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lupinqs · 1 month ago

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THE TONIGHT SHOW ━━ paige bueckers x actress!reader

☆ ━ summary: a talk show, an after party, and far too much champagne leads paige bueckers straight to you.

☆ ━ word count: 9.5K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (scissoring, oral, fingering)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: shameless timmy chalamet cameo because i love him…. anyways that pic with p and the champagne single-handedly revived my writing

THE DRESSING ROOM is loud, but in a muted way—voices murmuring over each other, flat irons hissing like snakes, the faint thump of bass through the walls as the Tonight Show band rehearses. You’re sitting in a high-backed chair, eyes half-lidded, a stylist brushing highlighter onto your cheekbone while someone else carefully curls the ends of your hair. You’re barely paying attention, letting yourself be fussed over like a human Barbie. You’re used to it by now.

Timothée’s sprawled on the little velvet couch behind you, legs hanging over the arm like a spider that’s given up. He’s buzzing, as usual, knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. You love him, but he never seems to run out of energy. You glance at him in the mirror as he tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it with his mouth. Barely.

“Missed,” you mutter.

He gasps like you insulted his lineage. “Just untruthful.”

You grin, but your attention shifts. Something itches in your brain—some piece of information you forgot to check.

“What’s the lineup tonight?” you ask, voice pitched slightly above the hum around you.

The girl doing your hair, her name’s Rachel you think, nods absently as she wraps another section around the curling iron. “Rami Malek’s first, then you two. Oh, and I think Paige Bueckers has a little cameo. She’s crashing the monologue but doesn’t have an interview.”

Timothée sits up like he’s just heard his name. “Ohhh, because they won the natty, right?”

Rachel nods, unfazed. “Yeah. She’s just doing a little bit with Jimmy to start the show. Real quick thing.”

“Damn,” Timothée whistles low, like he’s genuinely impressed. “She a hooper, for real. I wanna meet her.”

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t say anything right away. Of course you know who Paige Bueckers is. Everyone does right now.

A few days ago, you watched her team win the national championship. You weren’t at home or anything sentimental—just curled up in your trailer between night shoots, a bowl of cereal in your lap and your assistant’s login for ESPN on your phone. But you’d watched her. The way she moved. The way she led.

You’re not a basketball diehard by any means, but the big stuff? You pay attention. And Paige is big. A name on the rise. A face that teenage girls across America are scribbling in the margins of their notebooks, reposting edits of on TikTok, screaming about like she’s Harry Styles during prime One Direction days. The girl’s got motion.

You don’t know what it is about her. Maybe it’s the way she smiles when she’s caught off guard or how she carries herself like she doesn’t care at all what anyone thinks. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she’s hot and tall and athletic and entirely too marketable.

Timothée tosses another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “What do you think she’s like?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes a little. Your co-star loves sports and Paige has been the biggest name in them this week. “I don’t know. Cool, probably.”

He nods along, chewing his popcorn. “Well, duh. She’s an athlete. They’re all cool.” (Case in point.)

You nod slowly, lips parting but not quite moving yet. You’ve been in rooms with world-famous people, with actors who have Oscars and musicians who have egos the size of planets. But there’s something about athletes—especially ones who just won something. There’s a heat to them, a freshness. Like they’re alive in a way everyone else is pretending to be.

“D’you think she’ll still be here after the show?” Timothée asks curiously. “Maybe at the after-thing?”

You hum, noncommittal.

But secretly, you hope so too.

Not that you’re planning anything. Not that it matters. You’re just curious.

That’s all.

And then—it’s time for rehearsal. Nothing new. You and Timothée are ushered through narrow hallways that smell faintly of hairspray and cold brew, past stagehands with headsets and clipboards. Jimmy’s warm-up guy gives you a quick wave. Someone hands you a printout with a few of the pre-cleared talking points: talk about the shoot in Italy, Timothée’s improv moment in the cafe scene, your character’s breakdown, funny story about the crying scene.

The usual fluff.

You barely glance at it. You and Timmy have done this song and dance enough times to know that the real magic happens when you ignore the cards and just talk.

Still, you sit side by side on the little couch in the green room, tossing lines back and forth as if you’re already on air.

“Okay,” Timmy says, clearing his throat in an exaggerated newscaster voice. “Tell me, what was it like doing another film where all you do is cry?”

You snort. “Life-changing. I mean, I think I’ve really got it down now. You, on the other hand…”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest dramatically. “I cried some beautiful tears.”

“Uh-huh.”

You’re both still laughing as the stage manager pokes her head in. “We’re about to get to your segment. Paige just finished her bit.”

At the mention of her name, something flickers in your chest—quick and sharp, like a spark. You don’t know why. You don’t even know her. You just saw her on TV a few days ago, limbs outstretched and screaming at the buzzer with the rest of her team swarming her like bees to honey.

Now she’s here, in the building. Probably just down the hall.

Timothée, of course, notices your shift. “You nervous?” he teases, nudging your shoulder.

You shake your head. “Nah.”

You don’t elaborate.

The rest of it happens fast.

They mic you up, fluff your hair one last time, and lead you through the wings toward the main stage. Jimmy’s voice floats through the air as he wraps up a bit with the band. The audience laughs, and the floor vibrates faintly with applause.

“Alright,” Jimmy grins, turning toward the camera. “Coming up next, two of my favorite people!” He calls your name and then Timothée’s, ushering you both onto the stage.

The applause swells like a wave. The music kicks in. You walk out with Timmy beside you, the lights hitting hard and hot, but you don’t flinch. You smile. You wave. You hug Jimmy and sit down on the couch, legs crossed, posture perfect. Timmy hams it up immediately, pointing at the crowd and then at you like, can you believe this woman? The audience eats it up.

It’s easy. Familiar. You talk about the movie. Timmy tells the story of how the gelato stand you filmed at got mobbed by fans. You talk about a scene that took eight takes because the wind kept flipping your hair into your mouth. Jimmy laughs too hard. The audience claps on cue.

And somewhere, offstage—maybe leaning against a wall or scrolling through her phone—Paige Bueckers is watching.

Maybe.

Not that it, like, matters.

PAIGE ISN’T USED to feeling like this.

She’s good with people. Always has been. Her dad used to say she could talk to a brick wall and get it to smile. She knows how to work a room, can flip the switch between lowkey and charismatic like it’s nothing. And normally, this kind of party would be her sweet spot—music pulsing, champagne in hand, famous people milling around.

But she’s been a little overwhelmed—and who can blame her? The last few days have been a whirlwind—interviews, flights, appearances, more interviews. Since the natty win, her world’s been spinning faster than usual, and not even her extroversion can keep up with the pace forever.

She’s grateful that Azzi and Kaitlyn are here with her. They’re posted up by the bar, all of them sipping champagne and trying to stay nonchalant, even though they just met Alicia Keys and Azzi legitimately had to walk away before she burst into tears.

“She said she watched the game,” Kaitlyn says, shaking her head in disbelief and swirling her glass.

“She said she loved my jumper,” Paige deadpans.

Paige lets the conversation blur around her, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of her glass. It’s crowded with beautiful, wildly successful people. She recognizes singers, actors, athletes. Everyone smells expensive and looks like they floated in from a campaign shoot.

Then she sees you.

You’re wearing a black dress that makes her blink twice. It clings in all the right places, dips a little lower than should be legal, and your hair is tucked behind one ear like you’re unaware of how gorgeous you look. Or maybe you are aware. Maybe that’s the point.

You’re deep in conversation with Kylie Jenner, who’s leaning in close, sipping on something pink and fizzy. Timothée Chalamet is perched beside you, laughing at something Kylie says, his hand tapping against her hip.

You look… perfect. Fuckable. Edible. Paige knows that it’s probably disrespectful to think of you like that when she’s never even spoken to you, but—damn—she can’t help herself.

Of course, she recognizes you instantly. She’s seen all your movies. Follows you on Instagram. Knows which photo you posted after the Venice premiere because she may or may not have saved it. She’s watched interviews you’ve done, including the one tonight with Jimmy Fallon and Timothée.

“You should go talk to her,” Azzi says beside her, like she’s been waiting for the moment Paige would finally catch up.

Paige startles slightly. “What?”

“You’ve been staring. Go rub your hands together and rizz her up or something,” Kaitlyn adds, laughing a little at the end. Azzi does, too.

“I haven’t—” Paige scoffs. “Fine, maybe a lil.”

Azzi nudges her with her elbow. “She’s right there. Just go say hi.”

“Yeah, because that won’t be weird. ‘Hi, I’m Paige, I’m a fan, please marry me.’” The blonde gives her best friend a look.

Kaitlyn grins. “You’ve said worse to girls you weren’t obsessed with.”

“I’m not obsessed with her.”

Azzi lifts a brow.

“… I’m just aware of her existence,” Paige mutters into her champagne.

She turns back toward you just in time to catch you laughing at something Kylie says. It’s a real laugh—head tilted back slightly, hand brushing your collarbone. You’re flushed with happiness or alcohol or both. Timothée leans toward you to whisper something in your ear, and you swat him away like a brother, grinning the whole time.

You look like a dream Paige isn’t sure she’s allowed to have.

Azzi nudges her again. “Go.”

“I’m waiting til she’s not surrounded.”

“She’s never not gonna be surrounded. That’s the point of people like her. They orbit.”

Paige sips her drink, hesitating. You glance up—just for a second—and Paige swears you catch her watching. Your gaze flits past, then back again, like you’re registering her face. There’s a pause, something unreadable in your expression, and then Kylie tugs at your wrist and you look away.

Paige exhales. She takes a sip of her champagne. She’s going to stay nonchalant. If she gets the opportunity to talk to you—later, maybe—then she will. But not right now.

Or, well, actually, maybe right now.

Because when she turns her head to look back at where you were previously standing, all she sees is Timothée Chalamet is walking toward the bar.

And you’re by his side.

You’re a few feet away, pausing just short of the counter to place a drink order. You laugh at something Timothée says, one hand resting loosely on the curve of your hip, the other reaching for a cocktail menu you probably won’t read. Paige’s eyes catch on the way your dress rides up just slightly as you lean forward, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, and it’s almost enough to knock the air out of her chest and send heat to her stomach.

