louder this time, his voice shaking. “I’m here. It’s me. It’s Max.”

Your head tilts slightly, your lips parting as if to say something.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his hands trembling as he reaches for you. He hesitates, afraid to touch you, afraid of causing more pain. “Don’t try to talk. Just … just stay with me.”

Tears blur his vision as he takes in the state of you. Every bruise, every cut feels like a dagger to his chest. He wants to scream, to rage, to destroy whoever did this to you, but he pushes it all down, forces himself to focus on you.

You manage a weak sound — barely more than a rasp — but your eyes never leave his.

“I’m here,” Max repeats, his voice fierce now, as if sheer force of will can keep you tethered to him. “You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe now.”

“Max …” you whisper, your voice so faint it’s almost lost in the chaos around you.

“I’ve got you,” he says, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ve got you, schatje. They’re never going to hurt you again.”

Behind him, medics and agents flood the shed, their voices urgent as they assess the scene. Someone touches Max’s shoulder, but he shrugs them off violently.

“Not yet,” he snaps, his tone deadly. “Give me a second.”

The medic hesitates, then backs away.

“Max,” you say again, a little louder this time, your voice raw and broken. Your eyes fill with tears, spilling over as you look at him.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

For the first time, the faintest flicker of a smile ghosts across your lips. It’s fragile, barely there, but it’s enough to make Max’s chest tighten.

He leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead, his hands finally settling on your knees as he grounds himself in your presence.

“They’ll pay for this,” he murmurs, his voice dark and unyielding. “Every single one of them. I promise you.”

Your head tips forward, leaning against him as the medics finally step in, their voices careful and quiet. Max doesn’t let go, not until they’re lifting you onto a stretcher, not until they’re absolutely sure you’re stable.

Even then, he doesn’t leave your side.

***

Max sits in the darkness of your shared apartment, his fingers steepled, his eyes fixed on the glow of his laptop screen. The names are all there. Every single one of them.

The investigation, spearheaded by law enforcement and fueled by global outrage, had revealed the tangled web of corruption that led to your kidnapping. At the center of it: the FIA president and a handful of high-ranking officials who had conspired to silence you for what you’d uncovered.

Max stares at their faces, the headshots lined up on the screen like a hit list. And in his mind, that’s exactly what it is.

There are many things about his childhood that Max tries not to think about. His father’s cold, unrelenting discipline. The constant berating. The punishments for anything less than perfection. Jos Verstappen hadn’t raised a son … he’d forged a weapon.

For years, Max had hated him for it. But now, for the first time, he feels a grim sense of gratitude. Because Jos had taught him something important: how to be cruel.

Max isn’t naïve enough to think the justice system will fix this. No prison sentence, no public disgrace will ever feel like enough for what they did to you — for the bruises that painted your skin, for the fear in your eyes when they finally found you.

These people had tried to destroy you. Max is going to destroy them first.

***

The first one falls within days. A minor official, the logistics director who had helped orchestrate your transport to the shed. He’s found in his sprawling Paris apartment, lying facedown in a pool of his own blood. The police call it a robbery gone wrong, but Max knows better.

The second is a middle manager in finance who’d helped funnel bribes through FIA accounts. He vanishes without a trace, his car abandoned on a lonely stretch of highway.

Each one is different. A tragic accident. A sudden disappearance. A stroke of bad luck. But the common thread is unmistakable. The officials complicit in your kidnapping are dropping like flies, one by one, their fates tied to their betrayal.

Max doesn’t get his hands dirty — not directly. He doesn’t have to. Money buys silence, loyalty, and an army of people willing to do what he can’t.

He watches it all unfold from a careful distance, his heart cold and steady. The guilt, if it comes, is fleeting. These people made their choices. Now they’re paying for them.

***

The FIA president is last.

Max makes him wait.

For weeks, the man is forced to watch as his associates vanish, as the walls close in around him. The investigation has left him disgraced, stripped of his title, his assets frozen. He’s a man on the run, hiding in the shadows of his former power.

But Max knows where he is. He’s known from the beginning.

It happens in the dead of night, in the decaying mansion the president had fled to somewhere in the French countryside.

Max doesn’t send someone else this time. This one, he wants to see for himself.

***

The president is sitting at a desk, the room lit by a single dim lamp. He’s aged years in a matter of months, his face gaunt, his hands trembling as he rifles through papers. He doesn’t hear Max until it’s too late.

The sound of the door closing makes him freeze.

When he looks up, Max is already there, standing in the doorway, his face blank but his eyes burning with a quiet, lethal fury.

“Hello,” Max says, his voice calm.

The president’s face goes pale. He stumbles to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “W-what are you doing here? You have no right-”

“Sit,” Max says sharply.

The man stops mid-sentence, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He sinks back into the chair, his movements stiff and jerky.

“You ruined your own life,” Max says, stepping closer. His voice is measured, even, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air in the room feel heavier. “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to try to ruin hers too.”

The president’s hands shake as he grips the edge of the desk. “I-I didn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Max interrupts, his tone icy.

The man flinches, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape. But there’s nowhere to go.

“You didn’t just hurt her,” Max continues, his voice low. “You left her tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, beaten and bleeding. You thought no one would find her. You wanted her to disappear.”

The president tries to speak, but the words die in his throat.

Max leans forward, his hands resting on the desk. “I’ve let you live longer than you deserve. But this ends tonight.”

The president shakes his head frantically, panic overtaking him. “You can’t do this! I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Max asks, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Run to the police? Tell them what you did? They’d love to hear about it.”

The president’s breathing becomes ragged, his chest heaving as he realizes there’s no way out.

Max straightens, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “You took her because you thought I’d let it go. Because you thought I’d be too afraid to fight back. But you were wrong.”

The room falls silent, the weight of Max’s words settling over them like a storm.

When it’s over, the only sound is the faint rustle of the wind outside.

Max walks out of the mansion, his hands steady, his heart unyielding.

The world will never know what happened to the former FIA president. But Max doesn’t care.

All that matters is that it’s done. You’re safe. And no one will ever hurt you again.

***

You wake with a jolt, the scream clawing at your throat but never making it out. Your chest heaves, your skin slick with sweat, the remnants of the nightmare still vivid behind your eyelids. The ropes, the shed, the bruising grip of strangers. You can still feel it, can still hear the taunts of the man who orchestrated it all.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are. Your hands tremble as you clutch the sheets, the darkness of the room suffocating. But then you feel him.

“Schatje,” Max whispers, his voice thick with sleep and concern. His arms are around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, your breathing erratic as you cling to him like a lifeline. His scent, his warmth, his steady heartbeat — these are the things that tether you back to reality.

“It was just a dream,” he murmurs, his hand running up and down your back. “Nothing can hurt you here. I won’t let it.”

You don’t say anything, but the way your fingers fist the fabric of his shirt tells him enough.

Max tightens his hold, his lips pressing to the top of your head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I let you down. I should’ve protected you. I-”

“Stop,” you croak, your voice hoarse from disuse. You pull back slightly, enough to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are raw, rimmed with red, his guilt carved into every line of his face. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head, refusing to meet your eyes. “Yes, it was,” he says, his voice rough. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve been there. If I had-”

“Max,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.

He finally looks at you, and the weight of his guilt makes your chest ache.

“You didn’t let me down,” you say, your hand cupping his cheek. “What happened was their fault. Not yours.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says, his voice trembling. “And I didn’t. I failed.”

“Max.” You sit up straighter, your other hand framing his face. “You didn’t fail me. You saved me. You found me. You’ve been here for me every second since. That’s what matters.”

He tries to argue, his lips parting, but you don’t let him.

You lean forward and kiss him, cutting off whatever protest he was about to make. It’s gentle at first, a soft reassurance, but then it deepens, your hands slipping into his hair as you pour everything into it — all your gratitude, your love, your need to make him understand.

When you pull back, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “And you didn’t let me down. You’ll never let me down.”

Max’s eyes close, a shuddering breath escaping him as his hands settle on your waist. “I’ll never let anything happen to you again,” he murmurs. “I swear. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“I know,” you say softly, your fingers brushing through his hair. “I trust you.”

The room falls quiet again, the tension melting into something softer as Max holds you close. The nightmare still lingers at the edges of your mind, but with him here, it feels manageable.

You close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you back toward sleep, your head tucked under his chin.

***

The world looks different now. Formula 1 has been turned inside out and rebuilt piece by piece, its foundation gutted, its walls scrubbed clean of rot. The FIA, once untouchable, now stands as a phoenix reborn — smaller, humbler, and watched under a microscope by a public that no longer trusts blindly.

And the man standing at its helm?

Sebastian Vettel.

His appointment shocked everyone, though in hindsight, maybe it shouldn’t have. A four-time world champion with a reputation for integrity, sharp wit, and an inexplicable love of bees, Sebastian had been the last person anyone expected to re-enter the fold. Yet here he was: a symbol of hope and accountability.

And now, sitting in your living room.

You stare at him, still trying to reconcile the fact that Sebastian Vettel is perched on your sofa, a cup of tea balanced in his hand, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. He wears a suit, though the top button is undone and his shoes scuff slightly on your rug — small signs that, for all his new authority, he’s still Sebastian.

Max, seated across the room with his arms crossed, is visibly tense. He hasn’t said much since Sebastian arrived, choosing instead to lean back in his chair and observe. Protectively.

“Just to be clear,” you say, leaning forward, “you want to hire me?”

Sebastian smiles faintly, setting his tea down on the table. “Yes. You.”

“As a forensic accountant?”

“Yes.”

“To audit the FIA?”

Sebastian leans back slightly, his expression soft but serious. “To make sure nothing like what happened ever happens again. To hold us accountable, to make sure every financial and ethical line is crystal clear. You’ve proven yourself, Y/N. The FIA needs someone sharp, honest, and relentless. You’re all three.”

You blink, thrown off balance. You’d been bracing for congratulations or polite pleasantries — not this.

“Why me?” You ask finally.

Sebastian doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re the only person I trust to do it right.”

That knocks the air from your lungs.

Across the room, Max shifts, his brows furrowing. “You’re asking her to put herself in the middle of it again,” he says, his voice low, edged with a protectiveness Sebastian doesn’t miss. “After everything.”

Sebastian turns to Max. “I’m asking her to fix it. If anyone can make sure the FIA stays clean, it’s Y/N.”

Max’s jaw tightens, and you can feel the storm brewing inside him. He’s fought so hard to keep you away from anything that even smells like danger. You know he hates the idea of you stepping back into this mess, even from a position of safety.

But you also know he won’t stop you if this is what you want.

You take a deep breath, turning your attention back to Sebastian. “You understand what you’re asking, right? I’ll find everything — everything. Even the things you don’t want me to.”

Sebastian nods. “That’s the point.”

You study him for a moment. There’s no hesitation in his face, no flicker of doubt. He means it. He’s really here to clean house, and he’s offering you a key role in ensuring that it happens.

Your fingers twist in your lap as you weigh the choice. You could walk away from it all, leave the FIA in someone else’s hands, and never think about its corruption again.

But then you think about the shed. The ropes. The bruises. The quiet corruption that enabled people like the former president to go unchecked for so long. You think about how close they came to breaking you — and how they’ll never get the chance to do it again.

Because you won’t let them.

You straighten in your seat, your voice clear. “If I do this, I want total autonomy. No limits on what I can investigate, no oversight. If I smell anything remotely off, I follow it wherever it leads.”

Sebastian smiles faintly, like he expected nothing less. “Done.”

“And if I say something needs to change, it changes. No delays, no excuses.”

“Done,” he says again.

Max exhales sharply, his frustration rolling off him in waves. “Y/N …”

You glance at him, softening. “It’s my decision.”

He shakes his head, staring at the floor for a moment before looking back up at you. “I don’t want you anywhere near them again. I don’t care who’s in charge.”

Sebastian clears his throat, respectful but firm. “This is her choice, Max.”

Max shoots him a withering glare but doesn’t argue further. Instead, he looks at you, his expression raw. “You just got out of this. Why would you go back?”

You reach across the space between you and take his hand. “Because if I don’t, someone else will. And they won’t be as careful, or as ruthless.” You squeeze his fingers gently. “You don’t have to like it, but you know I’m right.”

Max doesn’t reply immediately. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

“I don’t like it,” he says quietly, “but I’ll stand by you.”

You smile faintly, your chest warming as you meet his eyes. “I know.”

Sebastian, ever perceptive, chooses that moment to stand. “I’ll give you some time to think it over,” he says. “But … I hope you say yes.”

You nod, your decision already made. “I’ll think about it.”

Sebastian gives you both a small smile before making his way to the door. “Take care of each other,” he says as he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you and Max alone in the quiet.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then Max groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sebastian Vettel as president of the FIA? I didn’t see that one coming.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Me neither.”

His hand drops, and he looks at you, his expression serious again. “If you’re really going to do this, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Bodyguards, security — whatever you need.”

“I’m not going to war,” you tease gently.

“You say that now,” he mutters, his voice darkening. “But I know how this world works. You’re making enemies the second you start digging again.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got you to protect me, isn’t it?”

Max exhales, his arms looping around you as he pulls you close. “Always.”

You nestle into his chest, letting his heartbeat steady you, the weight of the decision settling over you. You know what you’re walking into. You know the risks.

But you also know you can’t look away — not now, not after everything.

The FIA has been reborn. And you’re going to make sure it stays that way.

[heliosunny]

yandere phainon x reader but the peter nguyen meme. we're about to kiss at the altar when someone screams "PHAINON CHEATED ON YOU". they run away but then they come back when we try kissing again and scream "HE SLEPT WITH YOUR SISTER!!" ik this is super random but i just want to know how you think phainon would react in this situation

The priest’s words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation. You stood at the altar, heart pounding, gazing into Phainon’s piercing blue eyes. His grip on your hands was firm, nothing else matters at such moment.

“PRINCE PHAINON CHEATED ON YOU!!”

A shriek cut through the silence. Gasps rippled through the wedding hall.

You barely had time to register the words before the accuser, a wild-eyed stranger, turned and bolted out the doors. Murmurs erupted among the guests.

Phainon’s grip on your hands didn’t falter. Instead, his lips curled into a lazy smile.

“Ignore them” he murmured, his thumb stroking your wrist. “Jealousy makes people desperate.”

The priest, though rattled, cleared his throat. “Shall we continue?”

Phainon smirked. “Please.”

The tension in the hall faded as the ceremony resumed. The priest lifted his hands once more.

“You may now—”

“HE SLEPT WITH YOUR SISTER!!”

The doors slammed open again. The same person, panting, face red.

A stunned silence followed.

Something flickered in Phainon's gaze. A memory.

—Flashback—

They have no idea…

How hard it was to gain your trust.

How long he waited.

Phainon hadn’t been looking for love that day.

He was just passing through, watching people the way he always did—silent, calculating, disinterested. Until he saw you.

You were reaching for a fruit, balancing on the tips of your toes, fingers just barely grazing the branch. The sunlight made your hair glow, sweat beading on your skin from effort.

He had seen beautiful people before. Had taken lovers. Had discarded them.

But something about you made him took a step forward, about to offer help.

Then—

The branch snapped. You yelped as you lost your footing, tumbling down- Right into his arms.

He caught you with ease, strong hands gripping your waist. You gasped, wide-eyed, staring up at him. Phainon felt your warmth, your racing heartbeat. He could smell the faint sweetness of fruit on your skin.

Then, as if sensing danger, you scrambled out of his grasp. Your feet hit the ground, and before he could say a word, you turned.

“Come on!” you yelled, grabbing your sister’s hand.

And just like that, you ran.

Phainon stood there, watching your retreating figure.

He touched his fingers to his chest—his heart was pounding.

---

Phainon hadn’t forgotten you.

Days passed, then weeks, but the memory of your warmth, the startled look in your eyes, the way you ran from him lingered. So he searched. And when he finally learned where you lived—a quiet, unassuming estate on the edge of the city—he didn’t hesitate.

The library was modest but well-kept. Books lined the walls, the scent of parchment and ink filling the air. Phainon sat with perfect ease, sipping tea as your parents—clearly nervous—hosted him with shaky politeness.

“A prince in our humble home..” your father murmured in awe.

Phainon only smiled. “I was looking for someone.”

Your mother straightened. “Oh? Who might that be, Your Highness?”

He set his cup down, glancing at the door expectantly.

“Your child,” he said smoothly. “The one who sneaks into the royal garden to steal fruit.”

A gasp. Your parents exchanged alarmed glances.

“Surely there’s been some mistake—”

“Oh, there’s no mistake,” Phainon cut in, his voice still pleasant. “I caught them myself.”

A shuffle outside the room.

There you are

You stepped into the library, eyes wary. He saw the flicker of recognition, the brief hesitation before you masked it.

“You went through all this trouble,” you said dryly. “Just to scold me over some fruit?”

Phainon tilted his head, watching you. “I wouldn’t call it trouble.”

Your expression darkened slightly. You studied him for a long moment, then—without another word—you turned and walked away.

His smile faltered.

But he didn’t give up.

---

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

After that strange visit to the library, you assumed the prince would lose interest. Noblemen didn’t linger in places like yours—not for long, at least.

But then, one afternoon, you heard your sister shouting.

“Whoa—whoa! Stop—stop!”

Your heart leapt into your throat as you ran outside. Your sister was struggling with the reins of a restless horse, its hooves stomping nervously. She barely managed to keep her balance, her face pale with panic.

You took a step forward, ready to help, but Phainon got there first.

He moved with effortless grace, his strong hands closing around the bridle. The horse stilled instantly, as if sensing the power behind his touch.

“You’re pulling too tight,” Phainon said, his tone calm, guiding her hands with his own. “See? You need to give it room to move.”

Your sister blinked, looking up at him in awe. “Like this?”

“Exactly.”

You watched as he guided her through the motions—how to hold the reins properly, how to keep her posture balanced. He was patient, his voice smooth and encouraging.

Your sister beamed, clearly delighted to be learning from someone like him.

And, despite yourself, you felt your guard loosen—just a little.

He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t looking down on her in that smug, noble way. He was helping.

For the first time, you looked at him without suspicion.

---

The kitchen smelled sweet, the warm scent of baked goods filling the air as you carefully placed another tray of cookies onto the counter. You hadn’t made them for anyone in particular—you just felt like it.

Rolling up your sleeves, you reached for one to taste only for a hand to swipe it before you could.

“Not bad.”

You turned to see Phainon stood beside you, casually chewing on the stolen cookie, his blue eyes filled with amusement. He didn’t look the slightest bit sorry.

“What are you doing here?”

He leaned against the counter, “I smelled something good and followed it. Imagine my surprise when I found you here, working so hard.”

You shot him an unimpressed look. “I didn’t make them for you.”

“But I ate them anyway.” His lips curled into a teasing smile. “If you become my spouse, I’ll let you cook as much as you want.”

You scoffed. “Oh, how generous, Your Highness. Now shoo.”

You pushed him lightly, trying to guide him out of the kitchen, but he barely moved.

Instead, he grinned and leaned closer, clearly enjoying your frustration.

“You really want me gone?” he mused.

“Yes” you deadpanned.

With an exaggerated sigh, he relented, stepping back. “Fine, fine. But only because you asked so sweetly.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away.

Then you noticed—crumbs clinging to the fabric of his coat.

Without thinking, you reached out and brushed them off, fingers grazing his chest lightly.

When you looked up, Phainon was watching you. Realizing what you’d done, you quickly pulled back.

“Go” you muttered.

For once, he obeyed.

----

It hadn’t been easy.

There were fights. Doubts. Moments when you swore you’d never accept him.

Phainon had tested your patience, pushed boundaries, and yet—he had always been there. He never wavered. When you were uncertain, he was steadfast. When you fell, he picked you up. When the world conspired against you, he cut through it with ruthless efficiency.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped resisting.

And when he knelt before you, offering not just his hand but his loyalty, his devotion, his everything, you finally said yes.

—Reality—

“HE SLEPT WITH YOUR SISTER!!”

The words rang through the wedding hall once more.

But before anyone could react, Phainon moved.

His fingers closed around the first thing he could grab—a golden goblet.

With terrifying precision, he hurled it. The metal clashed against the doors, slamming them shut just as the accuser tried to flee.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Then, in one fluid motion, Phainon seized a sword from a nearby knight. The blade gleamed under the chapel’s light as he strode forward, eyes cold.

The accuser trembled, trapped.

Phainon’s voice was calm, but it carried a sharp, dangerous edge.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?”

He took another step.

“You dirtied my name on my wedding day.”

The person fell to their knees, shaking. “P-please, I was just—”

“You were just what?” Phainon tilted his head, almost amused. “A fool? A pawn? Or merely suicidal?”

The room held its breath.

The accuser sobbed, words crumbling into incoherent pleas.

Then—

You laughed.

The crowd looked at you in shock. Then, as if your amusement was contagious, the guests joined in—chuckling at first, then outright laughing.

The accuser looked around in confusion, face pale.

Phainon exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if the outburst had been nothing but an inconvenience.

“You heard them,” he said, turning away, sword still in hand. “Give them their punishment.”

The guards wasted no time dragging the culprit out.

The doors shut once more. The disturbance had passed.

Phainon turned back to you, his expression smoothing into something warm, almost fond.

“As I was saying,” the priest stammered, composing himself. “You may now—”

Phainon didn’t wait.

His lips were on yours before the words were even finished.

[heartmix]

Big Day - MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x singlemom!reader

Word Count: 1k+

Warning: dad!max, no use of y/n but daughters name is Aria, fluff. Part 2 to my girls

A/N: shorter than i thought it would be but still happy with it

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

The weekend Max and Aria were looking forward to finally came. Aria's first time attending a grand prix. After finding out about her racing obsession Max promised to take her to a grand prix when the new season rolled around. What better grand prix to start with than the Monaco Grand Prix? At first, you were hesitant, not knowing how she would handle the crazy environment. It wasn't until Max took you to a few races and introduced you to Nico Hulkenberg and Kevin Magnussen that it calmed your nerves. Seeing their kids in the paddock gave you all the security you needed, along with Max promising to have at least two Red Bull personnel with you both at all times. 

The weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix rolled around. The streets slowly converted into the iconic track and fans flying in from all over the world. All of this made little Aria excited. Every time you were in the car Max would point out all the details to her, a smile spreading across her face every time. 

You agreed with her going all three days. There was still hesitance on whether she would like the energy of the paddock so you wanted to slowly build it up for when race day arrived. Max was happy you agreed to allow her to come to all three days. He had big plans. First, he would show her everything from the motorhome to parts of the track and then have her sit in the car for the grand finale. 

He walked in proudly with Aria in his arms and clutched your hand with his free one. He didn't even try to hide the big smile on his face. From scanning your passes to meeting the drivers passing by, Aria enjoyed every second. A big upgrade from the living room TV screen. 

"Are you ready to see the car?" Max asked Aria as they inched closer to the red bull garage. 

"YES YES YES!" She yelled out making the both of you chuckle. 

When the car came into view she recognized it instantly. Letting out a squeal capturing all the attention of everyone in the garage. The team already knew you. Max made it a point at your first grand prix that you were to feel welcomed and that everyone recognized your face so you would be comfortable when he was off working. Looking around you saw the confused faces of his team. They were probably thinking. "who was this little girl?" "why is Max carrying her around?" "did he have a secret child?-No, they would have known about that, right?" 

Max's voice broke you out of your thoughts, "Do you want to get in the car?" 

With the biggest smile on her face and wide eyes, a soft tone came out "Can I?" 

"Of course, you can baby." 

"Tanks yous!" she said wrapping her little hands around his neck tighter, bringing him into a hug which he gladly gave in, melting into her hold. At that moment you could see him planning to bring her to every race. 

"Anything for my biggest fan. Here, let's get you in." Before he placed her into the cockpit he kissed her cheek making her giggle. Once she was seated her eyes locked onto all the buttons and the different colors. She knew not to touch anything that wasn't her's so her hands were fidgeting with the Red Bull kit she wore, per Max's request. 

"Mama! Look!" Aria looked up beaming with the biggest smile you've ever seen. That alone was worth all the worrying for the past few months. Smiling at the little girl, you pulled out your phone to take as many pictures as your camera roll could hold. 

"I wanna race!" she exclaimed as her little hands were holding the steering wheel handles, the only thing that didn't have a button that she could touch. 

Looking at Max, you could see how his eyes had softened. The smile on his face never flattered. He remembered his first day karting and how much fun it was just to race. If his little girl wanted to, he was going to make it happen. 

"If you wanna race, I'll teach you. We can get you into karting if that is okay with mama?" He asked looking over to you with a pleading expression. Max never begged for anything, so for him to beg you to let your daughter race was a sight to see. 

"plwese mama!" she used her puppy dog's, similar to Max's pleading eyes. How could you say no? You trusted Max and if this was going to make both of them happy, why not give it a shot? 

With a small smile on your face, you gave in, "Okay baby, if you want to." 

"yes!" Her little voice exclaimed turning to Max to give a victory hi-five. 

After a few more minutes, Max pulled her out of the car and headed to the pit wall, the last stop on the little tour. You sat on one of the chairs while Max sat across from you with Aria still in his arms. If it were up to him, he wouldn't let her go at all. This was one of his favorite days and nothing could top it. 

"tanks you dada," Aria mumbled into Max's neck. He turned to you with a shocked expression making you giggle. 

For weeks when he wasn't around she would let it slip. Whether it was seeing him on TV or just mentioning his name. You didn't think there would be a day where she saw someone as a father figure, let alone calling them dad, but seeing how great he is with her you couldn't tell her to stop. It was her choice, after all. Silently, you told him it was okay with you. 

"Anything for you my baby girl." He hugged her tightly, making the little girl giggle. Making you both his girls was the best choice he's ever made. 

[astrcmoni]

୨♡୧⁀➷cupid’s kiss ୨♡୧⁀➷

MASTERLIST

synopsis: the city hums around you, a fleeting backdrop to roses, laughter, and the heat of her gaze. by night’s end, only tangled limbs and breathless whispers remain—fragments of a valentine’s you’ll never forget.

pairing: fem!reader x billie eilish

genre: fluff, smut

wc: 12.2k

warnings: car sex, cunnilingus (r! receiving), sexual teasing, talk of cum, making out ( let me know if i missed any)

authors note: i know this is coming out late but take it anyways. hope you enjoy this, happy valentine’s day everyone 💋

the soft melody of an old r&b song drifts quietly throughout your room, threading through the warm glow of the bedside lamp. the air is thick with the scent of vanilla and shea butter, settling into your skin like a second layer, like something familiar. your body sways slightly, hips moving in time with the slow rhythm, a motion so natural it feels like breathing.

your fingers find the lip liner with ease, wrapping delicately around its sleek body before lifting it to your mouth. the deep burgundy wax blooms against your skin as you trace the curve of your bottom lip, slow and steady, like painting something sacred. your cupid’s bow follows next, the tip of the pencil pressing just enough to carve out the shape, to sculpt without effort. your ring finger grazes the edge of your lips, the warmth of your skin melting the pigment just enough to blur the lines. slow, deliberate strokes soften the burgundy, blending it inward, fading like dusk into the fullness of your mouth. the color settles into something effortless, something lived-in—like you’ve been kissed, like you’ve kissed back.

your hand drifts to the tube of clear gloss lying discarded on your vanity, the light catching its sleek surface as your fingers wrap around it. you twist it open, pulling the wand free with a quiet pop before guiding it over your lips. the gloss drenches them in liquid shine, turning the deep berry into something richer, something decadent. it clings to every curve, catching the light with every slight movement. you part your lips just a little, watching how the gloss gleams, how it makes your mouth look fuller, softer—irresistible.

you lean back in your chair, eyes locked on your reflection, watching the way the gloss glows under the soft light. the burgundy, now hugged by gloss, looks like wine under candlelight—deep, warm, and impossible to ignore. you smack your lips together slightly, the wet sheen catching for a moment before settling again. satisfied, you reach up, fingers curling around one of the pinned rollers, sliding out the clip that holds it in place. the strand unfurls, falling in a soft wave against your shoulder.

this motion repeats, fingers working with practiced ease, unpinning each roller, letting the fresh blowout cascade around your face. the weight of your hair feels different now, lighter, freer. the song shifts, a familiar melody slipping through the speakers, and without thinking, your voice joins in—barely above a whisper, tracing the lyrics with quiet ease.

you reach for your black comb, running it through your hair, each strand slipping over the wide teeth like silk unraveling. the motion is rhythmic, soothing, a quiet kind of ritual that settles you further into the warmth of the moment.

the song playing is familiar, comforting—a melody wrapped in nostalgia, threaded with slow, honeyed vocals that make you feel like you’re sinking into something soft and golden. everything about this moment feels unhurried, like the night itself is waiting patiently for you to step into it. the scent of your perfume lingers in the air, a quiet presence mixing with the rhythm of the music, and for a second, you close your eyes, letting it all settle over you like a second skin.

nights like these make getting ready easy, slipping into the three-hour routine you’ve perfected over the years. there’s a tranquility in it, in the way you take your time, in the way you indulge yourself with each step. so when billie had told you earlier this week that on friday—valentine’s day—she was taking you out, you’d immediately started planning. appointments were booked, outfits were considered, and questions were asked, most of which she refused to answer, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her lips. “can’t give up the surprise,” she had murmured against your cheek, her breath warm, her fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. she did love to entertain your excitement, though, only telling you what she wanted you to know—just enough to keep you on edge, just enough to make you anticipate. dress cute but comfortable, that was all she’d given you, and somehow, it was enough.

the sound of keys jingling snaps you from your reverie, followed by the quiet creak of the front door unlocking, then locking again. a smile tugs at your lips, your heart picking up its pace just slightly as you hear the familiar weight of her footsteps approaching.

billie’s socks slide against the hardwood floor, the sound soft but distinct, accompanied by the light jangle of her keys in her pocket and the faint rustling of bags in her grasp. you don’t turn around just yet, but the curve of your lips deepens at the sound of her voice.

“baby, where are you?” her voice carries through the house, warm and familiar, wrapped in something easy, something tender.

“in here,” you call out, still running the comb through your hair, smoothing out the last few strands.

a few seconds later, she appears in the doorway, still bundled up from the february cold. the soft glow of your vanity lights catches the flushed pink of her cheeks, the tip of her nose slightly red from the chill. the red roots of her hair peek out from under her beanie, strands slipping loose beneath the hood of her sweatshirt. her eyes find yours instantly, flickering with something warm, something knowing.

she steps inside the room, making her way toward you, the scent of winter clinging to her clothes—cold air and something faintly sweet, like the bakery she always stops at on her way home.

your head tilts slightly to the left as you notice her hands hidden behind her back, her body language giving her away before she even speaks.

“hi, mama,” she starts, her voice soft, threaded with something breathless, like she rushed home just to give you whatever she’s holding.

she reveals her hands, stretching them toward you, and your breath catches just slightly. deep red roses, wrapped in crisp black paper, petals full and velvety to the touch. the contrast is striking—the darkness of the wrapping making the red stand out even richer, deeper. it’s intentional, you know that. billie has always had a way of making things feel like more than just gestures.

you turn fully to face her, your hands lifting as you take the bouquet, your nails grazing over the back of her hands in the process, a fleeting touch that makes her fingers twitch slightly. your fingertips brush the petals in quiet admiration, feeling the delicate texture beneath them. the scent fills your nose, heady and intoxicating—rich yet soft, like something meant to linger.

billie watches you, studying your reaction, the corner of her lip twitching like she’s holding back a smirk. there’s something in the way she looks at you—like she’s memorizing every detail, like she’s already picturing you in her arms later tonight. the warmth of it spreads through you, slow and deliberate, settling in your chest like a steady flame.

“these are gorgeous, babe. thank you.”

you tuck the flowers against your arm before reaching up, fingers finding the familiar warmth of her face. her skin is cool from the outside air, but she leans into your touch instinctively, eyes half-lidded, lips curving into something soft.

“it was nothing much, but you’re welcome.”

she inches closer, her breath warm against your lips before they finally meet—soft, lingering, unhurried. the kiss is brief but enough to send a slow shiver down your spine, enough to make her chase your lips when you pull away. her mouth parts slightly, instinctively, like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.

you chuckle under your breath, running your thumb over her lips, the smooth acrylic gliding over her plump skin—slightly sticky from your gloss. she lets out a soft hum at the touch, and just as her hands start to settle on your waist, you gently push her back.

“actually,” you start, rising from your vanity with ease before walking toward your side of the shared closet. “i have something for you too.”

billie watches you with open curiosity, shifting her weight, eyes following every move you make. she tugs at the hem of her hoodie absentmindedly as you crouch down, disappearing slightly into the closet’s dim interior.

your hands glide over folded sweaters, past stacked shoeboxes, feeling your way toward the back until your fingers brush against the satin ribbon-wrapped handle of the basket you’ve been carefully putting together for the past few days. you lift it gently, pulling it into the light, and stand, turning toward billie with a small smile as you stretch the basket toward her.

her eyes widen slightly, face lighting up as she takes it, fingers tracing over the red bow with something reverent. she shifts the weight of it in her hands, eyes scanning the contents nestled carefully in soft pink tissue paper—the little details that only you would think of, the things you know she’d love.

a candle that smells like vanilla and warm musk, the kind she always lights the second she gets home. a handwritten letter, its rose-colored envelope sealed with a kiss of your burgundy lip liner. a small plushie tucked beside her favorite snacks, something soft, something sentimental. and at the very center, a small box tied with a silk ribbon, holding a delicate bracelet that catches the light just enough to glint, subtle but intentional—just like her.

her smile spreads into a grin, the small gems on her teeth catching the glow of your vanity lights. she lifts her gaze back to you, something playful settling in her eyes.

“are you trying to one-up me?”

“always.” your response is immediate, your voice carrying the same playful lilt as hers.

billie exhales a soft laugh before setting the basket down carefully on your vanity, her fingers lingering on the ribbon for a moment before she turns back to you. without hesitation, she steps in close, arms slipping around your torso as she pulls you into her warmth.

you melt into it, arms looping around the back of her neck, fingers instinctively tangling together as your thumbs rest against her skin. her red roots brush against your knuckles, the smaller pieces of hair swaying slightly as you rub slow circles into the nape of her neck.

she leans down again, lips finding yours in a kiss slower than the last—soft, sweet, deep enough to make your breath hitch. it’s just enough to leave you wanting more before she pulls away, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“i gotta shower,” she murmurs, eyes flicking over you with something unreadable, something lingering. “but thank you for the gifts.”

her hands slide from your waist, moving with purpose, fingers trailing over each curve of your body as she makes her way up to where your hands rest against her neck. carefully, she unlaces your fingers from each other before cupping them in her own, holding them between you like something precious.

she squeezes once, gentle but firm, like a silent promise.

“i’ll be quick,” she adds, voice low, almost teasing. “don’t miss me too much.”

she takes a step back, her blue eyes raking over you in slow, deliberate strokes, like she’s committing every inch of you to memory.

your brow quirks in light confusion. “what? do i have something on me?”

billie huffs out a small laugh before reaching for your hand, lifting it above your head with gentle ease. “nah,” she murmurs, spinning you slowly. the skirt of your dress fans out as you move, fabric catching the soft glow of the vanity lights. when you come back around to face her, her smile has deepened, something playful tugging at her lips. “just admiring, that’s all.”

your eyes roll instinctively, but the warmth spreading across your chest betrays you. placing your hands on her chest, you give her a gentle push, the fabric of her hoodie soft beneath your palms. “will you hurry and go clean up so we can go?”

“pushy, pushy,” she teases, but she leans in anyway, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, her lips lingering for a second longer than necessary. the hum she lets out vibrates against your skin before she pulls away, fingers already toying with the hem of her hoodie. she strips down with ease, leaving a trail of discarded clothes as she makes her way toward the connecting bathroom.

you shake your head at the mess she leaves behind, turning your attention to the bouquet still in your arms. you place the roses in a vase, arranging them carefully, the deep red petals almost glowing against the dim light of the room. the scent of them mixes with the faint traces of billie’s cologne still clinging to the air, something warm, something familiar.

the sound of water rushing through the pipes fills the space, followed by the muffled slide of the shower door.

“so, are you excited for tonight?” billie’s voice carries over the hiss of the water.

“i would be if i knew what it was, billie.”

“the whole point of a surprise date is so that it can be that—a surprise,” she teases. “just trust me, babe.”

you hum thoughtfully, bare feet padding softly against the carpet as you make your way to the bathroom. heat rises to greet you, steam curling around the glass shower door, clinging to the mirror. you lean against the doorframe, watching as billie’s figure shifts behind the fogged glass, her movements slow and unhurried.

“should i be worried?” you ask, voice laced with playful suspicion.

“no, not at all,” she says smoothly. “but you might wanna wear something cute and comfortable.”

“so, no heels then?”

she hums, considering. “mm… not tonight. your boots would look really cute with your fit.” a pause. “but you’ll still look fine as hell no matter what you decide.”

you shake your head, grinning. “flatterer.”

billie laughs, the sound soft and unfiltered, mixing with the warmth of the room. you stay there, talking about everything and nothing, letting the conversation weave between teasing remarks and familiar comforts.

soon enough, the water cuts off, the steam thick in the air as billie steps out. a towel is wrapped loosely around her torso, droplets of water still clinging to her skin, trailing slow paths down the curves of her body. the scent of her vanilla body wash wraps around you as she moves past, something rich and sweet, something undeniably her.

your eyes follow her, drawn to the way her damp hair drips against the towel slung around her shoulders, how her fingers comb through the strands with ease. she moves toward her side of the dresser, pulling out pieces of clothing with the same quiet deliberation she does everything else.

she hums softly as she gets dressed, a song that’s been playing faintly in the background, one you hadn’t even realized she was paying attention to. your gaze lingers as she buttons up her black shirt, her fingers sliding each button into its designated slot with ease. the fabric molds against her frame, and your focus catches on the slight flex of her biceps as she adjusts the cuffs, rolling them up just enough to reveal the lines of ink along her hand.

her eyes flick up toward the mirror, lips twitching into a smirk when she catches your gaze in the reflection. the soft glow of the vanity lights frames her features, turning her crystalline blue eyes into something almost ethereal, something impossible to look away from.

“you getting distracted?” she teases, slipping rings onto her fingers with practiced ease, the metal gliding against her skin. she picks up a delicate chain next, fastening the clasp at the nape of her neck, all without breaking eye contact.

“what? no, shut up,” you mutter, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. the warmth in her stare makes your stomach flip, but you ignore it, turning your attention to your jewelry box instead.

the sable black wood is smooth beneath your fingertips, the hinges sighing softly as you lift the lid. inside, nestled among delicate chains and glinting rings, rests a golden watch—slim, dainty, timeless. the light catches on its polished surface, tracing over the fine links of its bracelet, the minimalist face gleaming under the glow of the room.

with careful fingers, you lift it from its place, the cool metal whispering against your skin as you drape it over your wrist. the clasp clicks softly as you fasten it, the weight settling against you like it was made to be there. the gold catches the light, warm and radiant, an understated elegance that feels like a quiet kind of power.

you reach back into the box, extracting a necklace, its chain the same golden shade as your watch, its charm a simple letter. the ‘b’ sways lightly between your fingers, gleaming under the soft light. before you can put it on, billie stretches out her hand, palm up, a silent request.

you don’t hesitate. you never do.

stepping behind you, billie takes both ends of the necklace, the cool metal hovering just above your collarbone as her fingers slide over the clasp. her touch is featherlight, the brief brush of her knuckles against your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. she hooks the clasp into place, then adjusts the necklace so the charm rests perfectly at the base of your throat.

but she doesn’t step away just yet.

her hands skim down your sides, fingertips grazing the fabric of your dress before settling on your hips. her eyes meet yours in the mirror, a silent moment stretching between you, filled with something unspoken, something deep.

your own initial rests boldly against her neck, a silver version instead of gold, the contrast striking yet complementary. a matched set, tied together in quiet devotion.

billie breaks the silence first, her voice soft but sure. “c’mon, we better go before we’re late.”

her fingers lace through yours, warm and familiar, and she leads you downstairs without another word.

you both move in sync, slipping on your shoes, grabbing your belongings with the kind of effortless ease that only comes with time. the door swings open, and the cool night air greets you, crisp and full of promise.

and just like that, you step out into the night, hand in hand.

the restaurant hums with low chatter and the soft clinking of silverware, but in your little corner booth, the world feels quieter, smaller—just the two of you wrapped up in each other. the dim lighting bathes the table in a soft amber glow, reflecting off wine glasses, the edges of flickering candlelight, and the soft sheen of your girlfriend’s silver jewelry, each little detail seeming to highlight the intimacy between you.

dinner feels like a secret, just the two of you tucked into the booth, close enough that your thighs press together, the warmth of her body a constant against yours. the room is alive with the sounds of the evening, but here, it’s just you two—the scent of rich food and something faintly floral lingering in the air, heavy with comfort and quiet affection.

instead of sitting across from each other, billie pulls you in beside her, her arm draped casually around the back of your seat, fingers lightly grazing your shoulder.

“you look so pretty,” she murmurs, her voice soft but sure, fingers tracing lazy, comforting patterns over your thigh, each stroke a promise, a reassurance.

you turn your head slightly, catching the fond smile tugging at her lips, the way her eyes soften when she looks at you. “you’ve said that three times already.”

she shrugs, her lips curling into an easy smile, unfazed by your teasing. “and i’ll say it again and again. and again.”

you roll your eyes playfully, but your heart flutters at the simplicity of the compliment. the sincerity of it makes the moment feel like something sacred, tucked away just for the two of you.

you lean into her side, your head coming to rest on a familiar shoulder, and breathe her in. her scent is intoxicating—vanilla with something deeper, more complex, something both soft and strong, feminine and masculine in perfect harmony. it clings to her skin, lingering in the collar of her shirt, curling into the space between you both, the scent threading through the warmth that lingers in the air.

“you smell so good,” you murmur, voice soft, just above a whisper, letting the words dissolve between your lips and her neck, filling the space around you with the quiet, tender intimacy of the moment.

billie huffs out a small laugh, fingers still toying with the lace of your stockings where her hand rests on your thigh. “i sure would hope so,” she teases, the smirk evident in her voice even before she presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the top of your head, her lips warm against the crown of your hair.