She forces herself to look cool, calm. Like she belongs here. Like she’s not actively freaking out about the fact that the actress she might, sort of, maybe be lowkey obsessed with is now ten feet away ordering a drink.

And then it happens.

Timothée glances across the bar, eyes scanning lazily—until they land on her.

His whole face lights up. Like, visibly. Like they’re old friends or something.

“Yoooo! Paige!” he says, grinning, like he’s been waiting all night to spot her.

Paige blinks, actually looks behind her to make sure he means her.

“You’re Paige Bueckers, right?” he continues, already stepping closer. “Yo, I watched the championship game. You’re nasty. Ate them gamecocks up.”

Paige lets out a short laugh, genuinely caught off guard. “You watched?”

“‘Course I did, bro!” His grin widens, like it’s insane she didn’t believe. “I’ve been following y’all forever. Y’all are hoopers.”

Kaitlyn is already whispering to Azzi, probably something like what the hell is happening right now, but Paige tries not to pay attention to that. She holds her champagne glass a little tighter and nods coolly.

“Appreciate it, man. That means a lot,” she says, managing to keep her voice steady. “These are my teammates, Azzi and Kaitlyn.”

Paige watches as Timothée daps both of them up, his whole body buzzing—probably with champagne. “Nice to meet you guys. Love both your games, for real.”

And then Paige sees it—the way his eyes flick back to you as the bartender slides your drink across the counter. You’re turning to say thank you, lifting the glass to your lips. And then, without warning, Timothée reaches out, both hands grabbing onto your shoulders.

“Yo, you gotta meet someone,” he says, steering you gently but decisively in their direction. “Come here.”

You glance over, a little curious but not annoyed, your gaze settling on Paige and her friends as you approach. Paige straightens up slightly—not noticeably, she hopes—but she can already feel the warmth rising in her chest.

“This,” Timothée says, pulling you in beside him, “is Paige Bueckers. Bucketssss!” The way he drags out the second word leads Paige to believe he’s had one too many champagnes.

You smile easily, glossy lips pulling up at the corners. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

Paige feels her brain short-circuit for just a second.

Your voice is soft but certain, laced with that familiar confidence she’s seen in your interviews. And now it’s directed at her.

She nods, flashes a small grin. She hopes she seems chill. “Aye, good to know I’m not invisible.”

You laugh, and Paige swears the whole party sound dips out behind it. “Not even close.”

“This is Azzi and Kaitlyn,” Paige adds, gesturing toward her teammates, desperate to keep the conversation moving so she doesn’t drown in her own nerves.

You offer both of them a quick wave, clearly familiar enough with sports to know names, but you’re focused mostly on Paige now. And that’s dangerous.

Because up close, you’re even more stunning. Your dress dips just slightly in the front, and the shape of your cleavage makes Paige want to forget how to speak English. She reminds herself—she’s fine. She’s got game. She’s been in tougher spots than this.

But your eyes flick down her frame briefly—just a flash—and then back to her eyes. You tilt your head a little, smile. And she thinks, maybe she doesn’t.

“You played great in March, by the way. I saw that forty piece.”

Paige raises a brow, impressed. Her forty piece wasn’t in the natty or Final Four—it was in the Sweet Sixteen. So, maybe you weren’t just watching to watch. Maybe. “You watched that game?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “I dabble in excellence.”

Timothée lets out a loud drunken laugh beside you, “Dabble in excellence—I’m stealing that.”

Paige’s grin widens. “You can’t just dabble in March.”

“Guess I’m a committed fan, then,” you say casually, and God, you really don’t play fair.

Azzi catches Paige’s eye behind your back, giving her the most painfully obvious oh, you’re screwed face. Paige ignores her entirely.

“Well,” Paige says, lifting her glass toward yours, “cheers, then.”

You clink glasses with her, your fingers brushing against hers briefly. “Cheers.”

And it’s not flirty, not exactly—not yet. But there’s something in the way you’re looking at her now. A spark. An open door. Well, shit.

Paige doesn’t know where this is going, but suddenly she doesn’t care how tired she is or how long this week has been—because you’re standing in front of her in that damn dress, and you know her name, and your smile is enough to knock her off balance in the best possible way.

But, the thing about nights like this is that they never really slow down.

One minute, Paige is thinking she might actually be getting somewhere—that you might actually be into talking to her—and the next, someone who looks vaguely famous (blonde, sequined, expensive) is whisking you and Timothée away with a cheerful, “Come on, you have to meet—!”

You shoot Paige an apologetic little smile as you’re tugged off, mouthing something like sorry!, and then you’re gone. Just like that. The crush of bodies swallows you whole.

And Paige… is left standing there, still gripping her champagne glass like it might offer answers.

Azzi bumps her shoulder. “Paige,” she laughs.

“I’m calm,” Paige lies through her teeth, staring at the spot you were just standing in.

“Uh-huh,” Azzi nods, looking entirely unconvinced, biting her lip to fight another laugh from escaping.

Kaitlyn grins, too. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinkin’,” Paige mutters, taking another sip, “that I shoulda said more.”

Azzi snorts. “Nah, you said enough. She was into it.”

Paige gives her a side-eye. “You think?”

“She smiled at you like this.” Azzi does a dramatic, slow-motion head tilt, batting her lashes.

“Stop.” Paige shoves her.

But… yeah, maybe she’s hoping her best friend is a little right about this one thing.

IT’S ALMOST AN HOUR before she sees you again.

In the meantime, she’s made rounds with Azzi and Kaitlyn, posed for some photos, took another flute of champagne, and then promptly lost track of them somewhere around a table filled with sliders and very fancy-looking truffle fries.

She heads to the bathroom just to get a breather, leaning against the marble counter and staring at herself in the mirror for a beat too long.

You’re fine, she tells herself. You’re not twelve. She’s just hot. And famous. And you’re…

She frowns. “Also hot. And famous,” she says out loud, trying to hype herself up. It doesn’t work. She’s never really cared about either of those things.

And, of course, the mirror—as expected—doesn’t respond.

She leaves the bathroom and steps back into the party, only to find that Azzi and Kaitlyn have fully vanished. Not just moved—vanished. Gone without a trace. It’s not that big of a room, but the lights are low, and the music is louder now, and she’s weaving through the crowd like she’s suddenly in a dream sequence.

Then—

“Your teammates ditch you?”

The voice comes from behind, low and familiar, and Paige freezes before she turns.

You.

You’re standing there holding an empty glass, still looking so fucking fine in that damn dress, your weight shifted to one hip and an amused tilt to your head like you might already know the effect you’re having on her.

Paige blinks once. “Uh…”

You stare.

She clears her throat, pulling herself together. “Yeah. Seems like they did.”

You nod, tapping the side of your glass. “It’s okay. I was ditched too.”

She laughs softly, eyes flicking down to the floor and then back to you. “Timothée ditched you?” She doesn’t add the fact that she thinks anyone ditching you might as well be a crime.

You shrug, scrunching your nose just slightly. “Yeah. He and Kylie left. They’re always escaping to go be nasty together.”

And Paige—

Paige blinks, because the first thought that enters her brain is: you and I can go be nasty together.

And the second thought is: Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me.

She manages to keep a straight face, nodding with a mix of mock solemnity and disgust. “Gross.”

“Very,” you agree, leaning a little closer. “But I guess that makes us the abandoned ones. Left to fend for ourselves in this sea of glitter and Botox.”

Paige chuckles. “Could be worse.”

You smile at her, a dimple popping out of your cheek. “Could definitely be worse.”

There’s a beat. A pause, but not an awkward one. The music swells in the background—some mellow pop remix of a song Paige doesn’t recognize—and your eyes haven’t left hers.

But then they do, glancing at her empty glass. “Out of champagne?”

She looks down like she didn’t realize it. “Apparently.”

You hold up yours, empty too. “Same. Let’s fix that?”

Paige nods, heart ticking up a notch. “Let’s.”

You both drift to the bar again, standing shoulder to shoulder while the bartender takes someone else’s overly complicated drink order. You lean in a little as you wait, not quite touching but close enough that Paige can smell the citrusy perfume on your neck.

“Sooo…” you say, dragging the word out, looking at her sideways and smirking a little. “You’re gon’ be the number one pick next week, yeah?”

Paige feels her face flush a little, blood rushing through her cheeks. The draft. Another thing that’s coming head-on. She’s excited. Grateful, of course. Just… also still a little overwhelmed. It’s okay; she’ll be ready come Monday.

She swallows, shrugging a little. “If that’s in God’s plan for me, then I guess so.”

Your eyes seem to soften a bit at that but before you can respond, the bartender finally turns to you both. Paige puts on her normal smile, ordering two more glasses and sliding her card across the counter before you can even reach for your handbag.

You arch a brow. “Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums, not elaborating. She leans against the bar, looks at you. She hopes she seems smoother than she feels.

Your lips twist into something almost flirtatious. “Fine. But only if I get to buy the next round.”

“You planning on stayin’ that long?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and playful. “I don’t know. You planning on making it worth my while?”

And there it is—Paige feels it hit her chest, the full-body flush of oh my God, this is happening.

She plays it cool. Leans in just a little. “I might.”

You hold her gaze for a moment. The drinks arrive. You both take a sip, and something simmers in the space between you.

“Okay then,” you say softly. “Show me what you’ve got, PB.”

THE DRINKS GO DOWN easily. Too easily, maybe.

Because—one minute, Paige is flirting with you at the bar, and the next, you’re both in the family restroom.

It’s a nice bathroom. Like, really nice. Too nice for what’s about to happen in it.

There’s a changing table, a comfy little chair in the corner, even a soft-glow light coming from behind the mirror. It smells like eucalyptus.

Paige watches as you push the lock in with a soft click. You move then, stepping right into her space.

She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even think.

Her mouth is on yours before either of you says a word.

It’s hot. Messy in the way champagne makes everything feel a little blurred and desperate. Paige’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you until your back hits the edge of the sink. You’re kissing her like you’ve been waiting all night to, and Paige is still trying to keep her cool but—God, the way you taste, the way you’re tugging at the open collar of her flannel—it’s a lot.

Paige slips her tongue into your mouth, licking around, tasting. You make a low sound when she sucks lightly on your bottom lip and Paige feels it everywhere.