“why can’t you ever just accept the compliment?” the back of your hand meets her chest in a gentle hit, teasing but full of affection.

a soft chuckle escapes billie, her fingers still tracing idle patterns along your thigh. with a shift, she pulls out her phone, the screen lighting up in the dim atmosphere as she angles it to capture the moment. she snaps a few pictures—one with your faces close, the other where she leans in just enough to plant a kiss on your temple. her lips curl into a playful grin as she murmurs, “i hope you know that you’re really pretty.”

the phone is set aside, forgotten, discarded in favor of the quiet moment shared between you, the flashes of her smile and the soft hum of her voice lingering in the air, more cherished than any photograph could ever capture.

not long after, your plates arrive, the scent of rich spices and warm dishes curling into the air, drawing you both back to the present. you straighten just enough to reach for your fork, but billie’s arm doesn’t leave your side, her fingers still tracing small, absent patterns over the lace of your stockings.

dinner is slow, unhurried. you steal bites from each other’s plates, laughing at the most random things, exchanging soft kisses that feel like nothing and everything all at once—moments so small but somehow monumental in their own way. the world outside this booth fades into the background as you talk about everything from childhood memories to plans for the future.

the night is intimate, effortless—woven together with the kind of love that doesn’t need grand gestures or fireworks, just the softness of shared space, quiet compliments, the lightest touches, and the way your scents linger together in the small moments.

by the time dessert arrives, the last remnants of dinner sit on the table—half-empty glasses, a shared dessert plate with only a few crumbs left behind. the warmth of the evening lingers still, like the soft, steady beat of her heart beneath your palm. billie’s arm is still around you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles against your hip, the world outside the restaurant fading into something almost dreamlike.

billie reaches for the black checkbook the waiter left behind, flipping it open with a practiced flick of her wrist. her gaze lingers on the receipt for a moment, brows lifting slightly at the total, before she hums in approval, a quiet, satisfied sound that melts into the warm, dim atmosphere of the restaurant.

with your head still resting on her shoulder, you tilt your chin just enough to steal a glance at the numbers, your lips curling into a playful smirk. “not bad,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing, the words slipping out like a secret only the two of you share.

she lets out a soft chuckle, nudging you gently with her elbow. “you got a pen?” she asks, tapping the checkbook with her fingertips, the quiet request cutting through the gentle hum of the restaurant. “they forgot to bring one.”

without hesitation, you reach for your purse, fingers sifting through its contents, the familiar feel of soft leather under your fingertips grounding you in this quiet moment. you pull out a sleek, black pen, placing it in her waiting hand, watching as she takes it with a quick, fluid motion.

you watch as she signs the tip portion first, the ink gliding smoothly over the paper in practiced strokes, the sound of the pen scratching against the paper almost melodic in the stillness. then, with a small flourish, she signs off at the bottom—B.E. the letters are clean, effortless, holding a quiet confidence, the kind that’s always been so distinctly her. the way she carries herself, even in the smallest gestures, leaves an imprint on everything she touches.

after capping the pen and handing it back, your girlfriend slips a hand behind her phone, pulling out her sleek black american express card tucked safely in its case. the metal glints in the dim lighting as she slides it into the pocket of the checkbook with a satisfying tap, the motion final, almost ceremonial, as if everything is in its place now.

“there,” she leans in, her voice low and smooth against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “all taken care of. so, are you ready for part two?” the waiter comes back around to your table, taking the little black book and slipping away to the back.

your hands wrap around her forearm, pulling her a little closer as you lift an eyebrow, brows shooting up in surprise at her question. “there’s more?”

“baby, there’s always more.” she grins, lips widening into that familiar, knowing smile of hers. she shifts slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, the gesture tender, the warmth of her lips lingering.

your eyes wander around the restaurant, your mind spinning with endless possibilities of what could be next, the anticipation building. “where are we going?”

she smirks, slipping the black card back into her phone once the waiter returns, the subtle click of the card’s return echoing between you. “that’s for me to know and you to find out.” her tone is teasing, playful, as if she holds all the answers, but she’s not giving anything away just yet.

you purse your lips, trying to stop yourself from rolling your eyes for the thousandth time that night at her crypticness. but the corner of your mouth lifts, betraying the smile that threatens to break free. sliding out of the booth, billie stands, offering her hand to help you out of your seat, the warmth of her palm a comfort against yours. you take it without thinking, the connection between you electric, her hand soft but firm in yours.

she pulls you into a quick kiss, a soft press of her lips to yours, pulling away with a small hum of satisfaction before intertwining your fingers again. without missing a beat, she pulls you toward the door, your steps in sync, the cool night air just beyond, waiting to greet you both.

turns out, part two is top golf.

you burst out laughing as soon as she parks the car, the sound echoing into the quiet night. “seriously?” you ask, incredulous.

she grins, unbuckling her seatbelt with that familiar confident flick of her wrist. “what? you thought i was gonna take you to some bougie rooftop?”

“i don’t know what i thought,” you admit, still chuckling. “wasn’t expecting this though. but just so you know, i’m gonna win and whoop your ass in the process.”

“if you say so,” she replies, her voice laced with playful arrogance. “we all know i’m the real mvp when it comes to this.” the competitive fire in her voice sparks yours, and just like that, the trash talk begins.

the night air is crisp as billie opens the car door and steps out, the neon blue and green lights from the towering topgolf building ahead casting a vibrant glow that dances across her face. you pull your jacket tighter around you, feeling the cool bite of the night, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of your competitive banter. billie jogs around to your side, opening the door for you with a proud little smirk.

“chivalry isn’t dead, i see,” you tease, taking her hand as she helps you out of the car, your fingers intertwining effortlessly.

she winks, that signature glint in her eyes. “not when it comes to you.”

you round the car, making your way to the trunk. with the press of a button, the trunk pops open, and you dig around until you find what you’re looking for—a pair of random sneakers that somehow always end up in each other’s cars. you quickly slide off your boots, switching them out for the more comfortable pair of shoes before slipping your hand back into billie’s.

together, you make your way to the building, your footsteps light but purposeful.

inside, the atmosphere is buzzing—low music hums over the speakers, filling the space with an easy energy. the scent of fresh food and warm pretzels hangs in the air, mixing with the excitement that pulses through the crowd. billie leads the way, her fingers laced through yours, guiding you toward a private bay on the upper level.

you step out onto the platform, the cool breeze kissing your skin as you take in the sight of the open-air range stretched out before you. small targets glow in various colors across the field, the soft thrum of the city’s skyline flickering faintly in the distance. the air is crisp and clean, nipping at your skin with the promise of something new.

“i won’t lie, this is pretty cool,” you admit, leaning against the railing, your voice quieter now, soaking in the moment. “didn’t expect this for valentine’s, though.”

billie grins, grabbing a golf club from the rack, her fingers curling around it with the same ease she handles everything else. “you know i like to keep you on your toes.”

she moves toward the tee, rolling her shoulders like she’s about to do something serious. you cross your arms over your chest, watching her with a mixture of admiration and amusement. she plants her feet, squares her shoulders, and grips the club with entirely too much confidence, as if she’s the queen of golf—never mind that she’s never swung a club in her life.

“you’ve never golfed before, have you?” you ask, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“nope,” she replies confidently, rolling her shoulders again, a small huff escaping her. “but i’ve watched golf before. can’t be that hard.”

you stifle a laugh, shaking your head. “famous last words. okay, we’ll see.”

“watch and learn, baby.” she takes a deep breath, a focused look crossing her face as she swings the club—

—and completely misses the ball.

a laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, and you quickly cover your mouth to stifle it, but the sound escapes anyway. she straightens up, staring down at the untouched ball with a look of pure betrayal, as if it’s personally offended her.

“that was practice,” she mutters, giving you a look of mock annoyance.

“uh huh, sure it was,” you tease, barely holding back another laugh.

she tries again—this time, she makes contact, but the ball barely rolls off the tee, a soft, unimpressive nudge that doesn’t go anywhere near the target. you double over laughing now, unable to hold it in, while billie pouts, gripping the club like she’s debating throwing it across the range.

she tries once more, swinging with more force this time, the ball barely rolling off the tee again, stopping embarrassingly short of the edge.

“oh wow,” you say, feigning awe, crossing your arms. “real impressive, tiger woods.”

billie groans, dragging a hand down her face in exasperation. “this shit is so annoying.”

you step toward her, shaking your head fondly. “here, let me help.”

“okay, first of all, that’s not how you hold it,” you say, sliding in behind her, your voice warm against her ear. you wrap your arms around her waist, gently guiding her hands to the club. billie relaxes against you, her body fitting perfectly with yours as she tilts her head just enough for her nose to brush against your cheek.

“this is just an excuse to be all over me, isn’t it?” she murmurs, her voice dropping low, just enough to send a shiver down your spine, making your heart beat a little faster.

you smirk, letting your hands linger longer than necessary as you adjust her grip. “maybe.”

her breath is soft on your skin as you guide her through the motion, adjusting her stance, speaking in a calm, steady whisper. she listens intently, her usual cocky confidence melting into something else—vulnerable, trusting. you pull her arms back with yours before swinging forward together, your hearts aligned for just a moment. when she swings this time, the ball sails smoothly through the air, slicing the cool night sky before landing in one of the further targets.

billie gasps, her eyes wide in disbelief, and then she breaks into a triumphant cheer. “did you see that?”

you laugh, clapping along with her, unable to stop the smile from spreading across your face. “okay, i’ll give you that one.”

“i’m such a natural,” she says smugly, grabbing another ball with a flourish, her pride practically radiating from her. “bet i can do it again.”

she tries. and she fails.

you don’t even bother hiding your laughter this time, the sound spilling out freely, echoing in the open space. billie glares at the club, as though it’s personally betrayed her, before she sets it down with a dramatic sigh, her shoulders slumping in mock defeat.

“alright, your turn,” she declares, grabbing your hand and pulling you forward, her fingers warm and confident in yours.

you smirk, stepping up to the tee. “are you sure? i really don’t wanna embarrass you more than i already have.”

“girl, please,” billie scoffs, crossing her arms with a raised brow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “let’s see what you got.”

“don’t say i didn’t tell you so,” you warn, your voice playful, but with a hint of challenge. billie rolls her eyes but can’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

grabbing the club from her hand, you turn back to the tee, adjusting your stance, lining up your shot with precision. the cool air brushes against your face, but all you feel is the steady calm in your chest. you take a steady breath, the world slowing down as you pull back. and then you swing—watching as the ball soars effortlessly through the air, its trajectory perfect, landing dead center in one of the smaller, harder-to-hit targets.

you smile to yourself, turning to billie, who’s staring at you with wide eyes and a mock pout. “well, i guess i did warn you,” you say, voice light but triumphant.

billie crosses her arms over her chest, her grin impossible to suppress. “alright, alright. you’re good. but i’m still gonna beat you next round.”

billie lets out a low whistle, her gaze lingering on you with a mischievous smile. “well damn. look at you.”

you grin, turning toward her, an eyebrow arched in playful challenge. “what, impressed?”

she gestures lazily toward the club in your hand, her lips curling into a half-smirk. “nah, just realizing i have no shot at winning.”

“it’s all love for the game, baby. all love.” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before handing her back the golf club, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

the night stretches on, the air growing cooler but the energy between you two never faltering. playful bets are made, stolen kisses shared, and competitive spirits run high, but it’s never about the score—it’s the moments in between, the laughter, the teasing, the way your fingers always seem to find each other in the quietest moments.

at some point, billie decides she’s had enough of golf and just wants to watch you play. she leans against the railing, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at. her smile is soft but mischievous, and every time you line up a shot, she can’t resist making sly comments.

“bet you can’t hit that red target.”

you take a breath, steady your stance, and with a smooth swing, you nail it. the ball rips through the air, landing right in the center of the red target.

billie’s eyes widen, a laugh escaping her lips. “i mean, okay, but can you do it again?”

you don’t even hesitate, stepping up and lining up your shot once more. this time, you hit it even more effortlessly, the ball flying through the air with a perfect arc, landing in the same spot.

billie’s mouth drops open in awe, a laugh escaping her. “oh,” she says, blinking rapidly as if she’s trying to process what just happened. “so you’ve clearly done this before.”

you glance at her, a smirk tugging at your lips as you shrug casually. “i told you i was gonna win. all them summers working at the country clubs are finally paying off.”

her gaze softens as she looks at you, something between admiration and amusement twinkling in her eyes. “you’re a showoff, you know that?”

“maybe,” you reply with a wink. “but you love it.”

when the game winds down and the competitive fire starts to fade, the two of you pack up the equipment and make your way back to the car. hand in hand, you walk in comfortable silence, the sounds of the night around you soft and distant. the car sits idly in the driveway, the engine’s hum now silenced, but neither of you makes a move to get out just yet.

the warmth of the evening clings to you both—the laughter, the touches, the shared moments. you lean into one another, heads resting against the soft leather of the car seats, letting the night wash over you. the radio hums low in the background, filling the quiet space between breaths, the soft melody a perfect contrast to the silence surrounding you.

billie traces lazy circles on your knee, her fingers moving with an absent rhythm as she speaks in a softer tone, her voice barely louder than the hum of the radio.

“i just can’t believe…” she begins, her voice trailing off as she drops her head against your shoulder, pressing a soft smooch against the exposed skin of your neck. you feel the warmth of her breath, the weight of her presence, before she continues, her voice playful but with an edge of disbelief. “i got hustled on valentine’s day.”

you chuckle softly, a grin tugging at your lips. “i told you that i would beat you, did i not?”

“you did, you did.” her body shakes with laughter, the sound rich and deep, filling the car with warmth. the vibrations of her amusement carry through her body, against yours, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over you. she tilts her head slightly, looking up at you with that familiar glint in her eyes. “did you have fun?” she asks, her voice soft, almost tender, as if she already knows the answer.

you glance at her, caught in the way the streetlights reflect in her eyes, the way the soft curve of her lips pulls at your heart. something about this moment, about her, feels like it’s suspended in time.

“yeah,” you murmur, leaning into her, feeling her warmth seep into your skin. “i really did. thank you.”

you shift slightly, turning towards her. your hands find her face, cupping it gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin of her cheek. you tilt her chin upward with your fingers, and she meets your gaze, her lashes fluttering slightly as if she’s still processing the moment. you don’t rush it. you take your time, breathing her in, feeling the weight of her in your arms. you brush your nose against hers, the tip of your lips grazing her skin, before closing the space between you.

when your lips meet hers, the kiss is slow, tender—a stark contrast to the fiery ones you shared earlier in the night. it lingers, soft and sweet, and when you pull back, your hand still rests gently on her jaw, your breath mingling with hers. your eyes trace over her face, soaking in the small details—the way the moonlight dances across her freckled skin, the cool acrylic of your nails making contact with her soft skin beneath her eyes. her blue eyes meet yours through thick lashes, steady and knowing.

you push a stray lock of hair behind her ear, admiring the vibrant red gradient in her hair. the soft, colorful streaks stand out against the dim light, adding to the allure of the moment. “my pretty lady,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, your words falling into the quiet void of the night.

billie’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile, her eyes soft and full of affection. her hand drifts to the side of your neck, cupping it gently. she pulls you closer, bringing your lips back to hers in a kiss that’s even more lingering, more desperate this time. her fingers tighten slightly around your neck as she murmurs, “c’mere.”

her voice is soft, but the way she tugs you forward, the way her fingers press against your skin—there’s no hesitation in her touch. no second-guessing.

you shift your body, moving onto your knees and climbing over the center console, settling yourself into her lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before. the familiarity of her body beneath yours feels like home. billie tilts her head back, her eyes heavy with desire, and she looks up at you, her hands already smoothing over your hips, guiding you closer.

you lean down again, kissing her once more. this time, it’s deeper, slower. no rush. just the two of you, lost in the quiet space of the night, in the warmth of each other. her fingers trace over your body as the kiss deepens, and everything else—the world outside, the night, the distractions—fades away, leaving only the feeling of her lips, the softness of her touch, and the rhythm of your hearts beating together.

billie’s fingers slip under the hem of your dress, tracing slow, teasing patterns along your hips, the light touch sending electric shivers up your spine. her lips move against yours with a quiet urgency, each kiss deepening, pulling you closer into her orbit. the taste of her—of warmth, of something sweet and just a little dangerous—lingers on your tongue. she sighs softly as your hand slides into her hair, your nails grazing her scalp just enough to make her shiver beneath your touch.

the moment stretches, pulling you both deeper into it, a world of soft breaths and whispered sighs until you finally break apart, just enough to catch your breath. the air between you feels thick, charged with something both tender and intoxicating.

and then you notice it.

a faint tint of your lip gloss smudged against billie’s mouth, glistening faintly under the dim light, a soft shimmer against the dark of the night. you blink, your lips curling into a small, knowing smile. then, you let out a quiet laugh, the sound soft but playful.

she frowns slightly, brows knitting together in mock confusion. “what?”

you swipe a thumb over the corner of her lips, smirking as you catch the gloss. “you got a little something there.”

billie blinks, feigning confusion, her eyes wide as if she’s innocent in all of this. “huh. weird.”

you tilt your head, the corner of your mouth twitching into a grin. “oh my god, were you kissing a girl?”

billie gasps, her eyes widening in mock horror, hands rising to her face as if she’s genuinely scandalized. “what? no, ew. i would never. didn’t even know you could kiss a girl.”

you narrow your eyes playfully, dabbing at the smudge again with your thumb, a sly grin creeping onto your lips. “mhm. sure. then where’d this lip gloss come from?”

her lips twitch, fighting the urge to smirk. she tilts her head slightly, the glint of mischief in her eyes as she leans closer. “i don’t know, maybe i just like the taste.”

you snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it. “i knew you liked wearing my lip gloss. every time i put a new coat on, you’re there to take it off.”

billie hums in amusement, letting her hands slide lower over your thighs, her touch warm and possessive as she pulls you closer. “i only like it when it tastes like you.”

her fingers tighten slightly around your hips, pulling you just a little closer as her breath warms the space between you. she murmurs, her voice low and teasing, “what flavor is this, anyways, hm?”

you barely get the word—cherry—out before she’s leaning back in, her lips pressing to yours in a kiss that’s slow, deep, and all-encompassing. she tastes the answer for herself, her mouth devouring yours with an intensity that makes your pulse race.

billie’s lips are warm and insistent against yours, a steady rhythm pulsing between you. her hands are firm on your hips, guiding you closer as she presses you down against her lap. it’s like she can’t get enough, pulling you closer still, urging your bodies to align. the teasing, playful pace from earlier has shifted into something heavier now, something more desperate, more urgent. a charge fills the air, and you know there’s no turning back from this.

her hands move with purpose, effortlessly sliding your jacket off and tossing it into the passenger seat. she crawls back up, fingers slipping under the hem of your dress, tracing the sensitive curve of your spine as she leans in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw. your breath hitches, and you tip your head to the side, exposing more of your neck as she continues her slow descent, her lips brushing over the sensitive skin there.

billie hums softly against you, the sound vibrating against your skin, before her tongue flicks out, teasing before she sucks gently at the spot. her teeth graze your skin lightly, just enough to send a jolt of heat through you. the sting is subtle but enough to make you shudder, and she feels it, her grin widening as she pulls back slightly, knowing she’s marked you.

you hesitate for only a moment, fingers fumbling at the buttons of her black shirt, your freshly done acrylics not quite cooperating. you huff, frustration creeping in as you try again, but each button seems to taunt you, stubborn and unyielding.

billie notices the shift, the slight furrow of your brows, the barely-there frustration in your movements. she chuckles softly, her lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your throat as she murmurs, “i’ll let you rip off my shirt,” her voice low, almost playful. “if you let me rip off your stockings.”

you immediately shake your head, a small, defiant smirk tugging at your lips. “hell no.”

her teeth graze your collarbone, a teasing bite that sends a shiver down your spine. “why not?” she asks, her voice dripping with mischief.

“because i like these stockings,” you argue, fingers still fumbling at her shirt. “you’ll ruin them.”

she raises an eyebrow, her smirk only deepening. “you’re literally about to ruin my shirt.”

her hands slide lower, smoothing over the sensitive skin of your thighs, and your resolve weakens. you bite your lip, still determined to win this little battle, but the buttons refuse to cooperate. billie watches you for a moment longer, her breath warm against your skin, before she lets out a soft laugh.

“just rip it, baby,” she whispers, her voice slipping into something softer, something more inviting. it’s a command wrapped in honeyed sweetness.

you glance at her, lips parted, hesitating for just a heartbeat before you finally give in. gripping the fabric of her shirt in your fists, you yank, feeling the fabric tear free with a satisfying rip. the buttons scatter across the floor of the car, a soft clatter lost beneath the hum of the engine. her shirt falls open, revealing the lacy red bra beneath, the smoothness of her skin glowing under the dim light.

billie groans, a low sound that sends another wave of heat rushing through you. her smirk widens as she takes in the moment, teasing, “see? that wasn’t so hard.”

you exhale, half amused, half breathless. “you’re ridiculous.”

she hums, hands sliding back up your thighs, fingertips brushing the tops of your stockings with a deliberate slowness. “mmm. and you still have these on,” she says, her voice soft with amusement.

you barely have time to react before her fingers hook under the thin material of your stockings, pulling with a sudden, almost greedy force. they rip apart with a sharp sound, fabric tearing easily, and you’re left breathless at the sound of it echoing between you.

“billie—” you gasp, your words cutting off as she grins at you, the heat in her eyes unmistakable.

she leans in, kissing you again, her hands gripping your bare thighs now, her touch firm and possessive as she pulls you closer, pressing you flush against her. she’s got you exactly where she wants you, and in that moment, you realize she always has.

the car feels smaller with every passing second, the space between you two shrinking with each touch. billie’s hands are everywhere—on your hips, your thighs, your back—and it only takes a slight shift for her to pull you closer. her lips find your neck with a hunger that leaves you breathless, pressing kisses along your pulse, each one lingering, tasting, claiming you. you can feel the heat of her body radiating against yours, the way her chest rises and falls with each steady breath, the rhythm syncing with the soft hum of the car, vibrating the air between you two.

billie’s lips tease your skin in that slow, deliberate way she knows drives you crazy. she finds a tender spot along your collarbone, sucking gently, and you can’t help but gasp. your hands slide into her hair, fingers gripping the strands as you pull her closer, your body melting into her touch, giving in to the way she makes you feel.

you want to tear away every last bit of space between you, want to feel every inch of her pressed against you, but there’s something intoxicating about how she keeps you on the edge, never letting you get too comfortable, too settled.

billie’s fingers trail over your bare thighs, skimming dangerously close to the places you crave her touch, but always pulling away before you can get the release you want. your hips shift, grinding ever so slightly against hers, the movement subtle but enough to make her gasp, her lips parting against your mouth as she leans into you.

“billie,” you murmur, voice strained, thick with desire.

she smiles against your skin, that familiar mischievous grin tugging at her lips, before pressing another soft kiss to your pulse. “i know. i know,” she breathes, her voice low, full of that dangerous teasing she knows you can’t resist.

your hands run over the half-ruined buttons of her shirt, the black fabric hanging off her shoulders, and your fingers graze the warmth of her skin underneath. billie shivers under your touch, her breath hitching as your nails lightly scrape down her chest, sending a shiver of her own through you.

restlessly, you shift in her lap, pressing your hips against hers again. the friction makes your breath catch, your body aching for more, and billie groans, her hands sliding down to your back, trying to pull you even closer, her grip tightening around you.