“Fuck,” you mumble and Paige manages to laugh a little, low and breathless, before tilting your chin up to kiss you deeper.

Paige’s head spins a little.

How did she even get here?

She’s in a family restroom. At a celebrity afterparty. With you. Famous, perfect, actress you, whose Instagram she’s stalked more times than she’ll ever admit. And now you’re as close as possible, your tongue tangled with hers.

This can’t even be real.

And yet—your mouth moves to her jaw, kissing along it in slow, maddening lines, and Paige grips the edge of the sink behind you because if she doesn’t hold onto something, she might just melt into the floor.

You murmur into her neck, “You good?”

She laughs quietly, shakes her head a little. “Yeah,” she mumbles, a little breathless. She reaches for your face again, adding, “C’mere,” pulling you back in.

She kisses you, harder this time, a little reckless. You taste like champagne and mistakes and her own disbelief. And strawberry lip gloss. The same strawberry lip gloss that she’s essentially sucked off.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of her flannel, lightly tracing the skin above her waistband, and it makes her hips twitch forward before she can stop it. You feel it. Smirk into the kiss.

“Easy, Bueckers,” you tease, lips brushing hers.

Paige swears something explodes behind her ribs. Like a firework. Or a panic attack. Or both.

She groans, kissing you again—if she doesn’t keep doing it, she might lose her mind. Her hands move back to your waist, grabbing you, your dress wrinkling slightly beneath the grip of her palms. You kiss her deeper, mouth open and needy, teeth grazing the blonde’s lip.

Paige’s hands slide lower, palms skimming down the curve of your back, fingers trailing over the fabric of your dress until they land—firmly, confidently—on your ass. She gives a slow squeeze, exhaling lowly at the feeling. You make a soft sound, too, and it nearly sends her spiraling.

Paige feels you press closer to her, your leg nudging between hers slightly. Her pulse picks up like she’s got two seconds left on the shot clock and the ball’s in her hands.

Her hands palm at you again, trying to memorize the shape of you. At the feeling, you pull back just enough to speak, lips kiss-swollen and spit-slick, eyes a little glossy.

“D’you wanna leave?” you ask, voice low and slightly breathless.

Paige’s mouth instinctively moves to your jaw, kissing there, slow and a little greedy. She hums against your skin. “Where would we go?”

You tip your head back slightly, exposing your neck to her in a way that drives her insane. “Back to mine?”

And—fuck.

That snaps something within Paige.

She stills for a half-second. Not pulling away. Just taking a moment. Letting that sentence sit in the air between you two.

Back to yours.

You. Your apartment. You, a little tipsy and flushed and stunning and clearly just as into this as she is.

How in the hell?

This doesn’t happen to her. Sure, she’s fucked a good amount of girls on campus. Sure, she’s got a lot of fans that edit her. But this? You? The girl with the Oscar buzz and the actual fame and that little black dress that’s been driving her out of her mind all night?

All she can think is—thank God for that natty.

She kisses you again, deep and hungry and like that answers the question for her.

You smile into it, pulling back just slightly, lips grazing hers as you ask, “Yeah?”

And Paige—grinning now, breath uneven, hands still resting on your ass, fingers skimming the back of your thighs because your dress is so short—says against your mouth, “Oh, yeah.”

You laugh, and it’s giddy and bright and sounds like bells. Paige wants to hear it again.

But then you’re both moving. You smooth your dress, pulling it down a little, fixing your lipgloss in the mirror with a lazy swipe of your finger. Paige straightens her flannel and tightens her ponytail, trying not to look like she was just seconds away from doing something very vile in a public restroom.

You unlock the door. Step out first.

Paige follows, hand brushing the small of your back before she shoves it in her pocket, like if she doesn’t, she’ll touch you again in front of everyone.

You both re-enter the noise and chaos of the party like nothing happened. Paige sends a quick text to Azzi and Kaitlyn—wherever they are—telling them of where she’s going.

You catch her eye over your shoulder as you lead the way toward the exit. And Paige just follows—completely, hopelessly, happily gone.

YOU TAKE THE SUBWAY.

You could’ve called a car—should’ve, probably—but it just feels easier like this. It’s late, the platform is as quiet as it is all day, and there’s something a little funny about a famous actress and a famous basketball player going home on the subway following a celebrity afterparty. You half expect her to complain or hesitate, but she doesn’t. She stays right beside you the whole time. Close, like she needs to feel the heat from your skin.

You feel the same. It’s almost like your skin might catch fire if she gets any nearer.

You don’t talk much, just a few soft jokes between stations. Stuff like:

“Are the subways usually this dirty?”

“Paige.”

And:

“People are staring.”

“Yeah. At you.”

“Mm. Doubt it.”

“You’re holding the pole like it owes you money, Bueckers. You’re not exactly blending in.”

(Clearly, Paige is not a New Yorker.)

She laughs at that, quietly, and you watch her from the corner of your eye.

You didn’t plan this. At all.

When the girl doing your makeup mentioned Paige Bueckers would be popping into the Tonight Show monologue, you’d barely reacted. Just filled it away. You knew who she was, of course—who doesn’t, at this point? You’re not deep into basketball, more of a casual watcher, but she’s impossible to ignore. A little golden, a little unreal.

You definitely didn’t expect to be on your way home with her a few hours later.

But then Timmy geeked out. Saw her at the bar, dragged you to meet her. Said her name with this over-the-top awe as if he isn’t ten times more famous than her. You’d just laughed and let him, not thinking too much about it—until you got close.

And then, yeah, you understood.

She’s hot.

Like, obviously. She’s tall, strong, stupidly pretty in a way that seems both entirely effortless and at the same time a little intentional. Her posture alone—the confidence in her stature—made you straighten up, and you put on your best perfectly casual acting face for moments when you don’t feel quite as casual as you should.

But it wasn’t just her appearance.

She’s kind. That was clear right away. Not performative or trying too hard. Just nice. And funny, in a dry way. Quick with the side comments. Self-aware. And slightly, slightly nervous around you, which you can’t lie—you like. It’s endearing.

There’s this quiet little tension between you now. A hum under the surface. Every time your knees brush on the subway bench, you feel it spike. She keeps glancing at your legs like she’s trying not to, like she doesn’t realize you’ve already caught her twice.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there and let it build.

The ride doesn’t last long. Your stop comes faster than expected, and Paige follows you off the train without a word.

It’s chilly outside. The city’s quieter than usual, but not silent. It never is. You walk a block to your building, Paige’s steps in rhythm with yours, and when you glance over at her under the streetlight, she looks down and gives you a half-smile. It makes your chest tighten a little. Like something you didn’t know was there is trying to make itself known.

Inside your building, you greet the doorman, who gives you a knowing look that you ignore. Paige nods politely. She’s got that people-pleaser charm—you can tell.

The elevator is slow. Old. You both step in and the doors close with a soft thunk.

You hit the button for your floor. Then, the air shifts.

There’s a pause—quiet but heavy. The kind of silence that makes you feel the other person. Paige stands just a little too close. Not aggressively. Just… aware. The distance between you isn’t quite respectful. Her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away.

You stare straight ahead, but your eyes flick sideways every few seconds. She’s doing the same. You can feel it. Like heat. Like static. The air between your bodies buzzes like it’s waiting for permission to break.

The elevator dings.

Your floor.

You step out. She follows. And this time, she’s close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales.

You swallow and walk to your door, unlocking it quickly, gingers a little clumsy on the key. Your heartbeat’s in your ears now. Loud.

The door swings open, and you step aside to let her in.

Paige walks in slow. She glances around, taking in the space—it’s nice. You know it is. Acting—well, it makes good money. And your apartment is a reflection of that.

You let her look around, setting your keys down and toeing your shoes off. When you glance back up, she’s watching you.

Neither of you says anything.

You walk over to her slowly.

And Paige—still looking at you like she’s not quite sure how this is real—just stands there, letting you close the space between you.

Your fingers find the hem of her flannel, gently.

“You wanna stay a while?” you ask, voice quiet, casual.

She nods.

And this time, it’s her who kisses you.

Its immediate. The fire. The heat. The way her mouth meets yours like it’s something she’s been dying to do all night—maybe longer. Her lips are warm, soft but urgent, and you can barely keep up with the way she kisses you, like she’s been holding herself back and now there’s no reason to anymore.

You make a sound against her mouth, half gasp, half laugh, and she responds with a low hum, hands already gripping your hips like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

Your fingers slide up to her shoulders, trying to steer, to hold, to anchor—but you’re barely steady yourself. The two of you stumble back a few steps, laughing breathlessly between kisses as she walks you toward the couch, bumping a wall, into the table, not even caring. Her hand is on your lower back, guiding you—no, pushing you—and you let her, let her press you into her, let her kiss you like she knows exactly what she wants and exactly where she wants it.

It’s messy. Hands moving with no direction, your bodies pressing into each other like you’ve already forgotten you’re in your own damn apartment. Her mouth moves from your lips to your neck for half a second and you feel your knees weaken a little. You bite your lip, grab her jaw, kiss her harder. It’s so much, too much—but not enough.

You gasp against her mouth, “Wait—bed,” and she pulls back, just a breath away, eyes wide and dark and already a little wild.

“Yeah,” she says, already reaching for your hand, letting you pull her because she’s not familiar with the space.

You thought maybe you’d end up… here. The couch. The floor. Whatever. But no—you make it to the bedroom, somehow. Still kissing, still giggling in these little gasps when you bump into furniture. Still fumbling. Still grabbing.

Once you’re there, you push her down onto the bed, your palms flat on her chest. She goes easily, grinning up at you as her back hits the mattress. She’s breathing hard. So are you.

You crawl into her lap, settling your thighs on either side of hers, letting her hands immediately go to your waist again—strong, sure now. Her fingers grip you tighter than before. She’s steadier. More confident. And it’s really fucking attractive.

You bend down and kiss her again, slower this time but just as deep, just as desperate. Her hands slide up your back, over your spine, under the hem of your dress, wandering. You don’t stop her. You don’t want to.

And God, the way she moves underneath you. The way she kisses you now—like she’s not nervous anymore. Like she’s got you, and she knows it.

Your lips trace down, slow and hungry, grazing her skin like you want to memorize every part of her. Her jaw. The curve of her throat. The warm spot just beneath her ear. You suck lightly at first, then a little harder when you feel her shift beneath you—when her grip tightens and her breath gets heavier.

She mutters something low and strained, a quiet “Christ,” that sends a pulse right through you.

Her hands slide under your tiny dress. You feel her fingers splay across the back of your thighs before moving your, gripping your ass in a way that’s both firm and reverent. Like she’s still shocked you’re even here, straddling her, touching her. You groan softly against her neck, sinking your teeth gently into her skin there before pulling back with a kiss.

Your focus shifts to her flannel. The sparkly thing that you think probably only she can pull off. You eye it, fingers fumbling a bit as you reach for the buttons. She doesn’t move to help you at first. Just keeps her hands right where they are, thumbs brushing slow, distracting circles as she watches you with this little smirk.

You finally get the last button undone and she shrugs it off, tossing it across the room. She’s left in a black Nike sports bra and cargos and somehow still looks like maybe the hottest person you’ve ever seen in your life—and, seriously, you’ve seen a lot of hot people.

Your hands run up her bare abs, firm beneath your palms, before she pulls you back down like she can’t go another second without your mouth on hers.

This kiss isn’t sweet or exploratory. It’s flat-out hungry. Like now she’s got permission to take her time and take her fill. Her hands are back on you again, sliding lower, gripping tighter, pulling you down into her until your whole body is flush with hers. You can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric between you, the tension that’s been simmering since the moment your eyes met hours ago now boiling over.

You grind into her without even thinking, and the way her breath stutters against your mouth makes your whole body buzz.

You chuckle, soft and breathless, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her lips are kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Okay?” you whisper.

“Mm,” she hums before pulling you back into her quickly like she was offended you pulled away at all in the first place.

You respond immediately, tongue sliding against hers, teeth clashing. Her hands are everywhere. Your hips roll against hers instinctively, your breath catching every time her fingers dig into your skin or slide along your thighs. It’s hot and heavy and dizzying in the best way.

At some point, she pulls back just slightly, lips parted, gaze hungry. She looks down at the way your dress rides yo as you move against her and then back up at you like she’s barely holding it together.

“Can I take it off?” she asks, voice low, almost hoarse. Her hands pull at the fabric a little. “Needa see you.”

There’s this desperate kind of honesty in the way she says it that shoots straight through you. You not without even thinking, already helping her—grabbing at the hem of the dress, pulling it over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.

It lands somewhere near the door. Neither of you cares.

Now, you’re in nothing but your lacy black thong (thank God you decided to wear a sexy pair of underwear today, seriously), straddling her, skin flushed and warm and bare to her, and when Paige looks at you—really looks at you—she groans under her breath. Head falls back for a second like she needs to reset, eyes fluttering before they lock onto you again, darker than before, icy blue mixing with the black of her enlarged pupils.

“Shit,” she mutters, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to your waist, then higher. “You’re—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

She pulls you down to her again, but this time her mouth doesn’t go to your lips. Instead, she kisses across your chest, slow at first, open-mouthed and warm. Her rough palms hold you firm against her, fingers splaying along the swell of your ass as her lips move down. And then her mouth closes around one of your nipples, sucking—lightly at first, just enough to make you twitch in surprise—and then again, a little harder, her breath hot where it fans out.

You exhale shakily, fingers fumbling with her hair tie before undoing it, letting her ponytail fall loose. She looks up at you for just a second, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

And she keeps kissing across your chest and tits, mouth open and warm and purposeful. Her lips drag over the swell of you, her tongue flicking occasionally at your nipples like she’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way you react. And you do react—your back arches, your hands tighten in her hair, and your hips roll forward against her without even thinking about it.

She hums in response, low and satisfied. The sound vibrates against your skin. Her fingers tighten at your waist, holding you in place, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuck,” she murmurs against you. “Don’t stop doin’ that.”

You don’t.

You move against her with a little more purpose, the friction sending a slow burn through your body. Her hands are hot and strong where they grip you, and her mouth doesn’t let up. She kisses over the curve of one of your tits, up to your collarbone, then back down, her breath shaky now too. She’s unraveling under you, even if she’s trying not to show it.

But you’re unraveling, too. Fast.

You let her mouth linger a little longer, let yourself feel every second of it—and then you’re tugging away from her, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Her eyes flick open, meeting yours, a silent question in them.

“I need…” you trail off, already reaching down.

She gets it. She shifts under you, lifting her hips as you start pulling at her cargo pants. She helps, fumbling a little in the rush to get them off, and her boxers come with—unintentional, but neither of you is complaining.

Paige leans up, kissing you again—a little slower now, a little more sensual. Tongues sliding and tangling languidly. There’s a kind of reverence in it now, like she’s savoring. You’re straddling her still, one knee braced beside her bare thigh, your chest still flushed and wet from her mouth, your breathing uneven. Her hands are at your hips, fingers flexing like she can’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let herself get lost in the feel of you completely.

Her fingers drift along, ghosting along the hem of your thong. She pauses, just barely.

“Can I?” she asks lowly. It’s respectful; you like that.

You nod, already leaning in. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, Paige.”

She kisses you once more—quick, urgent—before sliding her hands down, easing your underwear over your hips, your thighs. You lift just enough to help her, and she works them off completely, tossing them to join the growing pile of clothes somewhere on the floor.

And then she pulls you down again. Fully. Flush against her.

You gasp quietly at the contact, your bare cunt pressed to hers, the heat and slick between you unmistakable now.

Paige groans quietly, head dropping to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your waist as she holds you to her. Her hands splay wide across your lower back, like she needs to ground herself in the feeling of you there. Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and you feel her smile just barely.

“Fuck, ma, you’re killin’ me here,” she mumbles into your skin.

You laugh, breathless. “Pretty sure you started it.”

Her hand drifts lower, palming your ass, her mouth now back on your jaw. “And I’mma finish it.”

Her words send a jolt through your stomach. And then she’s shifting beneath you, hips twitching up against yours, your slick clits bumping. Her palms guide you, moving you against her with slow, grinding pressure.

It’s instinct more than choreography. Your bodies find the rhythm together, messy and hot and overwhelming.

You let out a sound—something caught between a sigh and a moan—and she tightens her grip like she’s trying to draw more out of you. Her eyes are glazed over, locked on yours, and there’s a kind of quiet desperation in them that makes you grind down against her harder.

“Fuck, that—” you gasp a little as she shifts her angle, her pussy hitting yours just right. “Right there, Paige—”

She groans, pulling you down so your forehead is resting against hers, your lips brushing. You can feel her breath against your mouth, fast and shallow. You can hear the slick, vile sounds of your wetness against hers filling the room.

“Keep going,” she mumbles. “You feel so good, just—don’t stop.”

You nod, can’t even form a real answer, just roll your hips against her again, and again, chasing the way her body feels under yours, the way her mouth keeps finding your throat, your jaw, your shoulder. Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair dampening, sticking to her forehead.

You’re both panting heavily now, bodies moving in sync, heat building between you like it’s alive. The room spins a little around the edges, your heart pounding so loud it feels like the only thing you can hear besides Paige’s voice, the occasional moan, and the rustle of sheets.

She grips your waist and rocks up into you, and the pressure makes your vision blur.

“Shit,” you breathe.

Paige laughs under her breath, low and ragged. “Mm. I—I know.”

Everything begins to sharpen around you and you lean in, kissing Paige as hard as you can—teeth clashing, mouths open and desperate. Every roll of your hips, every sound that escapes either of your lips, every gasp and half-muttered name. Her hands hold you so tight you think she might leave bruises—you don’t care. Your cunts are warm and wet and swollen, sliding messily enough to get each other’s arousal on both of your thighs.

It builds fast. Hot and tight in your chest, in your stomach, in the way you’re grinding against her now—faster, harder, needing more, needing her. She’s right there with you, her mouth pressed to the side of your neck, her voice rough and muffled against your skin.

“God, you’re—” she chokes out, breath stuttering. “You feel—shit, I’mma—”

“Paige,” you mewl.

She nods, biting at your throat a little.

That’s all it takes.

Everything inside you snaps. White heat floods your senses and you fall into it, trembling and moaning against the blonde, your whole body shuddering as you come, pressed tight against her. Paige follows right after, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around your waist as she falls apart with you.

You collapse against her—completely boneless, your cheek pressed to the curve of her shoulder. Paige’s arms stay around you, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts against yours, skin slick with sweat.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Skin damp, thighs sticky. Hair in your face. Her heartbeat thudding loud under your ear.

Then she rolls, gently shifting you onto your back and settling between your legs again. Her body rests over yours, her nose nudging your jaw before she starts trailing wet kisses along your neck and shoulder.

You hum at the feeling, the pads of your fingers trailing down the side of her arm. “Feels good,” you murmur lazily, eyes half shut.

Paige chuckles against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly, watching as she lifts her head just enough to smirk at you, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright. Then, without breaking eye contact, her hand moves lower—slow, easy. You don’t even realize where it’s going until you feel it between your thighs, her fingers sliding between your slick folds, pressing lightly against your sensitive clit, confident and sure.

Your breath catches.

Paige leans up, her mouth just by your ear. “Can you gimme another?”

You blink at the ceiling for a second, trying to form a coherent thought. She was nervous before, you could tell, and now she’s so damn sure. You turn your head to see her. Her expression is intense—she looks almost like she would devour you if she could. Her fingers stay resting on your clit, unmoving with the slightest bit of pressure. The touch alone makes your skin feel like it’s buzzing.

You swallow. “Mhm. Yeah,” you stumble out.

Paige’s mouth curls into a grin, something between cocky and sweet. “Good girl.”

And then her fingers finally move. She circles your clit—once, twice, three times. Your thighs twitch some, still sensitive from before. Paige reaches down after that, sliding her middle finger inside you. She gives you a moment to adjust before adding a second digit in.

You try to keep it together—you really do—but the way her fingers move in and out, slow and certain, curling just when you need her to… she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her blue eyes flick between where her fingers thrust inside you, covered in your slick, and your face. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling with the same shallow rhythm as yours. It’s hot in here. You’re sweating. You’re both still breathless, still recovering and already going again.