“baby,” you breathe, nails dragging lightly across her chest. “we’re still in the car…”

she laughs softly, the sound rich and low as her lips brush over yours, pulling you closer still. “i know,” she murmurs, her voice thick with desire. “but we’re already here, and you’ve been driving me wild all night. i want you, so bad, babe.”

a beat passes, the tension building between you two. you glance at her, debating whether you really wanted to do this outside, but the temptation is too strong, and you can’t resist any longer.

“fuck it,” you say with a smirk, pulling away slightly. “get in the back.”

you climb off her and crawl into the back seat, billie following you, her movements fluid, eager. she climbs on top of you as soon as she’s in, her lips crashing against yours with a renewed hunger, a fire that’s impossible to put out now. the world outside doesn’t matter anymore—only this, only her, and only the eternal burning need that’s been building between you two since the moment you met.

“you look so pretty laid out for me,” billie murmurs, her voice thick with desire as she leans back in to catch your lips in a searing kiss.

the movements are slow at first, deliberate, like neither of you want to rush, to break the fragile moment. but the tension is undeniable, building with every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath shared between you two.

she’s intoxicating, her lips leaving fiery trails along your neck, her hands roaming over every inch of skin they can reach. each caress feels like it burns, leaving you desperate for more. and you… you’re lost in it, every brush of her fingertips sending jolts of electricity through your veins, something wild and uncontainable awakening inside you.

the heat of the car presses in on you, the soft hum of the radio playing a low, almost forgotten tune, the scent of billie’s perfume mingling with the natural, heady mix of your bodies—it all swirls together into a dizzying, intoxicating fog, until all you can focus on is the way her body fits so perfectly against yours, the way she makes you feel like you’re being consumed, like you’re everything to her in this moment.

her fingers trail up your sides, grazing the sensitive skin of your breasts, and you shiver under her touch, your body aching to get closer, to feel all of her pressed up against you. the heat in your chest swells, that ache becoming almost unbearable.

you can’t take it anymore. your hands find the fabric of her shirt, fingers tugging at it, desperate to get it off, to feel her skin against yours. but billie’s already one step ahead, her hands slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, her fingers finding their way to the waistband of your underwear. the feeling of her pressing against your skin has you gasping, your hips bucking instinctively, the intensity of the moment overwhelming you.

“billie,” you breathe, eyes locked on hers, your voice trembling with need.

she looks down at you, eyes dark with hunger, her lips curling into a grin. “gonna make you feel so good, mama,” she promises, her voice rough and low, sending shivers down your spine.

you nod without hesitation, your breath catching in your throat as your heart races in time with the pulse between you.

with that, billie’s hands slide up to your shoulders, pushing the straps of your dress down, revealing the soft skin of your breasts beneath. she kisses her way down your neck again, her lips moving with purpose, each kiss leaving a trail of heat in its wake. you gasp, unable to focus on anything but the way her mouth worships your skin, the way she makes you feel like you’re the center of her universe.

you can barely keep up, barely focus as her hands move expertly, slipping the dress further down your body, inch by inch, until it pools at your waist. billie pauses for a beat, her hands resting on your bare thighs, and she looks up at you with a grin that sets your pulse racing, her eyes dark with anticipation.

“god, you’re perfect,” she breathes, her voice raw, full of desire as she continues to trace soft patterns on your skin.

you bite your lip, a mix of excitement and need building inside you, ready for whatever she’s about to do next.

before you can respond, billie’s lips are back on yours, kissing you with a hunger that feels almost desperate, as if she can’t get enough of you. her hands roam over your body, caressing every inch of exposed skin, making you shiver with the intensity of her touch, the contrast between the warmth of her skin and the coolness of the car’s air intensifying the need coursing through you.

billie’s fingers trail slow, lazy circles over your thighs, her touch featherlight, teasing, like she’s savoring every second. the dress is bunched around your waist now, exposing more of you to the cool air, but the warmth of her hands keeps you grounded, keeps you tethered to the moment. you shiver beneath her touch, anticipation humming in every inch of your skin, every nerve ending on fire, alive with the promise of what’s to come.

your hands move quickly, eager, tugging at the last of her clothes. you want to feel all of her, need her as much as she needs you. as soon as her shirt is off, her skin exposed to you, she slides her hands to the band of your underwear, her fingers tracing the wine-colored elastic before she moves lower, teasing your pussy through the fabric, sending waves of heat rushing through you.

her touch is maddening, and it elicits a gasp from you, your hips rising instinctively as you try to rub against her fingers, desperate for more.

“billie, please,” you breathe, voice strained with need, the word a plea, a quiet demand for more, for her to finally give you what you’ve been aching for.

she leans back slightly, her eyes flickering over you with a predatory gleam, lips curling into that smug, knowing smirk she wears whenever she knows she has you exactly where she wants you. her hands slide lower, fingers tracing the outline of your panties, grazing over the fabric that clings to your skin, but she doesn’t push any further—just lets her knuckles skim over you, her touch barely there, a slow, teasing build that has you aching with need.

you whine softly, shifting against her lap, trying to press closer, but billie tightens her grip just enough to hold you in place. “patience, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and dripping with amusement, each word a promise that makes your chest tighten. “i’m taking my time with you.”

her lips find your inner thigh, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive skin. the warmth of her mouth sends a shiver through you, a tremor that runs deep, and you exhale shakily, fingers gripping her shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of her shirt. billie hums at your reaction, pleased, and kisses you again—this time, her lips linger, her tongue flicking out ever so slightly against your skin.

you let out a soft gasp, tilting your head back against the cool leather seat, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. “baby…” you breathe, the word thick with the need she’s ignited in you.

“hm?” she muses, feigning innocence, before pressing another kiss a little higher, her thumb brushing teasingly over your panties. the wet patch grows beneath her touch, your breath hitching with the frustration of wanting her to go further, her fingers never quite where you need them. her teasing is maddening, and it’s almost too much, yet somehow, it makes you crave her more.

she continues like this, slow and deliberate, working her way up your skin with open-mouthed kisses, sucking gently at certain spots, her teeth grazing over the tender flesh just enough to make your breath catch. each movement is calculated, like she’s drawing you into a pattern of her design. when she pulls back to admire her work, a dark mark blooms against your warm skin, and you realize she’s left her mark on you—not just physically, but mentally, too.

a pleased hum vibrates against your thigh as she starts again, her lips mapping out a pattern you can’t quite understand yet. your body twitches under her touch, a restless energy coursing through you, your legs instinctively trying to press together, but she huffs a laugh and nudges them apart again with ease, her fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as she does.

“don’t be shy now,” she teases, her breath hot against your skin, fingers inching closer to where you need her most. “you were just begging for my fingers a second ago.”

you shoot her a glare, but it melts into a shuddering sigh when she presses another firm kiss against the inside of your thigh, sucking just enough to make the sensation linger, leaving a burning heat in its wake.

she’s careful with it—meticulous, almost—as if she’s an artist, and you’re her canvas. every kiss, every mark she leaves, is deliberate, calculated. you barely notice at first, lost in the sensation of her lips on your skin, each touch pulling you deeper into a haze of want, but then she pulls back slightly, running her fingers over the fresh bruises she’s left with a satisfied smirk, her eyes dark with desire.

“there,” she murmurs, her voice low and breathy, eyes flicking up to meet yours, a quiet challenge in her gaze. “a little love note, just for you.”

your chest still rises and falls in uneven breaths, and your stomach flips at the sight—small, darkened spots forming an unmistakable shape. a heart. billie had kissed a heart into your thigh, the skin bruised with passion, marked by her deliberate touch. you can almost feel the heat of her lips lingering there, the soft press of her mouth still tangible against your skin.

your heart stutters in your chest as you look at her, something warm and fond flickering beneath the haze of desire that clouds your mind. it’s impossible to ignore the way she makes you feel—alive, adored, cherished. she grins up at you, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her thumb brushing lazily over the top of your underwear, still teasing but softer now, gentler, almost playful in the way she traces patterns over you.

“you like it?” she asks, her voice dripping with a knowingness that only adds to the fire in your veins.

you bite your lip, your hand coming up to run through her soft hair, the strands slipping through your fingers like silk. “yeah,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with the weight of your feelings. “you’re ridiculous.”

billie laughs, the sound light and melodic, but there’s a tenderness to it, an affection that tugs at something deep inside you. she presses a final kiss to the center of the heart she’s left on your thigh, her lips soft but lingering, marking you with something that feels like ownership, like love. “only for you, baby,” she says, her words a promise, a whisper just for you.

she pulls herself back up, lips brushing against yours, and you kiss her slow, deep—tasting her like you need her to breathe. your hands tangle in the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens, as you lose yourself in the warmth of her body against yours. the heat of her touch, the press of her chest against yours, is enough to make your head spin, but it’s the lingering sting of her love bites against your skin that keeps you grounded, reminding you of the way she worships you—takes her time with you—tenderly, patiently.

her fingers trace the edge of your underwear, teasing at the waistband before slipping underneath, slowly peeling the fabric down your thighs. the pace is maddeningly slow, deliberate, as if she’s savoring every second of it. you inhale sharply as the cool air grazes your skin, the shift of temperature making every nerve stand on edge.

a soft smile curls on billie’s lips as her gaze flickers up at you, dark and heavy with desire, before her middle finger traces the line of your slit, gathering the slickness of your arousal.

“mm, you’re so wet, baby,” she murmurs, her voice thick, resting her head against your thigh as she watches you squirm beneath her touch, delighting in your reaction.

you moan softly, hips instinctively lifting, desperate for more. “billie, please… just… fuck,” you whine, your body aching with need. your hand slides down to grasp hers, trying to guide it, but she gently moves your hand away, a teasing glint in her eyes as she watches your frustration grow.

“stop it, just tell me what you want from me mama.” she continues her lazy strokes on your slit as she speaks, her knuckles occasionally brushing against your clit.

“i want your mouth, billie come on, please..”

“see that’s all you had to do. just had to be nice and patient.” she plants another kiss to your inner thigh before removing her fingers from your core. wrapping her slick covered fingers around your thighs, the coldness of her rings contrasting against the warmth of your skin, while moving her face down to where you craved for her the most.

she plants a kiss on your mound right above your clit before moving lower, each smooch slower than the last. her lips move against your flesh in open mouthed kisses, sending fluttering butterflies all throughout your body, before stoping at your dripping hole. darting her tongue out, she licks from there all the way back up to your clit, moaning at the sheer taste of you.

you gasp as her lips press against your cunt, a shiver running through your body. your hands instinctively find their way to her hair, fingers curling around soft strands as she kisses you with slow, deliberate movements. her touch is tender yet full of intent, each kiss a promise of more, but also savoring the moment.

her fingers gently trace the curves of your thighs, the warmth of her hands sending waves of anticipation through you. she takes her time, exploring you with a patience that only intensifies the longing building inside you. every kiss, every gentle press of her lips, feels like it’s drawing you closer to something almost ethereal, the world around you fading as you lose yourself in the sensation.

you feel the weight of her affection in every movement, in every deliberate, lingering touch. the softness of her lips contrasts with the fierceness of the emotions she evokes within you. you cover your face, overwhelmed by the way she’s making you feel—utterly cherished, completely in tune with each other. her presence surrounding you.

“uht-uht,” she murmurs, pulling back slightly, her breath hot against you. she places your arm gently back at your side, her eyes locking with yours. “i need to see you, my love.”

you nod, unable to speak, lost in the intensity of the moment. billie leans forward, her lips leaving soft, lingering kisses against your stomach, each one sending a shiver through you. her gaze is steady, her eyes dark with intent, as she watches you closely.

with a delicate touch, she traces the line of your slit, her fingers grazing over your clit, sending waves of warmth and desire in their wake. her movements are slow, almost reverent, while she slides her tongue in your soaked cunt, as if she’s savoring every inch of you. each kiss, each touch, each caress, makes you feel as though time has stopped, and it’s just the two of you, locked in this tender, intimate connection.

you can’t help but moan softly as she continues, your body responding to the feeling of her tongue filling up your spongy walls, every nerve awake and alive. your breath comes in shallow gasps, and your legs clench shut around her head as you arch into her touch instinctively. billie moves her fingers from around your thigh and over to your stomach, pressing down against the pressure that’s built up in your tummy and that’s enough to make you snap. her lips curling up into a soft smile as she watches you unravel beneath her, her hands gently massaging your thighs, grounding you.

when she pulls away, you lean up slightly, watching her, your eyes searching for her every movement. you can feel the lingering warmth of her touch, and the space between you seems to throb with a quiet intensity, each second stretching longer, pulling you deeper into the moment.

leaning on your elbows, you study billie, captivated by the way she savors every drop of you, her movements slow and deliberate. she’s taking her time, and you can’t help but marvel at the tenderness with which she handles you, as if she’s savoring a rare treasure. her fingers graze your thighs, soothing you in the aftermath, the cool air brushing over your skin contrasting with the warmth of her touch.

“you’ve got a little something on your face,” you murmur teasingly, your voice soft and still shaky from the intensity that’s passed between you. your chest rises and falls in rhythm, trying to catch its breath, the air thick with the memory of her.

billie’s eyes twinkle with a playful glint, her lips curling into a smile that promises more. “oh, do i?” she replies, voice smooth, teasing. the faint traces of you on her skin glimmer softly beneath the streetlights, each speck a reminder of the connection that’s left its mark on both of you. she leans in, her breath warm against your lips, and plants a kiss that’s gentle at first, but deepens as her tongue dances with yours, lingering just long enough for you to feel the passion she still holds for you, every movement deliberate and drawn out.

breaking away with a soft sigh, you reach down, fingers brushing the cool floor as you retrieve her torn black shirt. the fabric still holds the heat of the night, the memory of everything you just shared, and with a playful smile, you bring it to her face, wiping away the traces of your cum off her chin. billie’s laughter bubbles up, soft and content, mingling with the quiet hum of the night air. she nestles into your chest, her head resting against you as her fingers lazily trace patterns along your hip. each touch is soothing, almost reverent, as though she wants to savor every moment, every last bit of you.

“you always get me so messy,” she murmurs with a teasing smile, her lips brushing your skin as she speaks. you can feel the warmth of her breath, the sweet weight of her words hanging between you two. her fingers continue their gentle path, her touch warm against your bare skin.

“well, you’re not exactly innocent in all this, billie,” you reply with a smile, still catching your breath. the air between you is thick with affection, soft and gentle, the aftermath of everything you’ve shared unfolding around you in the stillness. the quiet of the night feels like a cocoon, wrapping you both in a peaceful, contented embrace.

billie grins at you, her gaze catching the dim light of the room. “true,” she says, her voice playful yet soft. “but now i have to clean it up.”

you laugh, the sound light and carefree, the weight of the moment easing into something warm and familiar. the two of you begin to gather your clothes, the movement slow and deliberate, as if the night didn’t have to end. the warmth between you both lingers even as you pull your jackets on, the fabric settling over your shoulders like a soft blanket.

the quiet hum of the world outside seems too peaceful, too perfect, as you both step out of the car, your hands intertwining as you walk toward the front door of your home.

the house is dark and quiet when you enter, the warmth inside wrapping around you both as you kick off your shoes, your jackets still draped over your arms. the night feels like it’s been stretched out in the best way, the both of you in sync as you move through the space.

you both pause in the hallway, your eyes meeting for a brief moment that holds more than just a glance. a slow, lingering kiss follows—gentle, soft, yet carrying the weight of everything you’ve shared tonight.

“happy valentine’s day,” billie whispers against your lips, her voice tender as she pulls away just enough to look at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

you smile back, warmth flooding your chest, knowing that this night, this moment, was exactly what you both needed. “yeah. happy valentine’s day indeed. it’s been nothing short of perfect,” you whisper, your arms wrapping around her as you hold her close.

and with that, the night continues on, the soft hum of the house surrounding you both as you settle into the quiet comfort of each other’s company. the world may continue outside, but in this space, with billie in your arms, you know that no moment could be more perfect than this one.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns @47lake @vijaxx @natbelovasblog @hopingforgoodblogs @thefeverburningalive @st0nerlesb0 @blohshlover11 ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content

[jungwnies]

the dad who stepped up | carlos sainz (cs55)

୨ৎ : featuring : carlos sainz x fem!reader/singlemom!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : not the biological father, but rather the father who stepped up!

୨ৎ : genre : romance & fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 947

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was such a cute little story, i can only imagine the spanglish going crazy in this household <3 psa... intentionally all lowercase

carlos never thought about being a dad so soon. sure, he wanted kids someday, but he always figured it would come later, after racing, after settling down. what he didn’t expect was for you to walk into his life, a single mom with a baby boy who barely knew how to say papa yet.

he met you when your son, nico, was only eight months old. you had been hesitant at first, not wanting to bring someone into your child’s life unless you were sure. but carlos? carlos was patient. he never rushed you, never forced his way in. he just showed up.

at first, it was small things; holding nico when your arms were full, rocking him to sleep when he got fussy, making faces at him across the dinner table just to see him giggle. then, before either of you knew it, nico wasn’t just some baby carlos happened to know. he was his boy.

now, four years later, carlos can’t imagine life any other way.

—

"okay, buddy, one more time, but this time big swings," carlos calls from the backyard, watching as nico grips his tiny golf club, determination all over his little face.

you stand nearby, sipping on a lemonade, watching your two favorite people as the warm breeze rustles through the trees.

nico, tongue sticking out in concentration, takes a swing, too hard, and the plastic ball rolls about a foot away.

"that was amazing!" carlos exclaims, throwing his hands up as if nico just hit a hole-in-one at augusta.

"it barely moved!" nico whines, stomping his foot.

carlos kneels beside him, adjusting his grip. "the trick isn’t power, campeón (champion), it’s control. even papá sainz had to learn that."

you smile, shaking your head as you watch them. “carlos, if you turn him into a golf snob before he even learns how to ride a bike, we’re gonna have a problem.”

carlos grins over his shoulder at you. “you say that now, but when he’s winning the masters, you’ll be thanking me.”

nico nods along, even though he has absolutely no idea what the masters is. “sí, mami! (yes, mommy!)”

your heart melts every time nico switches between english and spanish so naturally, something carlos had made sure to teach him from the moment he could talk.

—

later that evening, after dinner, you’re curled up on the couch together, nico snuggled in between you and carlos with his favorite book in hand.

“papá, can you read the book en español? (papa, can you read the book in spanish?)” nico asks, eyes wide with excitement.

carlos raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “sí, pero solo un poquito, eh? (yes, but just a little, okay?) i don’t want you getting confused.”

you smile, resting your head against carlos’s shoulder as he begins reading, seamlessly switching between english and spanish.

"the little dog ran through the…el bosque (the forest)…looking for his friend… pero no lo encontró (but he didn’t find him). so he kept running and running…hasta que… (until…)"

nico listens intently, repeating some of the words in his tiny voice.

“bosque!” he says proudly.

carlos grins, tapping his nose gently. “eso! muy bien, campeón. (that’s it! very good, champion.)”

you watch as carlos pauses and turns to nico. “and what’s a bosque?”

nico scrunches his little face, thinking hard before answering, “umm… a forest?”

carlos nods approvingly. “exacto! (exactly!)”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i swear, this kid is gonna be fluent before i am.”

carlos smirks, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “well, mamá, looks like you need some spanish lessons too.”

you playfully elbow him, making him chuckle.

just as you think nico is starting to doze off, his tiny voice pipes up.

“papá, i’m sleepy… pero i want uno más cuento. (papa, i’m sleepy… but i want one more story.)”

carlos lets out an exaggerated sigh, feigning exhaustion. “one more? vale, uno más. (okay, one more.)”

he flips the page, his voice soft as he continues reading. you feel nico’s breathing slow, his tiny body relaxing between the two of you.

you glance up at carlos, who is watching nico with that same gentle, loving look he always has. he catches you staring and gives you a small smile, his fingers reaching out to brush over your hand.

“you know,” you whisper, “you never had to do any of this.”

carlos furrows his brows. “what do you mean?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i mean… you didn’t have to be his dad. you could’ve just dated me and kept your distance. but instead, you’re his person. and i just… i don’t know. i hope you know how much i love you for that.”

carlos studies you for a moment before shaking his head, as if the thought of not stepping up for nico is ridiculous. he lifts your intertwined fingers, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand.

“i didn’t have to, amor,” he murmurs. “i wanted to. i chose this. i chose you. i chose him. and i’d do it again a thousand times over.”

tears prick your eyes, but before you can say anything, carlos leans down and places a gentle kiss on nico’s forehead.

“buenas noches, mi pequeño campeón. (good night, my little champion.)”

nico barely stirs, already deep in sleep.

carlos turns back to you, smiling softly. “now come on, mamá, let’s go watch bad reality tv and pretend we don’t have to wake up early tomorrow.”

you laugh, shaking your head as you follow him to the couch, where his arm instinctively wraps around you.

carlos sainz wasn’t the father by blood.

but he was the father who stepped up.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[darkmatilda]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer needs your help examining a crucial piece of evidence...but the moment he sees you, his mind goes blah blah blah...proper name, place name, backstory stuff...

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist! female reader, same reader as in pick your poison but you don’t need to read that first—there aren’t any major references, suggestion that the reader engages in casual hook ups, reader has a belly button piercing and a described outfit, spencer's pov only

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2k

𝐚/𝐧: requested by @trulymadlydarling it was slowly gathering dust in my inbox 😭 sorry!

"I think the threshold of my lab isn't exactly the best place for camping."

A woman's silhouette cast a shadow over Spencer as she appeared right above him in the dimly lit hallway.

Spencer sighed in frustration and hauled himself to his feet. As he brushed off his pants, he kept his eyes off the woman in front of him.

"Well, I didn't think you'd make me wait fifty-eight—"

"Oh, just say the hour. Is rounding numbers really that hard for you?" she scoffed, her voice carrying a trace of genuine curiosity. She swiped her access card, unlocking the door to the lab. With her back turned to him, he took in her appearance—an oversized fur coat draped over her shoulders, a designer handbag hanging from one arm. His gaze drifted downward, and to his surprise, he noticed…pajama pants and slippers?

"You should be grateful I even bothered to show up at this hour," she added.

"This is really important," Spencer replied as she led him inside.

She moved through the space with effortless familiarity, heading straight for the light switch. Well, this was her domain, after all—the place where she spent most of her days.

"I don't care," she replied. "Unless you've found proof that Marilyn Monroe was the Zodiac Killer all along—then, well, I care a little. Honestly, you have no idea how much you owe me for showing up..."

He rolled his eyes.

"Should I be thanking you on my knees, or...?"

"I could have been busy. I could have been out with the girls at a club. I could have been having the night of my life..."

"I get it, you made a huge sacrifice answering my request, but can you now—"

"I could have been in bed already. My own. Or not my own," she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Though in that case, I wouldn’t have picked up."

Spencer simply sighed. By now, he was used to it—the way most of their conversations followed the same pattern. How she always set the pace, steering the direction as she pleased. How she sometimes deliberately ignored his words and didn’t care if it made her seem rude. How, in general, she didn’t care what impression she left on others.

He had witnessed it countless times, found it irritating every single time, and yet—every single time—he kept the conversation going. Funny.

She switched on only one of the lights, leaving the room bathed in a soft twilight. Her handbag landed on the long counter beside one of the microscopes, and she tossed her fur coat next to it, completely unconcerned about knocking something over.

Sometimes, he watched her with quiet fascination—the effortless confidence in her movements—and wondered if she had ever, even once, smacked her hip against a doorframe. Or stubbed her toe on a cabinet. Those small, mundane humiliations and everyday mishaps simply didn’t seem to fit with who she was.

He tightened his grip on the plastic bag he had brought with him, the one containing something that needed to be examined. The team didn’t know about it yet.

The thought, the theory, had quite literally yanked him out of sleep. He couldn’t function without checking this lead immediately. But he knew that if he went through the lab, he’d have to wait until morning for the results…so he decided to ask for a friendly favor.

Okay friendly was a big word.

They had known each other for a few months, worked together on several cases, gone on a date, slept together.

Not necessarily in that order.

He was just about to open his mouth, say something, hand her the bag… when, for the first time, he actually saw her in better light than the dim glow—or rather, lack of it—in the hallway. Against his own will, his gaze started its journey over her.

From the slippers on her feet, up the loose pajama pants that ended just below the piercing in her navel, the black camisole with thin straps, to her face—completely free of makeup.

Until now, he had only seen her in two versions. One was her usual, elegant work attire. The other was her evening look—form-fitting, designed to turn heads and keep them there.

On second thought, there was also a third version. Without clothes.

But he had never seen her like this. Casual, comfortable, dressed for nothing more than wandering the walls of her own apartment.

She lifted her arms to tie her hair into a ponytail, and her shirt rode up slightly.

“If my piercing fascinates you that much, I can give you my piercer’s number,” she offered dryly, a fleeting smirk on her lips as she caught his stare. He immediately snapped his gaze back to her face, cursing internally when he realized he probably looked like he had been caught staring. Which, of course, he hadn’t been. “Excellent work. Full professionalism. Experienced hands…”

"I need you to check this stain," he interrupted, raising the bag.

They had been talking too much, and he really needed to know if his suspicions were correct.

She stepped closer to take the bag from him.

“Is this a crucial piece of evidence, or can I touch it?”

“You can touch it…”

She stopped just a step away, shifting her weight onto one hip and tilting her head to get a better look.Spencer instinctively straightened, feeling a strange tension along his spine.Earlier, he had been looking at what she was wearing. Now, what caught his attention was how she looked.

There’s a certain kind of beauty you never quite get used to, no matter how often you see it. The kind that, every time, knocks the air from your lungs for just a second—that fleeting disbelief that someone like this actually walks the earth.

She had it. She radiated it.

And she was just a step away.

She took the garment out of the bag. It was a red turtleneck sweater. She lifted it higher toward the light, furrowing her brow as she examined the stain.

Spencer’s gaze fell on her beautiful face, her eyes shimmering slightly, her lower lip slightly pursed in thought.

Suddenly, she scoffed, snapping him back to reality.

"Mystery solved, and I didn’t even need a microscope," she said, shoving the sweater back into his hands. As he took it, his fingers brushed against hers, catching him slightly off guard. "It’s foundation. I’d recognize that stain anywhere. So, hooray, happy to help, no need to put me in the case report, have a good night, and see you—"

He grabbed her wrist before she could step away, stopping her in place.

"This isn’t a joke," he said, his voice dropping, tinged with sudden irritation.She raised an eyebrow at both his tone and the way he—unintentionally—closed the distance between them. As usual, she looked him straight in the eyes, and as usual, it was hard not to be drawn in. But he tried, because this case was really consuming his thoughts. "Listen, I called you because I need someone to actually test it. Not just glance at it. It'll only take a moment, and then you can go back to crawling into bed with whoever you want. Can you do that?"

The second-to-last sentence made her expression shift slightly.

For a moment, they stood there, unwavering, eyes locked without so much as a blink. Then, the corners of her lips tugged upward—just barely. But it felt more like a forced gesture, an attempt to maintain her carefully practiced expression, rather than a sign of genuine amusement.

"Alright," she replied softly. Not to be mistaken for shyly. There was nothing shy about her, a fact he was reminded of constantly.

"I’ll test it, since it matters so much to you. And then I’m going back to bed." A slow blink before she yanked the sweater from his hands. "With whoever I want."

Why did swallowing suddenly stop being an automatic reflex and turn into something he had to consciously work through?

"That’s great," he said shortly, dryly. He could feel himself slipping into the trap again, letting her toy with him. "Have fun."

"I will."

With that simple assurance, she walked away, and the very particles of air around him seemed to loosen, finally allowing him to breathe again. He turned after her instinctively, the way a swivel chair spins when someone sets it in motion.

She crossed the lab table and leaned over an empty workstation—empty, like all the others. The entire width of the counter separated them now, along with the return of cool detachment to her face. Slowly, Spencer rested his hands on the smooth surface, watching as she got to work. Watching as her hair bounced slightly with the shift in position. Watching as her jaw tensed in concentration. Watching as she leaned over the workstation slightly.

"So," she began flatly, not pausing her work or even looking at him.

Spencer gave his head a small shake, realizing that this time, he really had been staring. At least she hadn’t seen it.

"What exactly am I testing?"

His gaze drifted to her again.

"Something related to the case."

"Wow, I never would've guessed."

He was too distracted to mentally slap himself for how pathetic he was. 

"Uh, it’s not exactly groundbreaking," he began.

He could focus—he just had to try hard enough. He just had to clear the lingering trace of her scent from when she’d stood so close. Had to shake off the echo of her words. With whoever I want, she had said. The more he thought about it, the more accurate it seemed. He firmly believed she could have whoever she wanted. With that confidence. With that face. With that body…

"That’s why I’m checking it after hours. Just, you know…backstory stuff…"

A sound escaped her lips—somewhere between a scoff of disbelief and a startled laugh. She looked at him—no, she pinned him with her gaze.

"Backstory stuff?" she repeated, her lips curling into a smile. Not even a mocking one anymore. She was genuinely amused. "Did you, Doctor Spencer Reid, when asked what the evidence pertains to, actually respond with backstory stuff…?"

“No, I…I mean…”

“Oh God, it’s a good thing they don’t put you in front of cameras. Imagine you, at a press conference. Just casually dropping backstory stuff on national television…”

“I can handle myself in front of cameras,” he clarified, feeling an odd warmth creep up the back of his neck. “But there aren’t any here. And besides, I didn’t realize you wanted me to recite the entire case file from memory…”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said with another amused snort. “Backstory stuff is actually a surprisingly accurate term. You know, very professional.”

He rolled his eyes, feigning irritation, though what he really felt was more akin to embarrassment.

“Speaking of professionalism, maybe you could get back to work?” he suggested.

“I don’t have to,” she replied, flashing him a sweet smile. “I already checked everything. And I was wrong. It’s not foundation—it’s nitroglycerin.”

Spencer’s jaw practically hit the floor.

For the first time since stepping into the lab, his mind was running at full capacity.

"Nitroglycerin? Are you sure?"

"Well, I don’t get these things wrong," she said, almost offended.

"Nitroglycerin," he repeated in a whisper.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Suddenly, everything made sense.

She leaned her elbows on the table, watching him with interest.

He wanted to kiss her.

No—he did not—

"Thank you," he blurted out, her words becoming background noise as his thoughts raced. "Thank you for coming. This…this really helps. I have to tell the team—"

He turned toward the door, dazed by the realization.

Something stopped him.

"Spencer," she called gently.

She didn’t seem angry that he was leaving so abruptly. If anything, there was a certain soft glint in her eyes, a quiet fascination with his sudden revelation. Standing in the doorway, he looked at her one last time, feeling himself freeze in place again. He said nothing, sensing that she wanted to say something instead.

She tilted her head slightly.

"You owe me a favor," she said.

There was something about the way she said it—something that sent a slow, deliberate shiver down his spine. Not even a shiver. More like a careful march of cold fingertips down his vertebrae.

So, naturally, he did what any grown man with an IQ of 187 would do.

He parted his lips slightly and nodded.

[just-a-living-meat-thing]

L Lawliet:

- everyone assumes she’s a man until she actually stands up straight (better yet. she’s absolutely non-passing, only socially transitioned, and everyone assumes she’s a man until Watari refers to her with she/her pronouns. If anyone calls her by any other pronouns she pretends not to hear or just stares blankly until they get it right)

- honestly wouldn’t change that much; L is pretty disconnected from gender as it is

- probably started socially transitioning before she was in her preteens. I don’t think she put much thought into it or figuring out the labels for her gender, I think she just wanted to experiment a little and then found out that it actually fit so much better than her assigned gender

- the only physical difference would be that she allows her hair to grow out just a little bit longer than in canon, but only by like, an inch or two

- is most likely agender but prefers only she/her pronouns, especially when she’s talking in Japanese

Light Yagami:

- REPRESSED REPRESSED REPRESSED REPRESSED REPRESSED—

- probably is not actually a binary trans woman; I think she’d fluctuate between many pronouns. Light is transfemme genderfluid to me (but they would never know it)

- she’d never dive too deep into her own feelings of discomfort and shame regarding his body or their role in life; Light would probably chalk it up to her general malaise for life and simply ignore it. Plus, being genderfluid/genderqueer, they probably wouldn’t feel the Dysphoria™️ alllll the time, so she’d feel safe to just disregard any odd feelings of discontent and categorize them as normal growing up experiences

- she does get euphoria at being called “pretty” or “cute”. It’s why she has a 15 step skin routine—despite the clothes he wears and the otherwise masculine persona she keeps up, sometimes people struggle, just for a moment, to determine her gender. Light ultimately never transitions (he doesn’t have the self-aware capacity for that) but she does dream about it sometimes (they never tell anyone, not even Ryuk, and they die with more lies in her throat that even she isn’t aware of)

- L picks up on this and at one point tries to broach the subject but Light gets too defensive and they just end up fighting again. L never brings it up again, and by the time Light could’ve maybe been willing to listen, it’s too late

- Light allows Misa to paint his nails clear just twice a year. He hides the euphoria it gives her, acts annoyed and embarrassed every time, playing up the long-suffering dutiful boyfriend act, but doesn’t actually mind all that much

Matsuda:

- hidden disconnect from her actual gender identity exacerbates her constant feelings of failure, loneliness, and her inability to keep romantic relationships

- she likely doesn’t start figuring things out until after the Kira Case is over, and she has too much time to herself to drown in her grief

- I also doubt that Matsuda would be open with her gender until at least years later. And at that point, she might feel as if it were too late, that she might as well just be Matsuda, and nothing else (someone please show her I Saw The TV Glow)

- has a lot of internalized shame over her identity and feels as though she would be letting a lot of people down if she came out

- she also has butch vibes to me. More loser butch transfemmes with big sopping hearts please!!

Near:

- pretty much the same as L, but he doesn’t care what pronouns people use for her. Most people who meet her after she grows her hair out use she/her pronouns, and after a while they just stuck. Near doesn’t really care either way

- likes making people guess her gender and watching them squirm as they struggle to get the “right” answer

- like Matsuda, also probably transitioning a few years after the Kira case. Unlike Matsuda, she didn’t realize they were transitioning until one of her team said something awkwardly, clumsily, supportive and she was like “? Is that what I’ve been doing?”

- does not ever surgically transition or take estrogen; the process would be too tedious to her and she doesn’t mind the body she already has

Benoit Blanc:

- literally nothing changes she just starts going by she/her now whenever she’s on a case

If you see this post you’re legally required to tell me at least one trans woman headcanons you have for a canonically male character, I never get to see transfem headcanons like that, give me them, and for equality of my own please know estrogen could have saved Insector Haga and Dinosaur Ryuzaki I will not elaborate, also Yuya.

[ennabear]

was trying to take a nap but i can’t stop thinking about this so have a horny half asleep blurb about loser!sevika <3333 18+

“oh, shit.” she groans on top of you, holding the dildo in her hands as she angles it into you, the tip already wet as it pushes into your hole. you look up at her as she trembles in excitement, horniness, and most of all, anxiety. her eyes are fixed on her strap-on and your cunt, big, beautiful eyes already glossy from pleasure. she could cum just from this.

“you’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” she asks timidly, holding your hips as tightly as possible in her hands. you nod at this, and her human palm sweats and shakes until you grab it tightly in yours, offering a reassuring squeeze.

“you got it, sev. keep going.”

she glances down at you, deep brown lips sagging from the weight of her signature pout. you smile at her, big and goofy, and take her face in your unoccupied hand. an annoyed wince follows your pinches to her cheek, but she sighs and laughs it off, focusing on the task at hand.

“okay…” she whispers. “okay, ready?”

you giggle. “sev, i’ve been ready. you’re not gonna hurt me.”

at this, she pushes into you more. slowly but surely. and soon enough, she’s bottomed out, eyes big and jaw hanging open at the sight beneath her. not a single centimeter of the dildo is visible, just your thighs squishing against hers. a sight she could never get sick of. she sucks in a gasp when you lightly smack her ass, but chuckles awkwardly when she realizes that you aren’t in any pain.

experimentally, she slides out of you, then snaps her hips back in. you shiver, legs opening impossibly wider, back melting into the bed.

“like that?” she asks.

“yeah, sevi. just like that.” you reassure her. god, if only she wasn’t so damn nervous. and oh, so adorable.

so she does it again, pulling out, pushing in, pulling out, pushing in. her rhythm isn’t quite there, but the pleasure is. she hits your sweet spots so deeply, and your heart is so full, you don’t care that she’s not exactly… good at this.

not yet, at least, but neither of you mind the practice.

she moans every time every time she thrusts into you. it starts out breathy and light, but the more she does it, the louder she gets. you doubt that she’s even aware of the sounds she’s making, but you hope she doesn’t realize— she’ll get embarrassed and stop.

her hand releases itself from your grip, drenched in sweat although you wouldn’t have it any other way. her hard grip on your hip returns, and she leans over you to get a better angle. your tits are practically touching, and her hair tickles your face and neck. you plant a few firm kisses on her cheeks, then her nose, then a sweet, long one on her lips, muffling the sounds of her moans and whimpers.

“fuck, i’m so in love with you.” she groans. “can’t believe i didn’t do this sooner.”

you laugh at her, wrapping your arms around her. “it’s okay, we have all the time in the world. no rush.” she chuckles at herself, then her breathy chuckles turn into light moans, and then she’s full on moaning right into your ear.

“am i doing good?” she asks. pace quickening as she rocks her hips into yours.

“yeah, babe. i’m so close.” you whine, gulping loudly.

“really?” she asks, almost like she doesn’t believe you.

“yeah, really.” you laugh, butterflies tickling your gut. “keep going like that.”

“fuck, fuck. okay, oh, janna.” she moans, burying her face in your neck. you think for a moment that she might be in pain, maybe tired, out of breath, or her phantom pains biting at her nonexistent arm. but these moans are different. deeper, heavier, like she’s enjoying it.

her breath tickles your neck as you tip over the edge, holding her as tight as possible as your eyes roll back into your head and you bite your lip a little too harshly. when you come down from your high, gasping for air and giggling at your girlfriend, you almost think you’re imagining the tears rolling down her cheeks. you coo at her and kiss them away, until all that’s left is a giggly, sweaty pile of limbs tangled together.

“do you want me to pull out?” she asks.

“whenever you’re ready.” you answer. “as long as i get to make you cum after this.”

“uhh…” she starts, then loses her words. “you already… did.”

“what do you mean, baby? i haven’t had my mouth or hands on you all night.”

“no, no, not like that.” she says, rushing the words out. “i mean… i did. while i was fucking you… maybe more than once.”

although you feel a bit evil for this, you cackle loudly at her. she rolls her eyes and sinks into you even more, hiding her face in your neck shyly. “don’t laugh at me.” she grumbles. “you’re the worst.”

“no, it’s not bad, sev. it’s cute. and i think we should do this more often.”

she sighs into your shoulder, raising her hand up and pointing her middle finger straight to the sky. you gasp and giggle harder, then swat it away as she tries to wrestle against you.

“okay, enough.” you call, before she can start the wrestling match. “let’s go pee and then i’ll make us a snack.”

she kisses your forehead and huffs a breath, trying not to think about the fact that she’s still inside of you, and that she may or may not be able to feel you clenching around her. “okay, i love you.”

“love you too, sevibaby.”

[eliasmelody]

Absolutely Shameless!

LADS react to reader who have no shame when talking.

WARNING: grammar & spelling

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🐇 XAVIER:

Xavier’s eyelids get heavier as you go on about the movie, the sound of your voice lulling him closer to sleep. You’re still going, detailing plot twists and characters’ arcs, but he’s barely keeping his eyes open now. His head tilts slightly, a small yawn escaping him.

You pause, suddenly realizing what just happened. A quiet chuckle escapes you as you glance at Xavier, who’s trying to shake off the sleepiness.

"Wanna lay on my lap, baby boy?" You raise an eyebrow as you look at him.

Xavier’s eyes flicker with surprise, but then his expression darkens, the moment shifting. "Do you say this to anyone?" He asks, his tone more guarded now.

You shrug nonchalantly. "Not really. You're lucky you're cute." You say casually, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world and boop his nose.

Xavier blinks a few times, genuinely taken aback by your casual comment. His cheeks redden slightly in response, and he averts his gaze for a moment before looking back at you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment.

"Cute?" He repeats incredulously with a blush. He opens his mouth to retort, perhaps to argue about you calling him 'cute', but he seems strangely speechless. 

"Yeah, yeah, adorable. Now lay down.”

"You say something like that so casually…” He mutters a complaint, but there's no real bite to it as he lays down.

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🦭 ZAYNE:

"Late for your checkup again, I see." Zayne said in his usual blunt manner, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.

You just sit there, staring at him in silence. He shifts slightly, but you remain unmoved, your gaze steady. Neither of you speaks, the quiet stretching on. 

Finally, his voice cut through the quiet. "Hmm? What is it?"

"It looks heavy. Need me to hold it for you?" You said, your voice completely monotone, though your eyes hinted at something more.

Zayne raised an eyebrow at the sudden question. He was used to you making random comments, but even he found himself taken off guard by this one. “What...?”

You gesture toward his chest and say, "Your boobs look heavy. I can hold it for you.”

He had expected you to say something strange but that was definitely not it. Zayne's expression immediately turns flat, his eyebrows furrowing. He let out a sigh and flicked your forehead.

“Ah!” You yelp and clutch your head. “Hey.”

"You and your tactless comments..." Zayne mutters, more to himself.

He tries to keep his expression stoic, but the pink tint on his cheeks betrays him. It annoys him how you can get under his skin so easily.

“... So can I?--Whoa! Hey, I'm kidding. Put the tablet down!”

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🐠 RAFAYEL:

You lay there, bored, sprawled out on the couch, watching him intently as he focused on his art.

"You know what, Raf?" You said, setting your phone down.

With his eyes narrowed at you and his head raised to give you an arrogant look, Rafayel waited for you to continue. It was like he was about to give you a sassy reply.

"Sometimes I wish I was a guy." You said, gazing at him from upside down on the couch.

This was definitely not what he'd been expecting you to say. Not expecting at all.

Confused, he stared at you, unsure of how to respond. "Why the hell would you want that?”

"So I could make you pregnant." You said with a straight face, your voice calm and unshaken. He, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

Rafayel choked on his own spit and coughed hard for a few moments, trying to stay calm. His cheeks, already flushed, turned bright red.

"Y-you're crazy!" He protested, moving back on the chair a little bit. "Like I'd let you do that!”

"Why not?" You grin. "I'll be gentle.”

Rafayel blushed even more. He had no idea how to respond to you when you said things like that, but he refused to give in.

"H-how could you even think of that?" He said, trying to sound defiant, but his voice was shaky. 

"You just look breedable.”

"B-breedable?!" That definitely wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. 

He covered his face in embarrassment, trying to hide his obvious arousal and reaction to your words. 

"You humans are all perverts.” He muttered, even though his cheeks were betraying him, as his skin was turning even more pink.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction.

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🐦‍⬛ SYLUS:

After casually stepping on one of the rooms to confirm they were really unconscious, he strides over to you, his gaze sharp and intense. He kneels down to your level, his presence imposing as he speaks.

"Hello, little kitten. Looks like you got yourself into some trouble.” He says in a low tone, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

You pout, crossing your arms as you stay seated on the ground, looking up at him. "I can handle that.”