Your hand tightens your grip on Paige’s bicep as she moves her fingers just a little deeper, her wrist flexing with intention. Your hips twitch up in response, and you catch her smirk as she glances up at you—flushed cheeks, messy blonde hair, a cocky look in her eyes that should be illegal.

“Oh, my God,” you mumble, breath hitching.

She grins, biting her lip as her gaze stays locked on the way your cunt swallows her digits. It’s seems to do something to her because then—quietly, mostly to herself—she murmurs, “Fuck, I gotta taste you.”

You think your breath may stop entirely.

She shifts downward, pressing kisses across your stomach as she goes—soft, almost worshipping. Her fingers never stop moving, scissoring inside you, making it even harder for your lungs to function, and her mouth follows the trail of heat between your thighs.

Her tongue flicks out, swiping between your folds. You shudder at the feeling. Simultaneously, her fingers keep working you open, skilled, like she’s mapping out every reaction she gets. The combination of both is almost too much. You can’t help it—you grip at her hair, threading your fingers through the soft strands and tugging when she does something particularly good—which is often.

And she notices. Of course she does.

Paige hums against you, just enough vibration to make your thighs tremble. Then she glances up at you—barely, eyes hooded, teasing. “Don’t tap out on me yet, ma.”

Your eyes roll back at the nickname and the feeling of her fingers hitting that spongy spot inside you. You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a moan. “I—I’m not,” you say, trying to convince both her and yourself.

Her grin flashes, all pride and playfulness, before she dives back in—lips slick, tongue slow and focused. Her mouth wraps around your clit and sucks deliberately while her fingers curl inside you just right. You feel yourself fall deeper into it, into her, one hand pressing to the back of Paige’s head like you don’t want her to go anywhere.

You don’t. You really, really don’t.

She speeds up just a little, coaxing another sound from you, and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily. “God, I—”

That earns you another smirk against your skin, and she doesn’t stop. She’s locked in—and she’s not letting up until she gets everything she wants.

So, she keeps going.

Even when your hips stutter and your lungs stumble. Even when your hands slip from her hair to the pillow, fingers flexing and grasping at anything to hold you down. Even when you whimper something that barely sounds like her name.

Paige doesn’t stop.

Her mouth is certain, her tongue sliding through your folds, up and down across your clit. You feel like you’re melting into the mattress, boneless, trembling, completely at her mercy. Her fingers never lose rhythm, continuing their thrusts, and you vaguely wonder if her hand is cramping yet.

At one point, you hear her murmur something against your cunt, too muffled to catch.

“What?” you gasp, barely managing the word.

She lifts her head slightly, lips shining, and says, “Said you taste really fuckin’ good. Can’t get enough of you.”

And then her mouth is right back on you, her head shaking back and forth as her tongue follows the movement across your swollen clit. You make a sound that isn’t even close to human. It’s almost too much. The way she licks into you with purpose, the way her hand holds your thigh down like you might actually float away, the way her fingers keep coaxing more out of you like it’s her only mission.

“You’re—Paige, fuck, you’re…” You can’t even finish the thought. Can’t form words. Cant think straight. And she loves it. You can tell in the way she groans lowly into you, like you’re the best meal she’s ever had, like she’s the one getting off.

It’s so good. It’s too good.

Her fingers start pumping harder and faster, a white ring forming around them. Paige is unrelenting; she can probably tell that the coil deep in your belly is preparing to snap. She wraps her lips around your bud again, sucking and sucking and sucking.

“Paige—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—shit—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she murmurs, low and husky against you. “C’mon, mama, I gotchu.”

She thrusts again. She lays her tongue flat, shaking it.

That does it.

Everything tightens, your whole body curling in on itself for one suspended second—before it all shatters. You cry out, hips stuttering, thighs shaking as the orgasm rips through you like a wave, overwhelming and all-consuming. You can’t even think. All you can do is feel. Her. Her mouth. Her fingers. Her voice.

She works you through it, gentle now, easing you down. Only when you’re twitching and completely spent does she finally pull away.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Barely coherent.

And Paige looks… completely wrecked in the best way. Her lips are swollen and pink, her cheeks bright red, her fingers slick. She licks them slowly, not breaking eye contact, cleaning the cum off.

“Good Lord—taste unreal,” she mutters, voice rough. Then, she leans down, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling back up your body, lazy and satisfied.

When she finally teaches your face, she’s grinning. She kisses you softly, almost sweetly now, brushing her nose against yours as she whispers, “Told you I needed that.”

You shake your head, smiling a little in disbelief, letting her peck your lips one more time before laying on you. Paige is warm and a little damp with sweat, her breathing now steady. You run your fingers lazily along the slope of her shoulder, and she hums a little at the touch, face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

For a while, it’s silent. You’re not sure if it’s too late or too early, only that the city outside your window sounds far away.

Paige traces circles on your side with thumb. Slow, soft. Barely there.

“Hey,” you say eventually, voice a little raspy.

“Mmm?”

You glance down, and she shifts just enough to look at you. Her eyes have gone a little sleepy—she looks pretty like this. You think she probably looks pretty all the time, though.

“So, like… Dallas, right?” you ask hesitantly, bringing up the WNBA draft on Monday.

She pauses, and you feel her thumb stop its movement. “I mean, yeah,” she says eventually, her voice quiet, almost careful. It’s not set in stone—but everyone knows. She’s going to Texas.

You nod, stare at the ceiling for a second. You’re not sure if you should say what you’re thinking. You just met her tonight. But… fuck, she was good. And she’s hot. And she’s nice. And she’s funny. And—what’s the harm? “I’m filming a movie there all summer.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then you glance down at her and you watch as she stares at you for a long moment before her lips begin to curl up in the softest, most dangerous smile.

And, oh yeah—you already know. You’re both so screwed.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wcbb #dallas wings #wnba #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x oc #wlw

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missadangel · 2 months ago

Text

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 1: Blind Date

series masterlist next chapter

Summary: You work as a housekeeper in a rich family's mansion and often have to deal with their spoiled daughter. One day, she asks you to pretend to be her on a blind date with a guy her dad picked out for her. Your mission is to make him not like you so he won't want to marry her. But here's the twist: will Harry end up hating you, or could he actually fall for you? That's the real question. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Word Count: 4.8k for now, There will be a part two if you guys like it, but I'm not sure about the rest. Sorry for the poor writing; that was quick. authors note: I am not sure about his name. If there's any update, I will edit. English is not my native, so please be nice; this is my third fanfiction. Thank you for the reblogs, comments, and likes. Love you all!

"Ugh, this dress is so last season! Are you serious? Everything here is out of style—get rid of them! Call Elliot and have them send me another dress, or I'm going to be really pissed!"

As if tossed at you like a used handkerchief, another dress worth thousands of dollars—perhaps only worn once—landed in your hands. You sighed as you looked at the elegant dress you were now holding, the Gucci label glinting under the light.

"Story of my life," you mumbled.

Working as a housekeeper in a millionaire's house was hard enough, but dealing with his spoiled and ill-tempered daughter was exhausting. Yet you were determined that it would soon be over. You could no longer endure this physical and psychological torture. With the money you had saved, you planned to open your own restaurant—fulfilling your dream. You just needed to save a little more and hang in there a bit longer.

Your boss was a decent, kind man, but his daughter was so unbearable that every housekeeper assigned left the next day.

How do you even tolerate her?

Because you didn’t have the luxury of quitting and waiting for a new job. You were still young and trying to establish yourself in the business. The extra pay you received was simply to endure her antics. Your kind millionaire boss had even promised you all the support you needed, suggesting you could quit your day job and focus solely on managing his daughter’s affairs. But how could you have known it would be so challenging? Still, you managed to get through each day and believed you could endure this for just a little while longer. After all, you had survived three challenging years already, right?

The mansion was enormous, and everything inside was meticulously organized. Everyone—housekeepers, gardeners, cooks, and even the owners—followed a disciplined daily routine.

Except for the young lady of the house.

You never knew when she would wake up or come downstairs to join her family at the dinner table. She was stubborn, mean, and unpredictable, and you had to manage her behavior just as you managed her dresses, her dates, and her friends. Because you were responsible for her, there were times when you wished you could handle all the housework yourself and let someone else take care of her demands. Despite being just an ordinary housekeeper, your name was the one that echoed the most throughout this vast mansion.

Why?

Because the young lady constantly called on you to fulfill her never-ending requests. And it was one of those moments again. Since it was evening, you guessed she was probably getting ready for a night out at the club, and you felt a surge of annoyance as you rushed to her room.

"I can't believe I was a size 8 before starting this job; now I'm down to a size 6," you mumbled to yourself, quickly making your way up the stairs.

One of the cleaners dusting the vases in the hallway shot you a wink and let out a sigh. Man, you’d do just about anything to be in her shoes, just taking care of that vase!

As soon as you knocked on the door, the young lady Melanie opened it, pulled you inside by the arm, and slammed the door shut behind you. You were taken aback—had you made a mistake? It had only been two hours since you last saw her; you had picked up her clothes off the floor and taken them to the laundry room. She had seemed content, busy texting on her phone. What could have possibly happened in such a short time?

��Is something wrong?” you asked, your eyes wide. For some reason, she looked super tense and nervous.

“You’ve gotta help me,” she said almost desperately, which caught you off guard; it was pretty rare for her to ask for help like this, very rare.

“Of course, if I know what’s going on…”

“Remember that thing we did with the senator's son? I need you to do something like that again.”

You froze for a moment. She was referring to something you had helped her with before—something you weren't very proud of.

“Oh, but—” you frowned. “You said I’d never have to do anything like that again.”

Years ago, you had done your best to disguise yourself as Melanie to turn off the senator's son and prevent him from marrying her. It had worked, but lying to someone was a real headache. Thankfully, Melanie's father hadn’t suspected a thing, but the thought of risking it again felt scarier than anything else.

“I know, I know, but I’m in a tough spot. My dad has been speaking with a matchmaker again to arrange a match for me. After the scandal at the club last time, he's determined to marry me off for sure. Please, I need your help.”

How could she still act so childish in her late twenties? As she looked at you with those pleading eyes, memories of all the times she’d yelled at you and scolded you flashed in your mind. It was fine when you were more like her special assistant instead of just a housekeeper, but now it feels like you’re just a toy to her. When she wants to have fun, she plays with you—almost like you’re her little slave or something.