The man chuckles before reaching out and ruffling your hair.

"Can you now? It seems like you were in quite the sticky situation a moment ago," He says with a smirk, "A pretty little thing like you could have gotten taken advantage of real easily.”

You roll your eyes, then raise both arms toward him. "Up." You command, your voice firm yet with a hint of impatience.

The man raises an eyebrow at your command, surprised by your boldness. He lets out a low chuckle before obliging, sweeping you off your feet in one swift motion, carrying you princess-style in his arms. "Happy now?”

You hum contentedly and wrap your arm around his shoulder, leaning in playfully. "Now, to your house. I’m crashing on your bed today.”

He rolls his eyes at your demand, but doesn't complain.

"Of course you do. I can tell that you're quite a spoiled little one." He says with a smirk, carrying you down the streets.

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🍎 CALEB:

"Come on, pipsqueak. I’m not your personal chef." Caleb said, pretending to sound tired and annoyed, though his actions told a different story as he continued moving around the kitchen without missing a beat.

"What do you want for dinner then?” He reached to grab some ingredients, already having an idea in mind.

"You." You said nonchalantly.

Caleb rolled his eyes dramatically before responding. “Me.” He repeated, mimicking your casual tone. 

He was used to your nonchalance, had an uncanny ability to make even the strangest requests seem normal. He stirred the pan with a practiced ease.

You move over without a word, leaning in close to watch him cook. Your shoulder brushes lightly against his, and he can't help but notice the thinness of your shirt.

“Personal space, pipsqueak– wait, you don't wear a bra?” His heart leaped, but he quickly tried to remain nonchalant. 

"So?" You replied, your face remaining impassive.

He blinked, his fingers twitching as if to adjust your shirt, but he stopped himself.

“You just…” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Never mind.”

“Hungryyyy”

Caleb rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. Your carefree and straightforward attitude was one of the things he both loved and hated. “I'm on it. Jeez!”

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[ctrlsht]

Beneath His Love | Jungkook Two-Shot AU (Part 1)

pairing: jungkook x reader genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, soft yandere

summary: Jeon Jungkook was once just a foreign high school friend until he disappeared without a word after graduation. Years later, he came back, not just to reconnect, but to claim a place in your life as your lover. To everyone else, your relationship is something out of a fairytale, the kind others envy. And for a while, you believed it too until the mask he wore began to slip, revealing a side of him you never saw coming.

warnings: emotional and psychological manipulation, control and possessiveness, obsession, anxiety and mild distress, isolation and coercion, themes of entrapment wc: 14k

Your high school years hold some of your best memories. You were young, maybe a little naïve, but you enjoyed every moment. You met friends who stuck with you through the ups and downs, creating memories that stayed with you.

Some friendships lasted, while others naturally faded over time. But out of all the people from your past, the last person you expected to return was Jeon Jungkook.

“I really want to drive you home, but I thought you might have your car with you.” He glances at you, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he bites his bottom one.

You catch the gesture, a smile of your own creeping up before you glance back at the office building.

He’s a new investor in the company you’re working for, and the funny thing is, you met him in the meeting, with no heads-up that he was the person you’d be negotiating with.

Back in high school, you would’ve called him a lost puppy; out of place, unsure. He had just moved from South Korea with his family, thrown into a world of unfamiliar faces and an unfamiliar language. He tried, really tried, but somehow, nothing ever quite fit.

He wasn’t a natural at blending in, and the harder he pushed, the more obvious it became that he just didn’t belong.

But you did. You were the one who made him feel like he could stay like he was already part of something. You made sure he never had to face the feeling of being lost alone.

“I might get embarrassed for saying this, but... I don’t have a car.” You say it so casually, you can’t help but bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a laugh. His face lights up almost instantly.

“Well, that’s good news for me, because I can drive you home.” He grins, and you can’t help but to chuckle.

Comparing him now to his high school self? It’s almost unrecognizable. From his new confidence to the way he holds himself, he’s changed. Completely. It’s hard to believe this is the same guy. But then again, you were there at the meeting. 

The one thing that hasn’t changed? The way he feels familiar. Comfortable. Even after all these years apart, that sense of ease with him hasn’t gone anywhere. 

It’s almost laughable to think back on Jungkook who once barely spoke in class, who could barely look anyone in the eye. The same Jungkook who now talks business with the Chief Finance Officer of the country’s biggest infrastructure company; and he’s an investor. An investor. You read the reports. From the looks of it, he’s about to become one of the company’s largest backers. You’re still wrapping your mind around it. What exactly does he do now?

Jungkook left after high school. No warning. No goodbye. Just... gone. You tried searching for him, trying to catch some trace of him online, but even his barely-used social media vanished. After a year of wondering what happened, you eventually gave up. Maybe that was his choice all along.

But you can’t shake the thought: Did you ever really become his friend? Did you make him feel like he belonged, like he had a place? You thought you had, but it’s hard to tell. Maybe it never felt the same to him.

And now, as he stands before you, all those unanswered questions bubble up. So many things you want to ask, but you don’t even know where to begin.

You admit that part of you feels a little hurt, like maybe your friendship meant nothing to him. But that feeling? It’s faded. You were young and confused back then. It doesn’t matter now. You know, deep down, he had his reasons for disappearing. And that’s enough for you.

“It’s good to see you again, Y/N.” He says it casually, but there’s warmth behind the words. You glance at him as he drives, a small smile on his face, his attention fully on the road. You can’t help but notice how much he’s changed. It’s not just his look; it’s everything about him now. The confidence he exudes to the ease in his posture. This isn’t the same Jungkook from high school. He used to shy away from meeting your gaze for more than a few seconds, and now, you can hardly believe he’s the one offering you a ride home. Back in high school, it was you who’d offer to walk him home whenever your other friends couldn’t.

“You too,” you reply, smiling back, still watching him.

He doesn’t speak after that, and you both settle in silence as the car hums along the road. There’s something comforting about the silence. No awkwardness, no tension, just his presence beside you. It feels easy.

After a while, you break the silence. “How have you been?” The words come out before you can second-guess yourself. You didn’t want the quiet to stretch on, and this might be your only chance to check up on him.

“I’m good,” he replies, his tone flat but steady. You expected that. It’s the default answer people give when asked how they’re doing. But you were hoping for something more. Something real.

You don’t push for more. Maybe this is all he’s willing to share. But just as you're about to settle back into your thoughts, his voice breaks through.

“I missed you.”

The words hang in the air. His eyes seem far away, like he’s seeing something just beyond reach. The warmth around him has shifted, and for a moment, the easy atmosphere between you both feels heavier.

“Yeah, me too, Kook,” you say softly, offering a small smile in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I just wish you’d tell me more about how you’ve been.”

The car rolls up to your apartment building, the conversation trailing off as you prepare to get out. You almost feel like you should’ve said more, but before you can even voice your thoughts, he speaks again.

“Do you have anything to do tomorrow evening?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden question. He smirks, amused by your surprise, but before he can say anything else, you cut him off.

“None. Why?” you ask, trying to play it cool, as if you don’t know the answer.

“I was hoping to take you out for dinner, Y/N. It’s been years, and I know I owe you an apology and an explanation.”

You purse your lips, but you fight the smile, pretending to be annoyed. “Good that you know.”

He chuckles, and without another word, he steps out to open the door for you.

The dinner went exactly as planned. It’s Saturday night, and you’re still in disbelief that you’re sitting across from Jungkook after a decade, the same familiar ease between you both. The bond hasn’t shifted; it feels just like it did back then. Can that really be possible?

You never expected that, in a series of random days, you'd reconnect with your long-lost friend and pick up right where you left off, surprisingly comfortable, like no time had passed at all.

To sum up his story, Jungkook left the country a week after graduation due to family matters. He didn’t get into the details, just mentioned family and wealth, and honestly, you didn’t push for more. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here, now.

“Investing? That’s it?” you asked casually, curious about his line of work as you took a sip of your wine.

“Yeah. Why? You sound like you’re doubting me,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully as he cut into his steak. You quickly shook your head, laughing.

“No, no— I’m not doubting you. It’s just... how do you just invest in a company? What else do you do?”

His lips twitched as if holding back a laugh before he took a bite of his steak.

“With me, it’s possible.”

It’s amazing how much had changed for him. From his fluent English to how smoothly he communicated, he had a way of speaking now; confident and clear. He knew what to talk about and when to hold back. He even went into detail about his business, explaining how he went from nothing to having it all. Apparently, he’s rich rich.

It still blows your mind. He doesn’t just invest locally, but globally, with major stakes in several countries. One of his biggest investments? A multinational tech company in the USA. You googled his name later, and the results were overwhelming; articles, interviews, and profiles. It hit you then: you had no idea.

“I saw Jungkook recently. He’s freaking rich!” you said during a video call with your high school friends on a random Friday evening.

“Oh my god, you did? I thought you knew, Y/N. He’s always in the business news!” Mina, your entrepreneur friend, exclaimed.

“Yeah, I thought you knew too, since you were close to him,” Chloe added as she applied her makeup.

“I would’ve known if you told me,” you said, sarcastically. They all laughed, including Henry, the only guy in your friend group.

They all knew Jungkook, but they were never really close to him. But you try to get them to hang out with him. It was hard, though. He never seemed to fit in with anyone else. He wasn’t exactly open to making friends outside of you.

You didn’t mind being his only friend, but there were times you wished you could hang out with your whole circle without worrying about leaving him alone. You can’t stomach seeing him being alone.

Your first dinner with him turned into another, and then another, until it reached a point where you were seeing him almost every day. Well, it makes sense. He has back-to-back meetings with the CEO and CFO, all to discuss investment deals and company performance. You were shocked when you found out he’d become one of the company’s major shareholders. But, honestly, you shouldn’t have been surprised. With his global investments, your company was just one of many he had stakes in.

You’ve sat through countless meetings with him, being the Investor Relations Analyst, but what truly catches you off guard is how he shifts between playful and serious. Outside the boardroom, he’s relaxed and fun, but the moment he steps into the business world, he’s a different beast; focused, no-nonsense, and damn good at what he does.

“I still can’t believe how different you are in the boardroom. Your 17-year-old self must be so proud,” you joked one time when he invited you over for dinner at his place. You had to add, his “place” wasn’t just any apartment. It was a goddamn penthouse, bigger than your office floor.

His penthouse is airy, with massive windows letting in all the natural light and giving a breathtaking view of the city below. The furniture is minimal; soft neutrals, a simple sofa, a coffee table, and a few essentials. But none of that matters because you can’t wrap your head around how massive his place is.

It’s your third time visiting, and you still haven’t gotten used to how much wealth he’s surrounded by. Back in high school, you knew he had a solid life, but this, this level of luxury? You never imagined it. Sure, his family’s wealth played a part, but it was his own hustle that built the wealth he’s sitting on now. He mentioned once that part of the reason he went back to Korea was for his family’s business, but he didn’t go into detail.

“You really can’t stop talking about how different I am now, can you?” he teased as he smiled, removing his coat and loosening his tie. Both of you came straight from the meeting, and here you were again, in his penthouse. You shook your head, unable to stop smiling. 

“You’ve definitely changed,” you shrugged playfully as he walked to the kitchen island to prep dinner. 

“I plan to cook kimchi stew. You mentioned that you want me to cook it again.” he said, pulling out the ingredients one by one.

“Ah, you remembered,” you smiled, feeling a bit giddy. “Do you need help?”

He flashed that smile of his, shaking his head. “Nah. You relax. Dinner’s on me.”

“I really do want to help, though,” you said, walking over to him. “You always cook for us.”

He stared at you for a moment, a soft smile tugging at his lips, before nodding and grabbing the tofu and green onions.

“Alright, fine,” he chuckled. “You can slice these.” He placed them on the counter, then grabbed an apron and slowly slipped it over your head.

Your heart started to race, feeling the warmth of his hands as they adjusted the straps around your back. You barely breathed as he tied the apron, feeling like an electric current shot through you when his hand grazed your skin.

“While you do that, I’ll prepare the kimchi,” he said, turning around with a grin before walking to the fridge.

With his back to you, as he chopped the kimchi, you were frozen. You could feel your heart hammering, and your stomach doing flips, but you couldn’t move an inch. What the hell was happening to you?

There’s this strange flutter in your stomach, something you can’t quite put into words. You don’t move, not until he finally glances back at you. You flash a quick, awkward smile, trying to shake off the odd tension before turning your focus to the tofu, hoping it’ll distract you from the feeling you can't shake.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Henry’s birthday party was in full swing at one of the biggest clubs in the city. Nothing new there. Clubbing was pretty much a tradition whenever you and your friends had extra cash to burn. The last time you went was a work event, which sucked because most of your coworkers were too old to actually enjoy the club. Tonight, though? Different story. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and you were exactly where you wanted to be; wrapped around Chloe’s shoulder, screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs.

Feeling a bit worn out, you drop into a seat, chugging your drink while mindlessly scrolling through your phone. Three messages from Jungkook. One missed call.

Jungkook: Wanna have dinner tonight? We can do it at your place since you’re fussing about me not visiting your place hahaha

Jungkook: Heyyy?

Jungkook: Oh, I didn’t know you were with your friends. Sorry to bother you.

Shit. You checked the timestamps, first message at 7 PM, second at 9 PM, and the last one just fifteen minutes ago. The missed call? Right after the second text.

How did he even know you were out? You clicked on your Instagram story. Viewed. Of course.

You quickly typed out a response, apologizing for not replying sooner.

Jungkook: No worries, Y/N 🙂

That’s when it hit you, almost everyone from high school was here, even the ones who barely talked to Henry. But Jungkook wasn’t. You scanned the crowd before glancing back at your phone, staring at his last message.

Should you feel bad? Maybe. He used to hang out with your group sometimes, but Henry was the one throwing the party. You couldn’t exactly tell him who to invite. Still, a small part of you felt guilty. Jungkook had been a part of your high school life, and it felt weird that he wasn’t here too.

“Y/N, what’s up with you? You’re spacing out,” Mina suddenly appeared beside you.

“Nothing,” you said, forcing a smile.

She peeked at your phone. “Who are you texting?”

“No one, just reading a message from Jungkook,” you answered, locking your screen. “By the way, did Henry invite everyone from high school?”

Mina shrugged. “I guess?” 

“Did he invite Jungkook?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

Mina chimed in, laughing. “Girl, he’s a fucking millionaire. You really think he has time for this?”

Your jaw tightened. “You guys used to hang out with him at least once.”

She raised a brow. “Then ask Henry, not me.” She patted your back before disappearing into the crowd.

You sighed, staring at Jungkook’s last message. Maybe Mina was right. He probably didn’t care about not being invited. He had more important things to do than go clubbing with his former high school classmates. But another part of you wasn’t so sure.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jungkook: You must be having fun, leaving me on read hahaha

Oh, fuck.

You: Hahaha I’m sorry. I’m trying to sober up. What are you doing

Jungkook: You’re drunk already? Who are you going home with?

You: I’m good haha I’m going home with my friends. Let’s have dinner tomorrow.

Jungkook: How are you going home with them if they’re also drunk?

You weren’t drunk, just tipsy. But if Jungkook thought you were drunk, then maybe you’d actually get drunk trying to prove otherwise.

Jungkook: Do you want me to fetch you?

You: It’s okay, Kook. I can manage. My friends aren’t drunk. We’re fine.

No reply. You reread your messages, sipping your whiskey, assuming he’d drop it. But then—

Jungkook: I’ll go there and wait until you’re done so I can drive you home.

Your stomach did a weird flip. You don’t know what or how to feel. There are a lot of thoughts that are running in your head and you don’t know what to entertain first.

It had been almost a year since you started hanging out again, and you weren’t going to lie, you liked the way he looked after you. How he always checked in, insisted on driving you so you wouldn’t have to take the bus, how he cooked for you without you even asking. Hell, you’d eat anything he made, even dishes you normally hated. There was something about his effort, his presence, that made your heart race just a little.

And now, he was coming to pick you up.

But then there was the other part, the part where he’d be stepping into a club full of his old high school classmates who didn’t even think to invite him. It didn’t sit right with you. If he came here, would it remind him of how things used to be? Would it make him feel out of place?

There was no way in hell you were going to make him wait around for you to finish partying in a place he should’ve been invited to in the first place.

You took a deep breath and texted back:

You: Okay.

Then you locked your phone, downed the rest of your drink, and got up to rejoin your friends. Might as well enjoy the last few moments before Jungkook arrived.

“I have to go soon, Henry,” you lied. “Charlie’s home. He might wake up looking for me.” You added, using your nephew as an excuse. 

Henry frowned. “You never said you were babysitting tonight. That sucks. I’ll grab my keys and—”

You cut him off. “No need. Jungkook’s driving me home.”

Henry stopped, then smirked. “Wow. Are you dating him already? You should’ve invited him.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the birthday boy. That was your job, not mine.”

The moment your friends heard you were leaving, they wasted no time plotting your downfall. Before you could even argue, Henry was in front of you, bottle in hand, while Chloe grabbed your head like a coach hyping up their star player, and Mina? She was already recording.

"One last shot! Well, bottle, for the road!" Henry announced, grinning like a devil.

You groaned, but resistance was pointless. The moment the bottle tilted, the cheers erupted around you. The burn hit instantly, but damn, it felt good. Who knew last-minute drinking could be this satisfying?

It only took Jungkook 15 minutes to get there. As soon as he texted that he’d arrived, you wasted no time saying your goodbyes. You didn’t really want to leave yet, but making him wait for the party to end at 6 a.m. wasn’t an option. It was barely 1 a.m., and the night was just getting started, but you weren’t about to let him stand around outside just for your sake.

Stepping out of the club, the pounding bass faded behind you, but the street was still alive with music, neon lights, and crowds spilling out of bars. It was a Saturday night, prime time for people to party, and leaving early kind of sucked.

You hadn’t even replied to Jungkook’s last message, but it wasn’t hard to spot him. He was leaning against his car, parked right in front of the club, eyes glued to his phone. Just as you were about to call out to him, your phone buzzed. His name lit up the screen.

The moment he heard the ringtone, he looked up, and when his eyes landed on you, his whole face lit up, his smile stretching wide. You laughed, shaking your head. This man.

“Did you miss me that much?” you teased, walking over.

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he shot back, grinning as he slipped his phone into his back pocket.

“I figured I’d just answer you in person,” you said with a chuckle, opening the passenger door. “Let’s go?”

“Wait, you’re actually done for the night?” he asked, surprised.

“Yeah. I sobered up, and I’m not really in the mood to drink anymore, so I might as well head home,” you shrugged before sliding into the car.

“You sure? Henry might be pissed you’re leaving early,” he said, settling into the driver’s seat.

“Nah, trust me, he won’t,” you laughed, clicking your seatbelt.

Jungkook reached behind his seat and pulled out a bottle of water, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.

“Here. Drink some water. Stay hydrated.” He gave you a small smile, and for some reason, it completely threw you off. You should take the water, but your body wouldn’t budge. Your fingers twitched, and your mind screamed at you to move, but all you could do was stare, caught in the moment, caught in him.

And before you could think twice, you leaned in.

His lips met yours, warm and soft, and everything else faded. A little water spilled from the bottle onto your thigh, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was the way he felt against you, the way your heart pounded like a drum in your chest.

Your head swayed slightly, the tequila still messing with your balance, but you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or just the way his lips tasted.

Then it hit you.

Your eyes snapped open, and you jerked back, hand flying to your mouth.

“Shit—sorry—”

Before you even finished your sentence, he pulled you towards him, pressing his lips on yours. He pulled you so close, his hand wrapped around your nape, gently holding you in place, and you melted into the kiss, closing your eyes.

His lips moved against yours hungrily, and the realization sent a shiver down your spine. Your fingers found their way to his hair, gripping it lightly. 

Jungkook broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against yours. His fingers found the back of your head, his touch so gentle that it sent shivers down your spine.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmured, as you shook your head. 

“I should be the one saying sorry.” You chuckled a little. He smiled, rubbing your cheek gently with his thumb. 

He leaned in, his lips grazing yours before he claimed your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. It was different from the previous ones, more controlled yet passionate. His free hand moved to cup your face, his fingers tracing small circles on your cheek, and you felt your body melt into his touch.

Everything blurred together in a rush, you were in the car, and the next, the city lights flickered past as Jungkook drove in silence. It wasn’t until he pulled into a familiar parking garage that reality sank in.

You were supposed to be heading home, but instead, you found yourself in front of his apartment building. 

Maybe his place was closer to the club. It made sense.

Jungkook parked the car in the underground parking lot of his apartment building, the engine purring to a stop. You were both panting heavily, the atmosphere inside the car was filled with tension. He turned to look at you, his gaze intense and darkened with desire.

"We should go upstairs." He said softly.

As soon as the door slams shut behind them, Jungkook pulls you close, his hands gripping your hips tightly. Your bodies are pressed up against each other, and the heat between you is intense.

He kisses you hungrily, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he backs you up against the wall. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, removing the fabric in your grip as you try to bring him even closer.

Then he breaks the kiss, his breathing heavy as he leans his forehead against yours.

He took a deep breath, his fingers still gripping your hips tightly. His eyes roamed your face, taking in every detail, and his gaze fixed on your eyes.

“I like you, Y/N. Even before.” He said, almost sounding like a whisper, but it sounded so clear. 

With a swift motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist. You were surprised at the sudden movement, but he held you tightly. He carried you towards the living room, his lips finding your neck as he continued to press hot kisses on your skin.

His apartment windows stretched across the room, but the city lights outside barely reached in, leaving most of the space cloaked in shadow.

He gently placed you on the couch, his body lingers above yours, arms locking you in.

His lips found yours again, his tongue exploring your mouth as if he couldn't get enough of you. His body pressed against yours, leaving no space between you, and you could feel the heat radiating from him.

Your fingers gripped his biceps, your nails biting into his flesh as you tried to hold back the sounds threatening to escape your lips. His mouth continued to explore your neck, his kisses and gentle bites sending waves of pleasure through you.

Jungkook quickly removed your dress before pushing you back onto the couch and capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Your hands roamed freely along each other's bodies, as he trailed kisses down your neck.

You couldn’t quite piece together the exact steps you took to end up here, but damn, you weren’t complaining. Everything felt perfect, from the way he touched you to the way he spoke to you. And even as your mind wandered, wondering if you'd regret any of it later, you shoved that thought aside. For now, you were savoring every single moment.

You woke up to sunlight streaming through the window, too bright, almost blinding. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, only to realize that this wasn’t your room. You didn’t need to check to know exactly where you were. The familiar warmth beside you told you everything you needed to know.

Your gaze lingered on him. Jungkook, still asleep, lying on his stomach. Both of you were tangled under a duvet, skin against skin, the night’s events replaying in your mind. It had been unexpected, but you weren’t regretting it. Not one bit. Out of all the men in your life, he was the one who’d made you feel truly at ease during the most intimate moment.

You couldn’t stop thinking about what he said last night. His words still echoed in your ears.

“I like you, Y/N.”

You reached out, gently brushing his hair, feeling the smooth strands between your fingers. You couldn’t help but feel a little foolish for not noticing how he’d felt before, but now, it didn’t matter. You weren’t going to waste time overanalyzing his feelings.

But damn, if you had known sooner...

You couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. Would you have really done things differently? Probably not. Maybe back in high school, there was nothing there. But now? With how ridiculously handsome and damn near perfect he looked? Hell, you couldn’t deny it.

Life is simple, and so is your relationship with Jungkook.

After that night, there was no overthinking, no awkward tension. You both just went with it. Dating him felt natural, almost effortless. And let’s be real, you weren’t about to let him fuck you if it wasn’t going to lead somewhere.

It still blows your mind how much things have changed in just a year. You reconnected with an old high school friend, found out he’s stupidly rich, and now? You’re dating him. 

You thought dating Jungkook wouldn’t feel much different from being his friend, but damn, you were wrong. In the best way possible.

Every morning, without fail, he texts you a sweet “good morning,” even when he’s miles away on a business trip. He brings you little gifts just because, takes you out on weekly dates, and surprises you with flowers for no reason at all. Even when he’s drowning in work, he always makes time for you, whether it’s at his place or yours. And most especially, he really knows how to make you feel good. He already knows what you love to do and what’s not. He knows when to stop and when to go on. Sometimes, he feels so perfect that you catch yourself wondering if he’s even real.

One morning, after spending the night at his place (which, at this point, is almost every night), you wake up to the soft press of his lips against your skin.

“Morning, love,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing your cheek.

You mumble a sleepy, “Morning.”

“I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He peppers kisses along your face, neck, and arms.

You groan a little, still half-asleep, but you knew this was coming. He’s heading to a business conference out of town, just for the day, but it still sucks that he’s leaving on your day off. You had already planned to head back to your own place anyway, clean up, and maybe just exist in your own space for a while.

“Mm-kay,” you mumble, trying to bury yourself back into the sheets. But Jungkook, being Jungkook, doesn’t stop kissing you, making it impossible to stay asleep. You finally cracked an eye open, shooting him an annoyed look, and making him laugh.

“You should wake up now. I made you breakfast. Eat before it gets cold,” he says, dropping a kiss on your forehead before heading toward the door. “Bye, love. I love you.”

Still groggy, you nod. “I love you too. Take care.”

Once he’s gone, you follow through with your plan, breakfast, then heading home.

The second you step inside your apartment, it’s painfully obvious you haven’t been around much. It smells like it’s been abandoned, and the state of it isn’t much better—clothes piled on your bed, untouched documents scattered across the dining table. A mess, but a familiar one.

As much as you love staying with Jungkook, there’s something comforting about being in your own space. No one to answer to, no one to accommodate, just you, doing whatever the hell you want. Jungkook has asked you to move in with him more times than you can count, but you always say no. Not because you don’t love being with him, but because you love having a place that’s yours. A space to retreat to when you just need to be alone.

The only thing you hadn’t planned for today was your friends ambushing you with an invite to go out tonight.

Your friend group never really schedules hangouts; it just sort of happens. You could go weeks, even a month, without a single message, and then, out of nowhere, someone’s in the mood for a drink or dinner, and suddenly, it’s a plan. Not everyone always makes it, of course. Life gets in the way. But when the stars align and most of you are free, you all try your best to show up.

"Come on, Y/N," Mina whined through the phone. "The last time we saw you was four months ago. And don’t even try to make excuses, you literally just said you’re at home."

You groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch. "Mina, I just spent all day cleaning. I’m exhausted."

"Then we’ll just invite ourselves over!" She laughed, knowing exactly how to push your buttons.

"What the hell, no! I’m not letting you guys trash my place after I spent the whole day making it spotless!"

"Then get dressed and come out with us!" she shot back. "Dinner and drinks. We miss you."

She wasn’t wrong. You missed them too. You’d skipped out on a lot of meet-ups lately—not intentionally, but between work and, well, spending nearly all your free time with Jungkook, your social life had definitely taken a hit. The only time you weren’t with him was when you were at the office.

So, after some back and forth, you gave in. You sent Jungkook a quick text letting him know you were heading out with your friends, though he hadn’t responded yet. He was probably still busy with his conference.

Now, almost 9 p.m., you were sitting in a pub downtown, catching up with your friends over drinks. The place was buzzing with weekend energy, and despite the last-minute plans, it felt good to be here.

“Even though I try to convince myself that we still have something left, I just don’t feel it anymore,” Chloe admitted, swirling her drink in her hand. The conversation had taken a turn toward her struggling relationship. Everyone listened intently.

“We’ve both gotten so caught up in our own responsibilities that we barely connect anymore," she continued, her voice even, like she had already made peace with it.

You studied her face, searching for some sign of heartbreak, but she just looked… tired. Maybe even indifferent.

Chloe was a fashion model, and her boyfriend was a marine engineer. Their lives had been moving in different directions for a while now. The long distance, the fading feelings, it had all been dragging on for too long.

“If you’re not happy, why stay?” Mina asked, echoing what everyone was probably thinking. "This has been going on for two years, Chloe. Maybe it’s time to let go. We’re not getting any younger."

The weight of the conversation made you pause.

It got you thinking about Jungkook. About your relationship.

You’d been with him for half a year now, and honestly, things had been good. No major problems, no doubts. Just happiness. Just him.

But how long would it stay that way?

What would your problems even be? What could you possibly fight about? Could your love for him fade the way Chloe’s did for her boyfriend?

The thought unsettled you.

Before you could get lost in it, your phone rang. The table fell silent as everyone glanced at you. You quickly grabbed it, checking the caller ID.

Jungkook.

You excused yourself and stepped outside, pressing the phone to your ear.

"Hey, Kook," you greeted softly, staring down at your feet.

“You’re out?” His voice was calm, but there was something off about it.

"I sent you a message," you said, glancing through the pub’s window at your friends. "I’m with my friends."

“I’m at your place.”

Your breath hitched. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"The conference ended at seven. I decided to drive back instead of staying overnight." His tone was flat, unreadable.

“Oh.” You fidgeted with the hem of your top.

“I came straight to your apartment, thinking you’d be there,” he added. “But you weren’t.”

You hesitated. "Mina invited us out. It was last minute, but everyone was free, so…"

"I didn’t see your message until I got here."

You weren’t sure where this was going, but before you could say anything, he spoke again.

"Are you heading home soon?" His voice was calm, but you could sense the impatience laced within it.

"I'm… not sure," you admitted, just as Henry stepped outside, lighting a cigarette. 

"Who are you talking to?" Henry asked casually.

"Jungkook," you said, turning your back to him. “I think we’ll end at ten or eleven. Depends on their mood.” You added to Jungkook.

Henry took a drag of his cigarette, chuckling. "Chloe wants to go clubbing after this. We’ll probably be out past eleven."

You shot him an annoyed look. "Move away. I don’t want to inhale your cigarette."

He just laughed, stepping back into the pub.

"I'm not sure what time this will end," you told Jungkook. "If you want, you can rest in my room. I just cleaned everything." You tried to lighten the mood, but he sighed on the other end.

“Y/N, it’s late. You should rest. You’ve had a long day.”

His voice was gentle, but something about it felt off.

"I’ll be home before eleven," you promised. "You should rest too."

“I’ll just pick you up.”

You blinked. "No, it’s fine. Henry said he’d drive me home."

Silence. Then—

“Really?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

You frowned. "What?"

“I don’t know. Just doesn’t sit right with me. The idea of you letting another man drive you home while your boyfriend is literally waiting at your place.”

You sighed, frustration creeping in. "Jungkook, it’s Henry. You know him."

"Okay then," he said, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "I’ll just rest. Bye."

And then he hung up.

You stared at your phone, stunned.

The hell was that?

Jungkook was never the jealous type. He knew Henry. He knew there was nothing between you two. So why was he suddenly acting like this?

Maybe he was just exhausted. After all, he’d driven almost four hours straight after a long business trip.

Still, something about that call left you uneasy.

As soon as you stepped back inside, you grabbed your things and announced, “Jungkook’s at my place. He’s looking for me.”

Your friends exchanged glances, and their curiosity arose.

Mina gently grabbed your wrist, stopping you mid-motion. “Then let him wait. I thought he was out of town for business?”

“He went home right after,” you replied.

Henry took a slow sip of his beer before butting in. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re running off.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “Did you two fight?”

You shook your head a little too quickly. “I just really need to go.”

Mina arched a brow, arms crossed. “So, you’re just leaving? Again? You did the same thing last time when you said you were coming over, but surprise, Jungkook had plans, and we never saw you.” 

You flinched at her words because, well… she wasn’t wrong. You had bailed on them before, not intentionally, but it still happened.

“I know, and I apologized,” you said, voice softer now.

Mina scoffed. “Right, and now you’re ditching us again?” 

You hesitated. A part of you wanted to stay, but what was the point if your mind was already elsewhere? Jungkook was at your place, waiting. And the way he sounded earlier… something felt off. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy yourself knowing that.

“I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it up to you,” you said, rushing to press a quick kiss on their cheeks before grabbing your things.

Henry even offered to drive you home, but you shut that down immediately. No way in hell were you making things worse.

You tried calling Jungkook and then texting, but he didn’t answer. Not even once.

Did he stay? Did he leave? Was he sleeping or ignoring you on purpose?

You had no idea. All you knew was that you needed to get home. Fast.

The moment you step inside your apartment, you don’t need any grand gestures to tell you Jungkook is here. His shoes are neatly tucked in the corner and his coat draped over the couch’s hand rest.

You opened the lights, scanning the room, but you already know where he is. Your bedroom door is closed, and something in the air tells you he’s behind it.

For a moment, you hesitate. Then, without overthinking, you twist the doorknob and step inside.

There he is.

Stretched out on your bed, sound asleep. The bed that fits you just right somehow looks too small with him in it, his presence making the room feel both full and impossibly small. A soft glow from your bedside lamp casts delicate shadows across his face, highlighting his perfect features.

You step closer and notice he’s already changed into the clothes he keeps here, a reminder of how often your space has become his, too. Whenever you choose to stay here, he chooses to stay with you.

You can feel the shift in the air before he even stirs. After watching him sleep for a few quiet moments, he moves, his eyes fluttering open and landing on you almost instantly.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" you ask softly.

He sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before shaking his head. "You’re back? I thought you were staying out longer." His voice is low and laced with sleep, but as he stands to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, you search his expression for any lingering annoyance. He seems calm now, so maybe whatever tension was there before has faded.

"You wanted me to come home, right?" You meet his gaze, trying to read him.

"Yeah, but if you really wanted to stay out, you didn’t have to leave early," he replies easily.

"But you wanted me home," you counter, brows slightly furrowed.

"I did. But I didn’t force you, did I? I told you I’d rest, and I did." His tone is matter-of-fact, like the answer is obvious.

"Then why did you sound so irritated? You didn’t force me, sure, but you acted like you were pissed." You pull back, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

"I'm not irritated. I'm just worried that you were out late and I wasn’t around. That’s it."

And now, his tone says otherwise.

You just stare at him, at the way his frustration lingers in the air, thick and heavy. The whole situation is fucked, and you don’t even know how to respond.

You want to be mad, but you can’t figure out if you even have a reason to be. You want to walk out, slam the door behind you, let him deal with whatever this is on his own. But you don’t move.

You just stand there. Watching. Waiting.

After a moment, he lets out a breath, his shoulders easing. When he meets your eyes again, the tension between you starts to fade.

Without another word, he steps forward, closing the space between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you in as his warmth.

His lips find your neck, brushing against it before pressing soft kisses along your skin, his grip tightens around you.

"Look, I’m sorry, Y/N," he murmurs against your skin. "I’m just tired. And when I got home, all I wanted was to see you, but you weren’t here."

Another kiss. Then another. 

That night was filled with quiet embraces and soft kisses. You let him hold you until sleep takes over, as if the tension from earlier had never existed.

A lingering thought sits at the back of your mind, something unspoken, but you push it aside, choosing to sleep it away.

By the next day, everything falls back into place. No more arguments, no tension, just the usual life of being with him in his space. You had worried that the disagreement might leave a crack, but just like you, he let it go.

You find yourself falling for him even more. Not just for the way he listens, but for how he truly understands you. For the way he always makes sure you're okay, making life with him feel effortless.

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and with every passing moment, your love for him only deepens. It still feels surreal, to have someone like Jungkook; a man who loves you in all the right ways. A man so close to perfect, you struggle to find a single flaw. It sounds almost too good to be true, yet here you are, living it.

But perfection is an illusion. No one is truly flawless. Sometimes, love makes you see only what you want to see, painting over imperfections with rose-colored strokes. Maybe it’s because you love him so much that you’ve convinced yourself he’s perfect. Maybe, without realizing it, you’ve chosen not to notice the flaws.

You take a deep breath, eyes lingering on Chloe’s Instagram story. A picture of her, Mina, and Henry on the hiking trip you had all planned together. A trip you were supposed to be on. It had been set in since last year, but in the end, you stayed behind. Because Jungkook didn’t want you to go.

As much as you hate to admit it, it frustrates you. He had brushed it off as concern, calling it too dangerous, even though the trail was a well-known tourist spot with guides and safety measures in place. You hadn’t even asked for his permission, just informed him of your plans, but he shut it down anyway. And that sucked.

But you didn’t push. The moment you sensed his growing irritation, you backed off, not wanting to turn it into something bigger.

“It’s okay, love. We’ll plan a hiking trip together. I just don’t want you going without me, I’d go insane worrying about you,” Is the only thing he says before he showers you with kisses.

To be fair, he did follow through. A week after your friends went, he took you on your own hiking trip, just the two of you. It wasn’t the same trail, but the effort was there, and you genuinely appreciated it. Still, no matter how much you tried to shake it, a part of you couldn’t ignore the longing in your chest, the part that wished you had gone with them.

It was a Tuesday afternoon in the thick of summer when your phone buzzed with a call from your father. He was asking you to come home for his birthday dinner. Of course, you hadn’t forgotten his special day, but the invitation itself was unexpected.

Your dad never really made a big deal out of his birthday. It was usually just him, your mom, and sometimes the kids—your sister's son and daughter. Sure, you’d been home to celebrate milestone birthdays like his 50th and 55th, but now he was only turning 57, and you were curious why he suddenly wanted you home for dinner.

The train ride would take two hours, but that wasn’t the issue. It was the thought of telling Jungkook. You hadn’t introduced him to your family yet, despite dating for a whole year. You wanted to, of course, but this was not the right time now that Jungkook was out of the country for business.

You really wanted to visit your dad for his birthday, but you weren’t sure if Jungkook would let you. 

Yeah, it sounds kind of messed up, but he’s been getting stricter about where you go, especially if it’s somewhere he’s not with you. They might suggest, "Why not just invite him?" But, of course, he’s out of the country right now, so that’s not even an option.

You thought about not telling him at all, but you knew you’d feel guilty. And if you were being honest, he’d find out eventually, somehow. He always did.

So, you decided to bite the bullet and just let him know you were heading home to celebrate with your dad. You sent a quick message, figuring it was easier than calling, especially since he was probably busy. Plus, you honestly didn’t want to deal with his reaction over the phone.

But, of course, he called you right after the message was sent.

“Yes, Kook?” You answered, nervously biting your nails.

“You said you’re going home for your dad’s birthday?” He asked, his voice laced with uncertainty as you tried to figure out his mood.

“Yeah, he called me out of nowhere for dinner tonight.” You replied, absentmindedly playing with your lips, hoping the casual tone would ease the tension.

“How are you getting there? I’ll be home tomorrow evening.”

“It’s fine. Just a train ride, nothing to worry about.”

You wanted to reassure him in a single breath; that you’d be fine, that it was safe, and if it got late, you could always stay overnight. But for some reason, the words wouldn’t come.

“Can’t you just go over the weekend? We could go together. You have work tomorrow anyway.” His voice held that familiar, persuasive tone, trying to talk you out of it.

“Today’s his birthday, and he asked me to be there.”

You wished you had more energy to push back, to explain how important it was to you, but honestly, if he didn’t want you to go, then whatever.

“Okay.”

His response caught you off guard, almost so much that you didn’t hear it at first.

“What?”

“You can go. It’s your dad’s birthday. I just want you to take care of yourself on the ride, okay?”

You paused, not quite believing what you were hearing. No argument? No complaints? You almost wondered if he was playing some mind game, letting you go without any resistance.

“Love, it’s your father. Of course, I’ll let you go. Sure, I’m worried about your safety, but I don’t want you to miss his birthday.”

You felt a mix of relief and confusion. So, you excitedly planned the trip, knowing you’d make it home to see your dad. You even considered staying over if it got too late, just to catch the first train back in the morning.

It had been years since you last saw your parents, the last visit being when they came to the city for a doctor’s appointment and to check up on you, of course.

Before heading home, you stopped by a few shops to pick out gifts—not just for your dad, but for the whole family. A little something for your mom, your sister, and of course, the biggest gifts went to your niece and nephew. You missed them, and choosing things that reminded you of them felt like a small way to show it.

The train ride was uneventful, quieter than usual, probably because it was just an ordinary weekday. As soon as you arrived, you were met with warm hugs and excited voices. You handed out the gifts—clothes, perfume, and a wristwatch for the adults, and toys for the little ones.

“I don’t even remember the last time I saw you!” your sister, Alice, said as you all gathered around the dining table.

You laughed, reaching for a serving of food. “I know. Last time I saw you, you weren’t this fit. Damn, what are you even taking?” you teased, watching her roll her eyes.

“Y/N, how have you been? How’s work?” your dad asked, cutting into his steak. Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, “I heard you’ve got a boyfriend now.”

Your mom chuckled, clearly amused.

“Work’s been good! Actually, I just got promoted and got a salary increase,” you said with a proud grin.

“Well, duh. That’s because your boyfriend is literally one of the major stakeholders,” Alice said, raising a knowing eyebrow while taking a bite of her food.

She wasn’t wrong. Even though she lived far away, you always kept in touch, and out of everyone, she was the one who knew the most about your relationship.

“Wow, he sounds like a big deal. Why didn’t you bring him?” your mom asked with a smile.

“He’s in France for a business trip,” you replied simply.

Half of the dinner conversation revolved around Jungkook. It felt good to talk about him, to say his name out loud in a space where you didn’t have to think too much about anything else. It reminded you why you loved him, why you chose to be with him. You usually only talked about him with Alice or Chloe. Mina and Henry, on the other hand, weren’t as eager to hear about him.

You knew why. They thought you had changed, that you’d become distant since you started dating Jungkook. And, well… they weren’t entirely wrong. You weren’t as available as you used to be. It wasn’t always because of Jungkook, but if you were being honest, a lot of the time, it was. Either you already had plans with him, or he just didn’t want you to go.

Sometimes, you wondered if that was normal. But every time the thought crossed your mind, you brushed it off before it could linger too long. Overthinking would only stress you out, and honestly, it was easier to just let it go.

As the evening passed, you felt completely at ease surrounded by your family. It had been so long since you’d had the chance to truly relax and catch up with everyone. Alice, living just a few blocks away, always stayed in the town with her husband while you ventured to the city. She had no need to move away, especially since her husband worked while she stayed home with the kids. You were happy for them, but you also missed these moments of simple, unhurried connection.

You were lounging on the couch when Alice walked in from the kitchen, holding her phone. She raised an eyebrow at you as she approached.

“Why aren’t you checking your phone? Jungkook called me, asking about you. He said you’ve been ignoring his calls.”

Oh shit.

Your stomach dropped. You’d completely forgotten about your phone. You scrambled off the couch, rushing to grab your bag from the dining room.

You pulled your phone out, and sure enough, Jungkook’s name flashed on the screen. Without wasting a second, you picked up the call.

“Love,” you said, your voice faltering just a little.

“Where the hell are you?” His voice was harsh, and instantly your heart started pounding.

You blinked, taken aback by his tone. “I’m at my parents’ house,” you said, trying to keep it calm.

“Then why the hell are you not answering your phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! You didn’t even let me know if you made it there safely!” His words were sharp.

You winced at the force in his voice but tried to explain, “I’m sorry, I didn’t have time—”

“And what the fuck was that story you posted? You’re not at your parents’ house.” 

What the fuck?

Your stomach flipped. “What are you talking about? I’m with my parents. You even spoke to my sister, didn’t you?”

“I’m not stupid, Y/N. I know what you’re doing. God knows how you and she planned this to make me think you’re at your parents.”

The words hit you like a slap. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then it hit you. Your Instagram story. It was a story you reposted from Mina six hours ago, with Chloe and Henry. It was a photo from last week, but Mina had just posted it, and you thought it was cute enough to share.

“That was from last week, Jungkook,” you said, your voice ice-cold.