“I’m not here for that,” you said firmly. “That is not my job.” Your patience was running thin, and this was just too much.

“But you’re supposed to help me,” she shot back, stubborn as ever. “And it’ll be easier this time, I promise.”

You narrowed your eyes and said, “We got caught last time when the guy found out and cursed both of us. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? And if your father discovers what we’re up to this time…”

She replied with a grin, “We won’t get caught this time because I already sent them my photo instead of yours. Besides, you know how my father is strict about always having my picture removed from newspapers and magazines.”

“You did what?” you wailed.

“Chill, it’s all figured out. I’ve been working on this since last week. You’ll have dinner with the guy, pretend to be me, scare him off, and boom! He won’t want to hear my name again. Easy peasy!”

You rolled your eyes. “But he’s surely seen your photo somewhere; he can’t be that clueless.”

“No, he’s a very busy businessman. He has lived abroad for years and has just returned from France. He’s looking to set up his business here in New York,” she said as she opened her laptop and pulled up a webpage with information about the man. “It seems he’s also looking for a suitable match,” she continued, glancing at his photo and pursing her lips.

You froze when you looked at the photo; he wasn’t at all what you expected. He appeared to be a mature, charismatic, and intelligent man. But how could you sit opposite this man and pretend to be someone else? The thought made you shudder, raising the tiny hairs on the back of your neck.

“As you can see, he’s much older than me. I don’t think he’ll tolerate disrespect. If you’re disrespectful to him, he might get annoyed and just leave the table,” she said with a chuckle.

You laughed too, but for a different reason. You were sure that if she went to the meeting herself, he would get up and leave when he saw her personality.

“I think you should go; maybe he won’t like you,” you suggested.

She narrowed her eyes at you like she'd just caught you saying something crazy. “He won’t like me? Seriously?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky grin. “Anyway, I can’t risk it. I don’t want to marry him or anyone else, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck in the same room with that old man.”

As if I want it so much, you thought.

“Come on, please do this for me! I promise I’ll be good; I won’t make you work too hard. I’ll ask Dad to give you a nice raise,” she said, clasping her hands together and trying to look cute.

Well, good raise would mean you could quit your job and bail out of here earlier, right? You crossed your arms and glanced back at the laptop screen, staring at the photo of that guy—Harry Castillo. You made a decision that you had no idea would change everything in both his life and yours.

“Fine. When’s dinner?” you said, feeling a bit anxious.

“Oh, you’re the best! I knew you couldn’t say no!” she said excitedly. “This Saturday.”

“But that’s only two days away,” you pointed out, feeling even more nervous.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you all set. Just make sure you displease him,” she grinned.

You sighed deeply, already sure you’d regret this choice.

“Don’t you think this dress is a bit… exaggerated?” you muttered, looking at yourself in the mirror.

It was an elegant burgundy dress—strappy, satin, and adorned with pearl details—the kind of designer item you could never afford, even if you worked your entire life.

“Am I trying to make him hate me or make him fall for me?” you asked, frowning.

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry; he’ll never fall in love with you,” she said arrogantly. This was typical behavior for her, so you chose to ignore it. “As much as you want to annoy him, remember that you represent me. I don’t want anyone gossiping that Melanie Johanson is wearing a lame dress,” she continued while picking out a matching purse.

“But everyone knows I’m not you, except that poor guy.”

“I don’t suppose you were planning to wear one of your own skimpy outfits,” she remarked. “Do you want our game to be exposed?”

That was too much—being scolded and being forced to do something so ridiculous for this spoiled girl.

“Fine, go to that dinner yourself then,” you said, slipping off your heels.

She grabbed your arms. “No, no, no, please. Okay, I’m sorry I was rude. But I need you; no one else would do something like this for me.”

“It’s good that you realize that,” you muttered.

“Here, take this; it’s time,” she said, giving you a smile.

Honestly, putting up with Melanie’s constant demands, cleaning up after her, and covering for her felt like child’s play compared to what you were facing tonight.

A nice raise, you keep telling yourself trying to soothe yourself. I’m doing this for my restaurant; I’ll get it started someday.

The restaurant was one of the most famous, expensive, and luxurious places in New York—somewhere you would never normally set foot in. But tonight, thanks to Melanie’s name, you could easily get in. You were overwhelmed by the incredibly polite behavior of the restaurant staff.

Melanie may have been extravagant and reckless, but she had thought of almost everything for tonight—from the driver who brought you here to the all restaurant staff.

All this effort was for one purpose: to rid herself of the matchmaker’s match.

When they took your fur coat at the entrance and told you that Mr. Castillo was waiting for you, you took a deep breath. After one step inside, when you saw him, you nearly backed away. Harry was busy on his phone, scribbling notes in his small notebook. He looked really sharp and stylish—way more handsome and appealing than in the photo.

Damn.

You wanted to escape; you wished to put an end to this nonsense before it even began. Without realizing it, your feet started to move backward. Just then, you turned around and accidentally bumped into the waiter behind you, causing him to drop the champagne glasses he was carrying on his tray. The glasses shattered, and champagne spilled all over his outfit. You cursed yourself for the mishap.

Before you could even respond, the waiter apologized. “No, it was my fault; I’m sorry,” you said nervously, trying to wipe off the champagne from his clothes.

The other waiter and the staff stared at you in shock.

Yes, you were a wealthy lady now, but what harm was there in being polite?

"No, ma'am, I should have been more careful," he said before turning and walking away.

"Miss Johnson?" said a soft, deep voice.

You turned around to meet him and felt almost breathless. There he was, few inches taller than you, with broad shoulders, curly hair, deep-set brown eyes, a sharp nose, and an attractive appearance.

"Melanie, right?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, batting your eyelashes.

And that smile! For a moment, the world seemed to stop; all the sounds in the restaurant faded, and you almost forgot why you were there.

"I'm Harry," he said, holding out his hand. It took you so long to look at his face that you nearly forgot to acknowledge his hand. He laughed again, that wonderful smile lighting up his face. "My hand has been waiting for a while," he said teasingly.

You felt your cheeks flush as you realized what he meant. "I'm sorry," you replied, quickly reaching out to shake his waiting hand. His hand was big and warm. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed. You knew you needed to work up the courage.

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “Shall we head to our table? Or do you want to stay here all night?”

“S-sure,” you said sheepishly.

Well, there wasn't much you could do about it. This wasn't just about him being wealthy or handsome. Even if it was a fake date, it had been years since you'd been on a date, and you didn’t know many men in your life.

Dinner was harder than you expected. Even though you and Melanie had practiced what you should and shouldn't say, your fears came to light. Harry seemed kind and understanding, and it was difficult to lie to him, which made you hate every minute of it. It got worse when he started grilling you with questions, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up with this silly game.

When you excused yourself to go to the restroom, you called Melanie.

"What do you mean he hasn't left the restaurant yet?"

"I don't know; the conversation got a little long, and he kept asking questions about me, I mean you."

"Do something to make him hate you already!"

“But how? Throw wine at him? This is all ridiculous. I think we should just tell the truth.”

"Don't you dare!" she barked.

Her voice was so loud that you had to smile apologetically when the other women in the ladies room looked at you strangely, hearing your end of the conversation.

"What am I supposed to do? Our plan isn't working."

“What's up with this guy? He should’ve bailed by now.” Melanie grunted.

“He seems nice—I doubt he’d be rude like that.”

“Rude! That’s the ticket; just be rude enough that he can’t stand it.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yep, you heard me. Just be as rude as you can.”

You let out a sigh, really wishing you could just bang your head against the wall right now.

“I said do it, or you'll ruin everything. Call me when you’re done.”

“But what am I gonna— Hello? Darn it!”

Beep… Beep… Beep…

She hung up.

You’ll have to be rude, how wonderful! But she was right; you needed to get rid of this man for the night to end and for you to return to your normal life. Why did he have to be so nice and kind? If he could ever act like a jerk, you would have done it by now, but he was just too sweet. As you looked in the mirror, you thought of all the rude things a lady wouldn’t normally do. Ah, that sounds familiar; it reminds you of Melanie herself. The very thought of her actions made you smile nervously. You took a deep breath and left the restroom.

Encouraging yourself, you gazed at Harry's handsome face from afar.

You can do it, you can do it...

Your first move: act indifferent.

You changed your facial expression as you approached the table and deliberately looked away from his face. He was smiling warmly at you. No, you couldn't look at him; it would only complicate everything. You were about to apologize for being late, but no, you can’t. Instead, you pulled your chair noisily on purpose, scraping its legs on the floor to create an annoying sound. You sat down and crossed your legs, positioning your body so it wasn't fully facing him. Harry seemed surprised by this sudden shift in your mood, but he didn’t comment.

A little later, as your desserts were served, he looked at you, “I like chocolate cake too, especially with pistachio sauce. We have similar tastes,” grinning at you.

You looked at him and then at the waiter. “I don’t want this,” you said angrily.

“But ma'am, you ordered it,” the poor man replied sheepishly.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you said. “I’ll go with the tiramisu,” you added after a quick look at the menu, making sure to glance away casually.

“Sure, I’ll change it right away,” he said, taking your plate and walking back.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I’m great,” you lied, forcing a fake grin.

He didn’t ask any further questions, but he seemed to suspect something had changed. When the waiter brought your dessert, you decided to eat it rudely. You were sure Harry would be disgusted as you devoured your dessert quickly and rather rudely as if you were starving. You didn’t look at him again until you finished your plate. When you finally glanced up, your stomach feeling a bit nauseous, the look on his face was not what you had expected. He was smiling at you admiringly.

What the hell was that?

Shouldn’t he have shown disgust or displeasure, just like the people at the next table who were staring at you with disdain?

But not Harry, not him. Why, God, why?

As if teasing you, he laughed and reached for a napkin on the table, wiping the remnants of dessert from the corner of your lips. “You’ve got quite the sweet tooth, don’t you, sweet girl?”

How could he be so nice, even after everything?

“Want to eat mine too?” he joked again. Clearly, you were amusing him instead of grossing him out. Ugh, just what you needed. Why was this so hard?

“It’s the cream in it,” you said, a bit defensive. If you were going to get into a battle of words, you might as well dive in.

When he looked at you, confused, you thought you saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe you could annoy him with your gourmet knowledge.

“The Marsala wine is in the cream; it’s a secret recipe,” you said, trying to sound smart.

Harry paused eating his dessert, rested his elbow on the table, and gave you an admiring look. “Interesting. I didn’t know you were into cooking. That wasn’t in the info.” That familiar warm smile was back.

Crap. Another mess-up.

“I get it—you’re keeping it under wraps from your dad. I want you to feel comfortable talking about your hobbies when you’re with me.”

When you’re with him? Damn, that was supposed to be the first and last time you saw him. You started playing with your fingers in your hair out of nervousness.

Think, think, think. All you had left was to use the only card you had.

“Look, Harry, I’ll be frank. I don’t plan to see you again.”

Suddenly, he stopped. “Didn’t you like me?” he asked softly.

Was it possible not to like this man? But damn it, you had to lie. You looked away; it was hard to read his expression.

“You’ve probably heard about me from the tabloids. I’m not the type of woman to get attached to just one man. My father put me up to this matchmaker thing; I didn’t intend to.” You admitted this indirectly. He deserved a little honesty, didn’t he? “I’ve had and will have many men in my life. I don’t plan to get married. I mean, you’re not special. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

When you looked at his face timidly, you realized you got the reaction you had been waiting for since the beginning of the night. His smile vanished; his expression hardened, and the color of his eyes darkened.

But why did your heart squeeze when you should have felt relieved?

When they brought your coat, you thanked them and turned to Harry for the last time. You would probably never see him again. You felt fortunate to have had the chance to meet and get to know this man, even briefly. He would probably forget you anyway; why would he remember you?

“Can I give you a ride home so we can end things on a good note?” he asked, sounding a bit unsure.

You definitely didn’t see that coming. You paused, trying to figure out what to say. It would’ve been easier to just say no, but his eyes were so mesmerizing that if he’d asked you to spill all your secrets right then, you might have done it without even thinking.

“Sure,” you replied, feeling shy.

When the valet brought Harry's car around, your jaw dropped. This black, late-model Mercedes Benz S was probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your interest in cars stemmed from your childhood; your mother always complained that you didn't like dresses and jewelry like other girls—rather, you liked cars. It was clear you were different, and you had always been that way.

Just like the situation you found yourself in now. Maybe there was something wrong with you.

The two of you were silent the entire ride. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his gaze on you out of the corner of your eye. However, you were more captivated by the interior of the car. When would you ever get to ride in such a luxury vehicle again? It wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look. As you glanced towards his side to check out the control panel and see how much horsepower the car had, he caught your eye, causing you to quickly turn your head away. You had to suppress your curiosity.

"We’ll turn right here," you said as you approached the junction. Down the street, the giant mansion loomed, so close to your destination. You stole a quick glance at him, realizing this might be the only time you would see this man in person. You wanted to remember his handsome face.

Suddenly, Harry slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt. Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked at him, startled that he had stopped so abruptly near the mansion. What had caused him to suddenly halt? He didn’t say a word, just stared at you, and his eyes seemed to communicate something intense. Was he angry and no longer wanting your company?

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door handle, only to find it locked.

“Stay still,” he said as he unlocked the car doors.

What was he implying? He walked around the front of the car, reached your side, and opened your door.

Was this chivalry? If so, why did he stay away from the mansion?

“Aren’t you getting out?” His voice was kinda cold.

You didn’t know how to respond. You stepped out of the car without saying a word.

“Thanks for the ride—”

Suddenly, he grabbed your arm—not roughly, but with a firm, questioning grip. His gaze was intense, but why did he look that way? Had he figured it all out? Maybe he was about to confront you for making a fool of yourself. After all, you had been willing to be open, and now you felt you deserved it. But you didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes, so you lowered your head.

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Shit.

You swallowed hard; this was the moment you had dreaded.

“I-I…”

What were you going to say? How would you even say it?

You were fucked.

Suddenly, Harry pinched your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him while his other hand rested on your waist. He tilted his head toward you, his hot breath brushing against your face, making your heart race. His lips were dangerously close to yours, and you could feel your throat going dry. What the hell was he going to do? Kissing you or scolding you? After what felt like an eternity, he pulled you closer by the arm around your waist and kissed you.

It had been a long time since you kissed someone, so you were almost shocked by his sudden kiss. No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, you finally closed your eyes and surrendered to him completely. Your surrendering gave him courage and he deepened the kiss, his hot tongue licking your lips and forcing them apart. While his expert hand lingered on the swell of your breasts teasingly, you moaned and opened your mouth for him and when his tongue touched yours, you could still taste the chocolate from the dessert he had just eaten.

But suddenly, Harry pulled his head back, breaking the kiss and all contact. Instinctively mesmerized, you leaned forward, eyes closed and mouth agape. When you finally opened your eyes, you caught him snickering, and as the embarrassment of the situation hit you, you wished you could disappear. You instinctively pressed your hand to your burning lips and pressed hem together. Harry licked his lips and grinned. "Just as I predicted. You lied to me. There's no way another man has touched you recently."

For a second, your mind went blank, and you just stared at him, blinking in confusion. What the heck did he mean by that? "Y-you... w-what..." Great, now you couldn't even put together a simple sentence.

What next?

Just then, your phone started ringing. When you opened your purse to get it, Harry reached for it before you could. Fortunately, you had saved Melanie in your phone under a special nickname, not her real name. Harry laughed, raising his eyebrows in surprise and amusement. "Trouble?"

Yes, you had saved her as trouble.

"Can you hand my phone back, please?" you said, holding out your hands, but he caught them with one hand and gently pushed them away.

“Your trouble can wait,” he said, rejecting Melanie’s call. He dialed a number on your phone, but realized what he was doing when his own phone started ringing.

“There, now you have my number,” he said, handing your phone back to you.

You frowned and grabbed your phone angrily, "What makes you think I’d actually call you?"

Harry shrugged, pursing his lips. “Shouldn't I call you before I come to pick you up for our next date? I guess I could just come by your house and honk the horn instead.”

“What?” you exclaimed.

He grinned.

You took a deep breath to release some of your tension. “Harry, why are you doing this? There won’t be a next date; I told you that.”

“One chance,” he said firmly.

“A chance of what?”

"I want you to give me a chance. A real date. If, at the end of the night, you still feel the same way, I promise you’ll never see me again."

You shook your head. "But why? You’re a man who can have any woman you want. You’re rich, handsome, and kind—why waste your time on someone who doesn’t want you?"

You saw something in his brown eyes, something you couldn’t quite identify, but it was intense. “Because you're different from others,” he said sharply. “True, women are not unattainable for me; they are always around. But what I want is someone special, and I feel that you are the one. There’s something about you that has ignited something in me I haven't felt in a long time. I must admit, I'm surprised; I never thought I’d be attracted to you after reading the news about you, but it seems I was wrong. Can you give me a chance? Please?”

Oh, Harry, there’s so much you don’t know, you thought. Your heart was fluttering at the thought of saying yes, but how could you? How dare you? You weren’t Melanie, the daughter of a wealthy businessman; you were just an ordinary girl.

“You know I won’t leave without hearing your answer, right?” He grunted.

Just then, you heard a car approaching, and you freaked out. That was Melanie’s dad’s car. Your heart nearly stopped.

“You have to go, like, now!” you yelled in a panic.

“First, say yes,” he replied, frowning.

"Si, yes, okay, alright! But please, go now!" you urged, pushing him toward the back of his car. He chuckled in response.

You crouched down to hide your face as the other car drove toward the mansion and pulled him down with you.

“I want you to know I’ve never done anything like this in my life,” he admitted, snickering.

“Is that so funny?” you snapped.

"Okay, I get that you don’t want your dad to see us like this, and I’m curious why, but since you said yes, I’ll be a good guy and leave."

“Yes you do that,” you said with a sigh.

Harry took his phone out of his pocket and waved it before getting into his car. “You’d better answer it when I call,” he said, getting inside. He winked at your puzzled expression and started the engine. His car quickly disappeared from sight along the road. You turned toward the mansion, exhaled deeply, and murmured to yourself.

“I'm so fucked.”

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

#fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pedro pascal gifs #pedro pascal fanfiction #the materialist #harry castillo #materialists #harry castillo x reader #randy castillo

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wonderlandwalker · 27 days ago

Text

Hell hath no fury like a Buckley | Steve Harrington x reader

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

summary: there's exactly two thoughts left in Steve's brain: you, and the fact that he's about to majorly violate the bro code

word count: 6.2k

tags / content warnings: the usual I guess, hopeless pining, smut, mostly those, seems the only writing style I have is 'falls desperately deeply in love at first sight' and I'm not in the mood to psychoanalyse it so here's more of that

a/n: was gonna work on this more but I had to commemorate Pope Francis' morbidly entertaining demise somehow x

Steve Harrington was many things—

Former King of Hawkins High (retired, thank you very much). Babysitter extraordinaire (unofficial title, of course, but the kids would back him up). And, according to Robin Buckley—his best friend, partner-in-crime, and personal tormentor—a ‘walking disaster with good hair’.

But right now?

Right now, he was fucking mortified.

Okay.

Wait—

Let’s rewind.

Five minutes ago, life had been simple: Steve had been doing his best impression of a responsible lifeguard, which mostly meant leaning against the chair with his sunglasses perched low, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until his shift ended and he could stop caring about pH levels. The Hawkins community pool was the same as ever— the sharp tang of sunscreen and chlorine in the air, kids cannonballing into the deep end, and Debbie — the one lifeguard who actually gave a shit about the rules— blowing her whistle at some poor kid for running. Steve?

Steve was here for two reasons. One: free access to the pool after hours — unofficial, of course—courtesy of Keith’s lack of managerial oversight. And two: A pay cheque that barely covers gas money but is still better than listening to his dad rant on to him about ‘loafing around all summer like a goddamn bum.’

And then—

Then he saw you.

Which, okay, is not that unusual— people come to the pool all the time. And it wasn’t that you stood out, not really. No, you were just— there. In a swimsuit like half the other girls, a loose cover-up tied around your hips, but fuck— As you stepped into the sunlight, it was like the universe had hit pause. You moved like a struck match in a room full of shadows—vivid, flickering, impossible to look away from. Everybody else blurred at the edges, cardboard cut-outs in your wake, but you? You burnt.