“Oh yeah? And how the hell are you gonna prove that? You’ve ignored me all night!” His voice had grown louder, angrier.

“Are you serious?! If I were doing something behind your back, I wouldn’t leave a damn trace!” you snapped, the frustration bubbling over.

“And when have I ever lied to you, huh?!” Your voice shook with anger. “Even when I know you won’t let me go, I still ask permission from you, like I’m some damn kid! I don’t have to do that, but I still do it because I love you!”

There was a pause, thick with tension, and you could hear his harsh breathing on the other end. After a beat, he spoke again, colder than before.

“Prove it. Prove it to me, Y/N.” He said, provoking you.

You could feel your chest tightening, the anger in you rising. “I’m not proving anything to you, Jeon,” you hissed, the words slipping from your mouth before you could stop them.

You hung up without saying anything else, your fingers shaking as you looked at the screen. Leaning against the wall, you took deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. You couldn’t believe what had just happened. The anger was there, but it was the growing unease that made your heart beat faster.

Before you can even process what just happened, your phone starts ringing again. His name flashes on the screen, but you don’t hesitate; you shut it off and shove it into your bag. 

Alice steps into the kitchen, her eyes scanning your face with concern. “What was that?” she asks, gently rubbing your back.

You straighten up, hands on your hips, exhaling as you stare at the ceiling. Before you can answer, Alice’s phone buzzes in her hand. She holds it up, showing you the screen. Your stomach twists at the familiar number. Unregistered, but you already know exactly who it is.

“Block him, Alice,” you say, your voice firm. Without hesitation, she does.

“What happened? We heard you arguing with him,” she asks, her voice low.

With your frustration, you pull out a chair at the dining table and sink into it, burying your face in your hands. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering anger. “The audacity to call me a liar,” you mutter.

You’ve always listened to him. Let him have a say in your decisions. Let him decide when and where you can go. Let him tell you what’s best. You’ve given him control over so much of your life, and yet he still finds a reason to doubt you.

How messed up is that?

He didn’t even stop to talk things through. Just jumped straight to accusations. No hesitation, no second-guessing; just straight-up assuming the worst.

And the worst part? It’s your dad’s birthday. Instead of enjoying the night with your family, you’re sitting here, fuming over an argument that never should’ve happened in the first place. Over words, you never thought he’d say.

But maybe… maybe this is your fault too.

If you had just let him know when you arrived. If you had updated him like he always asks. If you hadn’t reposted that stupid story from Mina; one that, to him, made it look like you weren’t where you said you’d be.

And the worst thing? He doesn’t even know you actually did see them that day. It was just a quick visit to Mina’s apartment, barely an hour. Not a big deal. Not something worth mentioning.

Still, even if you messed up, does that really justify him doubting you like this? Assuming the worst without even asking?

You know you’re not perfect, but you also know one thing for sure; you would never do what he’s accusing you of. Not in a million years.

You decided to spend the night at your parents’ house. Even Alice stayed, not wanting to leave you alone with your thoughts. Going back to your place, where silence would only make things worse, wasn’t an option. At least here, you had distractions; family, conversation, anything to keep your mind from spiraling.

Before everything with Jungkook happened, you had planned to catch the earliest trip home so you could make it to work. But after that argument, there was no way. The idea of facing a normal day felt impossible. You sent in a sick leave request instead.

Alice slid a glass of beer toward you, watching as you picked it up. “Are you living with him now?” she asked, her tone casual but laced with curiosity.

You rolled your eyes before taking a sip. “I told you not to bring him up.”

“I’m just asking. You always say you barely sleep at your own place.”

She had a point. And she had also convinced you to drink with her, claiming it’d help lighten your mood. You weren’t exactly feeling up for it, but she was persistent, and since you weren’t going to work tomorrow, so you figured, why not?

“I stay at his place a lot, but I still go home whenever I want.”

Alice snorted. “That’s literally just living together, but with extra steps.”

“It’s not if I still have my own apartment.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She smirked, then grabbed her phone, scrolling for a song. As music filled the space, she glanced at you again. “You know, from what you’ve told me, he seems nice. But still… be careful. No matter how long you’ve been with someone, you never really know them.”

She wasn’t wrong.

It had only been two years since you reconnected with Jungkook. It felt like a long time, but was it enough to really know who he was?

Now that you thought about it, there was a lot you didn’t know.

His job? You knew he dealt with big companies, something about stakeholders, but the details were always vague.

His family? He never talked about them.

His past? Barely mentioned.

Even something as big as whether he planned to stay here or go back to Korea, he never really said. And you never pushed, assuming he’d tell you when he was ready.

But still… you couldn’t help but wonder.

You woke up with a headache; not from drinking too much, just from barely sleeping. You had tossed and turned all night, your thoughts refusing to let you rest. And now, after barely two hours of sleep, you were already awake.

Staying in bed was tempting, but lying there only meant giving your mind more time to replay last night’s argument. So, with a deep sigh, you forced yourself up and headed downstairs for breakfast.

Before you even reached the dining hall, you heard voices—loud, cheerful conversation. Strange. It wasn’t just your family. Maybe some neighbors had stopped by, or a distant relative had come for your dad’s birthday.

But no.

Because sitting at the dining table, grinning like he belonged there, was Jungkook.

Your mom’s face lit up when she saw you. “Y/N, you’re finally awake! Look who’s here!” She gestured for you to sit, her excitement completely unbothered by the fact that you had a massive argument with him just hours ago.

Jungkook met your gaze with a warm smile as if nothing had happened.

“He came early this morning to pick you up for work,” your mom continued. “But Alice told him you were taking the day off.”

Your dad chuckled, clapping Jungkook on the back. “Straight from France, Y/N! We thought you were just making excuses not to bring him over, but here he is!”

Jungkook only laughed at that, completely at ease.

You, on the other hand, said nothing. You were still irritated, but you couldn’t deny the shock of seeing him here. He told you he wouldn’t be back until tonight, yet here he was, casually having breakfast with your family like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And they liked him. A lot.

The conversation kept flowing, and from the way everyone talked to him, it was clear they’d already warmed up to him. This wasn’t exactly how you imagined introducing him to your family, but at least you skipped the awkward “Hey, Mom and Dad, this is my boyfriend” speech.

Alice shot you a knowing smirk. “Alright, we’ll get going and let you two talk,” she said, winking as she stood up.

You shot her a glare, but she only grinned.

They excused themselves, leaving just you and Jungkook in the dining hall.

He sat across from you, a cup of coffee in front of him, while you quietly ate your breakfast, letting him stare. You weren’t in the mood to break the silence first.

“You turned off your phone.” His voice was steady, but there was something behind it. Something tight.

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Obviously.”

“You had me worried.” His expression turned serious, waiting for you to respond. But you didn’t. You let the silence stretch between you, taking another bite of your bread.

Jungkook sighed. “Look, Y/N. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to lash out at you last night. I just... I panicked when you didn’t answer my calls or messages. And then I saw your Instagram story with your friends, and I—”

He reached for your hand resting on the table, his fingers wrapping around yours. His eyes softened, pleading.

Damn it.

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing slow kisses against your palm, his fingers playing with yours. You stayed quiet, watching him, feeling the warmth of his lips against your skin.

“I know I messed up,” he murmured between kisses. “That’s why I’m here, love. I’m really sorry.”

And just like that, your irritation wavered.

The frustration, the anger, the late-night overthinking. It all started slipping away.

With just a kiss on your palm, your resolve crumbled.

With just the fact that he flew back early to fix things, all the things that had you upset suddenly didn’t feel that heavy anymore.

He slowly let go of your hand, reaching for something beside him. Your breath hitched the moment you saw it, a bouquet of pink carnations, wrapped in soft lime green and peach paper.

Jungkook stood up, moving to sit beside you, placing the bouquet in your hands. You blinked, caught off guard, struggling to find the right words.

“I was supposed to leave later this afternoon,” he admitted, voice low, “but I couldn’t stand leaving things unresolved. And when I couldn’t reach you... I just couldn’t let it happen.”

Being loved by Jeon Jungkook feels damn good.

From the way he puts in effort to how he always finds ways to make you happy. From his care to his unwavering support, being in love with him feels easy; effortless. Of course, you won’t deny that his looks and wealth are nice perks, but those are just extras. What truly matters is how he loves you, how he makes you feel secure in his own way.

So, without hesitation, you let the issue slide.

You never really planned to stay mad at him for long. You just needed a little space, a moment to process everything. But that became impossible the second he flew across countries just to fix things with you. And if you were being honest, the argument happened because you ignored his calls and then reposted Mina’s story without thinking.

You ended up staying at your parents' house until after lunch. Not because you wanted to, but because your parents weren’t ready to let Jungkook go just yet. They really seemed to like him. The way he talked to them so comfortably, how they got his humor, how he charmed them effortlessly. They were practically keeping him hostage with their endless questions and stories.

Not that you based your love life on your parents’ approval, but it was nice to see them get along better than you expected. Jungkook wasn’t hard to like. Maybe back in high school, when he was more reserved, but now? Now, as a grown man with a business mindset, he knew how to win people over.

Well… except for your friends.

To be fair, they barely knew him. Most of their interactions were limited to the quick moments when he’d pick you up after you hung out with them.

Life with him has been good. No major arguments, no real problems. At least, not as long as you kept him updated on your whereabouts. He did the same for you, but you made it a point to let him know what was happening in your life, especially when he wasn’t around.

Because that’s all he really wanted.

For you to check in, to let him know you were okay. You understood that; it was how he made sure you were safe.

But there were moments when you wished he didn’t care so much.

Specifically, when you wanted to hang out with your friends.

That was the only real issue between you. His tendency to limit who you spent time with especially if they weren’t your high school friends.

And when you sensed that pushing too hard would only lead to an argument, you backed down. You let it go.

Because at the end of the day, you knew he just wanted to protect you.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But sometimes, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t really make sense.

Hanging out with your friends has always been part of your routine, it’s your way to unwind, to reset. They lift you up in a way no one else can. Of course, Jungkook does too, but it’s different when you’re with them. There’s a freedom to it, a lightness that you don’t get anywhere else.

“Love, please? I can’t miss Chloe’s party. It’s her farewell before she leaves for America.”

You tried to reason with Jungkook, hoping he’d understand. Chloe was chasing her dream, heading off to model for luxury brands, and this was the last time you’d all be together before she left.

“I’m allowing you, but I have to fetch you by midnight. You already know I don’t like it when you sleep somewhere else without me.”

His voice was calm but firm as he drove, one hand resting casually on the wheel. He had just picked you up from work when you decided to bring it up. You figured telling him now would be better than waiting until later.

“Love, this is the last time we’ll all be together. Come on.”

You reached over, resting your hand on his lap as you pleaded softly.

He glanced down for half a second, then back at the road, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve said my conditions, Y/N.”

Final. No room for negotiation.

Frustration simmered inside you. No matter how much you tried to understand him, this part of him never made sense.

Why does he always do this? Why does he insist on controlling when and where you can be with your own friends? People who were in your life long before he was?

You told yourself, again and again, that he was just trying to protect you. But from what?

These were your childhood friends. You had never been in danger with them, not once.

But, like always, you didn’t push. You let him have his way, let him hold the reins like he always did.

The party was at a club, nothing crazy, and afterward, everyone was supposed to crash at a hotel Chloe had booked nearby. She wanted to savor the last moments with you all before she left.

But, as always, you were going to miss out.

“Bye, Y/N. I’ll see you at midnight. I love you.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling away, walking back to his car, and driving off.

You were irritated, but you swallowed it down, not wanting to ruin the night. This was Chloe’s farewell party, the last time you’d all be together before she left and you weren’t about to let your frustration with Jungkook take over.

The party was packed. Chloe had invited everyone. Her high school circle friends, her college buddies, coworkers, even a few relatives. The energy was buzzing, the music loud, the drinks flowing. It was fun… or at least, it should’ve been. If only Jungkook hadn’t already soured your mood.

You did your best to act normal, plastering on smiles, laughing when expected, but Mina wasn’t buying it. She never did.

“You okay, Y/N?” she asked as you stepped outside with her while she had a smoke. You didn’t smoke, never had, but the fresh air seemed like a good idea.

“Yeah, of course!” you answered a little too enthusiastically.

Mina gave you a look before taking a slow drag of her cigarette.

“That’s the fakest answer I’ve ever heard from you,” she said flatly, exhaling a stream of smoke.

You forced out a laugh.

“Even your laugh sounds fake. Gosh, Y/N. Try harder.”

“Fuck you,” you shot back playfully, nudging her with your shoulder.

She smirked but didn’t drop it. “Seriously, what’s up? You haven’t looked okay since you got here. Did something happen?”

You hesitated. You never talked about your issues with Jungkook to your friends. Hell, you barely talked about him at all. It wasn’t just because they had… opinions about him. You just weren’t the type to discuss your relationship with others. When things got tough, you preferred to handle it on your own.

But tonight, you wanted to tell her. Just this once. Just so someone knew how you really felt.

But the words wouldn’t come.

“Just tired,” you said instead. “Had a lot of work to deal with before I left the office.”

Mina gave you a side-eye, clearly not convinced. “Mmm-hmm. That sucks,” she said, but her tone was laced with suspicion.

A beat passed before she asked, “By the way, how’s Jungkook? You never talk about him.”

That caught you off guard. Was she just curious, or did she sense something?

“He’s doing great. He drove me here. He’ll, uh… pick me up later too,” you say, trying to sound casual, trying to make it seem like no big deal.

But it was a big deal. And somehow, without meaning to, you’d just handed Mina the entire fucking truth without actually saying it.

Her brows shot up. “What the hell do you mean? You’re not coming with us after the party?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. You knew you’d have to break it to them eventually, but you hadn’t figured out how yet. And now, thanks to your own damn words, you were trapped.

“Didn’t we talk about this?” Mina pressed, her voice rising. “You said you were coming. Now you’re telling me Jungkook’s picking you up?”

“I—I mean, yeah, but—”

“He didn’t allow you, did he?”

“It’s not like that. I was supposed to come with you guys after the party, but I just… decided it’s not a good idea considering my state,” you say, blurting out whatever excuse comes to mind without even thinking.

Mina scoffs, raising a brow. “Oh, really? And you also decided it was a good idea not to tell us you’re ditching?”

“No! It’s not like—”

Before you can even finish, Henry walks in.

“Hey, what’s taking you two so long? Chloe’s looking for you. She wants to take a picture,” he says, approaching the both of you.

Neither you nor Mina say a word. But while Henry looks between you two in confusion, Mina keeps her gaze locked on you, practically daring you to explain.

“What’s going on?” Henry finally asks, his eyes flicking between the two of you.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” Mina says flatly, tossing her cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

You ignore the tension tightening around your chest. “Let’s go inside. Chloe’s waiting,” you mumble, turning to leave.

But before you can take five steps, Mina’s voice cuts through the air, laced with sarcasm.

“Make sure to tell her you’re ditching us  again after this, yeah?”

“What do you mean?” Henry asks, still completely clueless.

You glance back, trying to come up with something, anything to say, but your throat tightens. Instead of answering, you turn and walk away.

You swallow hard, holding your breath, forcing back the burn in your eyes. You try not to think. Not about Mina, not about the truth she’s circling, not about the weight pressing down on you.

Just breathe. Keep it together.

You’re almost at your seat when Chloe suddenly appears beside you, her bright smile and glassy eyes making it clear she’s a few drinks in.

“Babe! I was looking for you everywhere!” she exclaims, giggling. “Where’s Henry and Mina?”

“They’re outside,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “They’ll be here in a sec.”

But even in her tipsy state, Chloe picks up on the shift in your energy. Her smile fades, replaced by a concerned frown.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” she asks softly.

The moment the words leave her lips, your eyes start to burn.

Shit.

“I’m okay, Chloe! I just need to go to the restroom for a second,” you rush out, spinning on your heels before she can press any further.

She calls after you, but you don’t stop. You weave through the crowd, head down, feet moving on autopilot. The second you reach the restroom, you lock the door behind you and let everything crash down at once.

It’s harder than you thought.

You want to tell them everything. God, you’re so fucking tired of pretending. But at the same time, you want to protect Jungkook. You know exactly how they’d see him if you told the truth. Maybe they already do. Maybe you’re the one who refuses to acknowledge it.

You press your hands against the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. The music pounds outside. People are drinking, dancing, and celebrating. And yet, you’re here. Stuck.

You don’t recognize the girl staring back at you.

When did this happen?

How did you get here?

You thought you could handle it—handle the way Jungkook loves you. But now, standing here, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks, you realize something you’ve been pushing away for too long.

You’re suffocating.

The sudden knock at the door jolts you back to reality. Panic kicks in. You swipe at your tears, straighten your clothes, and force a deep breath.

“Just a second!” you call out, turning to the sink to splash cold water on your face. The knocking doesn’t stop. It gets louder, harder—urgent. But whoever’s on the other side isn’t saying a word.

Your hands shake as you dry your face. You pull yourself together as best as you can before unlocking the door, bracing yourself.

The second it swings open, you freeze.

Chloe, Mina, and Henry stand there, staring at you.

Chloe steps forward first, her drunken haze from earlier completely gone. “Y/N, what happened?” she asks, concern heavy in her voice.

You open your mouth to answer, but before you can get a word out, Mina moves in. Without warning, she grabs your wrist and pulls you out of the bathroom.

“Hey! Mina, careful!” Henry hisses, but she doesn’t let go.

Her grip is tight, but that’s not what stuns you, it’s the fire in her eyes.

The second you’re outside, away from the pounding music and the haze of the bar, she finally releases you. Then she turns, glaring at you with full force.

“No time for bullshit. Tell us what the fuck is going on,” she demands, arms crossed.

“The fuck, Mina? Can you chill?” Henry groans, rubbing his temples.

Mina whips around to face him. “How the fuck am I supposed to chill when she’s doing this again?! We’ve talked about this before, Henry and it’s so fucking obvious she’s doing it on purpose! For what? Her asshole boyfriend?”

“Mina!” Chloe snaps, but Mina doesn’t back down.

“What? Are you really going to sit here and act like this is okay? This is the last night we have together before you  leave, Chloe, and she’s pulling this shit again!” Her voice rises in frustration.

You barely register the words. Your chest is tight. Your throat feels like it’s closing up. You don’t even realize the tears are falling until you taste salt on your lips.

“Tell me, Y/N. Are you really sick, or is that just another excuse so you don’t have to come with us? Because you’re so obsessed with your boyfriend that you can’t even spare a single fucking night for your best friend?”

It’s too much.

“I wanted to come, okay?!” The words burst out of you. “I almost begged him to let me stay for just one fucking night, but he wouldn’t let me!”

Your voice cracks, and the tears come faster. You can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry that I let this happen! It’s all my fucking fault because I didn’t want to fight with him! I didn’t want him to be disappointed! I didn’t want to make it an issue!”

As the words spill out, the truth crashes into you like a truck. How fucking pathetic. How small you’ve made yourself for him.

Chloe speaks up, her voice soft but steady. “Why would he be disappointed?”

“I don’t know!” you cry out, frustration pouring out of you. “Because he doesn’t want me to, and if I do, it’s a fucking problem! And I just—” Your voice breaks again. You drag your hands through your hair, gripping it hard like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

“I don’t fucking want that, okay? I know you all think I’m stupid as hell right now, but that’s the fucking truth! Call me obsessed, call me whatever the fuck you want, because it’s true!”

Your heart is racing. Your breath is coming in short, sharp gasps.

“I’m so fucking stupid, but I chose this. And I wanted to apologize for ruining this night, for making this about me when it was supposed to be for Chloe.”

Your back hits the cold wall behind you, and you close your eyes, gripping your hair, willing yourself to disappear.

Silence.

No one says a word.

You don’t have to look up to know they’re all staring at you.

Your head is pounding, your heart’s racing, and regret hits you like a brick wall. You didn’t mean to let it all spill out like that, but fuck, you just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Goddamn it.

Your eyes flick down to your wrist. It’s ten minutes to eleven. You don’t have your phone, but you already know what’s waiting for you: missed calls, unread messages, or worse… he’s already here, looking for you.

“I should go. Jungkook’s probably—” your voice is tired, drained.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m not letting you walk away again. And I’m sure as hell not letting that asshole control your fucking life.” Mina’s voice is sharp, unwavering.

“No. I’ll figure this out, okay? I'll talk to you—”

“Are you seriously letting him take over your whole fucking life?” She looks at you like she doesn’t even recognize you anymore. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Mina, chill.” Henry grips her arm, but his eyes soften when they land on you. “Y/N, listen. We’ll figure this out. We’ll help you.”

“What are you talking about? I can handle this—”

Chloe pulls you in, arms locking around you in a trembling, desperate hug. She holds on like she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she lets go.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” her voice cracks, and your chest tightens. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, and we didn’t even notice.”

The words cut deep, deeper than you expect. And before you can stop them, the tears come rushing back, spilling over like a dam finally breaking.

“We didn’t know… I’m sorry.”

With just one hug, the weight you’ve been carrying shifts. Crushing, yet somehow lighter at the same time.

With just one hug, the exhaustion seeps into your bones, making you realize how much you’ve been running on empty.

With just one hug, it finally sinks in. This isn’t just overwhelming. It’s unbearable.

“We were supposed to be there for you,” Chloe whispers through her own tears. “But where were we?”

And that’s when it hits you. You’re not alone. You don’t have to be. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you can breathe.

But then, regret creeps in.

“What exactly happened?” Henry asks.

You step back from Chloe, swallowing hard. “Nothing really happened.”

“Y/N, please,” Mina sighs, voice weary. “Just stop defending him for once.”

And then, you see him.

A familiar figure standing in the distance, phone in hand, scanning the crowd with a panicked expression.

Jungkook.

The second his eyes land on you, he moves. Fast. Almost running.

Part 1 of 2 It's been a year since I last wrote, and I thought I wouldn’t come back and would just be a casual reader. But here I am, writing again anyway, lmao.