And Steve—God, Steve was already half in love with the way the light would destroy him. He knew the story. Knew how it ended. Orpheus wasn’t supposed to turn around. But you smiled at him, and suddenly he understood: some temptations aren’t meant to be resisted. They’re meant to unravel you, thread by thread, until you’re grateful for the ruin.

Oh, shit.

You were walking straight toward him.

Fuck.

Think, Harrington, think.

You looked familiar. Hawkins isn’t exactly a metropolis—if you’d gone to school here, he’d know you. Had you been at the summer fun fair? Sat behind him in chem sophomore year? Christ, this was bad. Steve—King Steve, who used to have the entire school catalogued in his peripheral vision—couldn’t even scrape together a fucking name. Maybe you were—

Your eyes met his—sharp enough to flay him open—and your smirk said you knew exactly how hard his brain was liquidating.

Double fuck.

You were smiling at him—Christ—that stagnant, astute curve of lips that already felt branded behind his eyelids, and he was staring. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Some distant, rational part of his intellect screamed at him: say something cool. Say something cool.

Instead, all he could track was the way you tilted your head—that loose strand of hair escaping, catching sunlight like spun gold as it tumbled free. His fingers spasmed at his side with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to brush it back behind your ear with a touch too tender for whatever this was. The realisation made him feel violently stupid, like some second-rate rom-com hero about to monologue his feelings in the rain.

"Hey," you said, and your voice wrapped around him like smoke. Steve's pulse stuttered. "Have you seen Robin by any chance?"

The whiplash of it—the casual destruction of that moment—left his cerebrum sputtering like a dying engine.

Robin?

Why the hell were you asking about Robin?

Robin doesn’t have friends he didn’t know about. He is her best friend, which means he knows all her people—the band geeks, the weirdos from the record store, and even that one girl who could recite The Hobbit in Elvish. He’d met them all.

And yet, here you were, asking for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you had the right to know her schedule. Like you—

His mouth moved faster than his brain. "She left to grab beers, like...five minutes ago."

"Figures," you hummed, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched—that tell-tale sign of years weathering Robin's particular brand of chaos. "She swore she'd meet me here, but I guess we're operating on Buckley Standard Time again."

Steve's thoughts screeched to a halt.

Buckley Standard Time.

That was—

No. That couldn't be right. Because that was his bit. Well, technically it was their bit — his and Robin’s— the joke he'd made after she'd shown up forty minutes late to their shift because she'd "gotten into a debate about whether hot dogs were sandwiches with some guy at the record store."

He'd thought that was theirs. Just theirs.

But you knew it.

Which meant—

Oh shit.

Oh, no.

His stomach dropped like he’d just crested the first hill of a rollercoaster—that awful, weightless second before the plunge. Because there were only two kinds of people who knew Buckley Standard Time: him, and someone who’d known Robin longer than he had. And unless you were some kind of psychic super-stalker (which, given the way his heart was currently trying to break through his ribs, he might’ve honestly preferred), that left only one earth-shattering possibility.

His eyes flicked over your face again, searching for it—the resemblance. The same sharp wit tucked into the corner of your smile. The identical nose scrunch when you laughed. Christ, how had he missed it? He’d been too busy being dazzled, too busy cataloguing the way sunlight caught in your eyes, to notice the nuclear bomb of a truth staring him in the face.

“Y-you’re—” Steve cleared his throat, trying to wrestle his voice into something resembling casual indifference. It came out closer to a pubescent seagull. “You’re Robin’s…?”

“Twin.Yeah.” Your grin widened, head tilting in a way that should’ve had a government warning: Caution: May cause permanent heart palpitations.

Holy.

Shit.

He’d heard about you, of course—the mythical other half of Robin’s childhood stories, the shadow in the Polaroids stuffed in her wallet. He’d even known you were coming to town for the summer. But in his mind, he’d just pictured… Robin 2.0. Same chaos, different zip code. But meeting you in person was a different kind of disaster.

Not only were you Robin’s sister—fully, irrevocably off-limits by the Bro Code in every conceivable universe—but he’d just spent the past two minutes mentally drafting embarrassingly bad poetry about how your eyes reminded him of...something poetic (he hadn't gotten that far).

And Robin?

Robin was going to murder him.

Slowly. Painfully. With that special look of disappointment she reserved exclusively for when he was being “particularly Harrington-ish”.

"Oh," he said, brilliantly. "Cool. That's—cool." The words hung in the air like particularly unimpressive confetti. You raised one eyebrow, clearly savouring the spectacle of smooth talking. Steve Harrington reduced to a floundering mess. "You okay there?"

"Yep. Great. Never better." His grip on the lifeguard chair tightened until the plastic creaked ominously. "Just, uh—didn't know Robin had a sister." Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid—

The moment the words left his mouth, your face twitched—part amusement, part genuine bewilderment. “Really?” For a second he wondered if he should just fucking bolt, but then your smile returned, and he forgot how his lungs worked. "I've been away at college," you explained, shifting your weight just enough to make the hem of your cover-up ride up, and Steve suddenly developed an intense fascination with the chlorine dispenser behind you, his ears burning crimson. "But I'm back for the summer, and Robin promised me pool privileges." You leaned in, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Apparently, you're the guy to sweet-talk for after-hours access."

Sweet-talk.

You wanted to sweet-talk him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His mouth opened, ready to blurt something catastrophically eager like, "You don't even need to sweet-talk me; I'd drain the pool and refill it with champagne if you asked," when—

"There you are!"

Robin materialised like some kind of vengeful angel, arms loaded with a six-pack and a half-eaten bag of chips. "I see you two already met." Her expression cycled from relief at spotting you to instant suspicion as her gaze darted between your amused smile and Steve's deer-in-headlights-meets-fish-out-of-water-meets-man-who-just-remembered-he-left-the-stove-on panic. "Why does Steve look like he's about to pass out?" She asked flatly, already exhausted. "Earth to Harrington. You good?" Robin waved a hand in front of his glazed-over eyes, then shot you a look. "This guy's supposed to save lives? Yeah, right."

Which brings us back to fucking mortified.

Robin doesn’t even wait for you to reach the car, having commandeered you on an urgent towel retrieval mission she absolutely (and suspiciously) couldn’t handle herself. One second Steve's watching you go, the next he's being manhandled behind the snack bar like a misbehaving golden retriever, Robin's fingers digging into his bicep like she’s trying to jump-start his malfunctioning brain through sheer force. "What the fuck is up with you?" She hisses, voice low enough that it bypasses his eardrums and vibrates directly in his panic centre. Her free hand gestures wildly toward the parking lot. "Why are you acting so weird?”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat makes a noise like a dial-up modem trying to connect. "I wasn't—" Robin's eyes narrow into lethal slits. "You were." She releases his arm only to jab a finger against his sternum hard enough to leave a bruise. "The moment she walked in, you short-circuited so hard I could smell burning wiring. You called the pool ladder ‘ma’am’. Twice."

Steve’s pulse kicks into overdrive. “What? I was just—being nice.” He gestures vaguely at the pool, as if that explains anything. “I’m a nice guy, Robin. It’s a thing I do.” She scoffs, nostrils flaring. “Harrington, I’ve seen your ‘nice’. This wasn’t ‘nice’. This was—” She makes a frantic explosion motion with her hands, complete with a “pshooo!” sound effect. “—full-system meltdown ‘nice’. You were sweating.”

“It’s July,” he protests weakly.

“You never sweat.”

“I always sweat!”

“You once fought a demodog in a leather jacket and came out dewy at most.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That’s— that’s not—” But before he can dig his grave any deeper, you reappear, sauntering over with a smirk that spells nothing but trouble. “Everything alright over here?” Robin’s grip on his arm tightens like a warning. “Great!” she chirps, voice suddenly three octaves too high. “Steve was just telling me how thrilled he is to have another Buckley around.”

Steve’s smile is less charming Harrington grin and more man awaiting execution. “Thrilled”, he croaks. “Yep. So. So thrilled.” Your grin widens at his words—slow, studious, dangerous. "Yeah?" You step closer, and Steve's heart launches into an Olympic-grade gymnastics routine—triple backflip, perfect landing, gold medal in catastrophic panic. "Because I was just thinking..." Your finger taps a thoughtful rhythm against your chin. "...about all that quality time we'll be sharing. Robin says you throw legendary parties."

Steve’s brain flatlines. Parties. Together. You. Him. Oh God.

Across from him, Robin’s gaze darts between the two of you, her expression morphing from suspicion to outright dread.

Steve's Adam's apple bobs like it's trying to flee his throat. She knows. Christ, she definitely knows. He has just enough coherent thought left to realise:

He is so spectacularly, catastrophically, irrevocably fucked.

He spends the rest of the week trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here. The universe, it seems, has other plans.

Because you're everywhere—a constant, maddening presence burning at the edges of his vision like the ghost of a flashlight in the dark. He swears you're doing it on purpose, catching his eye just to watch him fumble, that sly smile playing at the corners of your lips every time his pulse stutters under your gaze. And God, does it stutter.

You’re at the impromptu movie night Nancy throws, wedged between Robin and Eddie on the couch, laughing as you recall some childhood disaster involving a stolen bike, a jar of peanut butter, and—if Robin’s dramatic interruptions are to be believed—a "very pissed-off raccoon with a personal vendetta."

"Way more traumatic than this," you declare, gesturing at the slasher flick on the screen where some poor extra is meeting their gory demise. Steve—who’s stranded in the armchair like some sombre, forgotten puppy—can’t manage to join in. Not when your laughter does things to his pulse that’s sure to send him into cardiac arrest any day now.

But then your knee brushes against Eddie’s as you lean forward to grab a handful of popcorn, and something hot and irrational coils in Steve’s gut. It’s stupid—Eddie’s just a friend, and it’s not like he has any claim over you—but the way your fingers linger near Eddie’s wrist for half a second too long makes Steve’s jaw clench.

Then there's the Hawkins High tailgate, where the lukewarm beer and golden-hour sunlight are the real stars of the show – not the Tigers' tragic losing streak. Steve leans against his BMW, nursing a drink and trying to convince himself that he’s here for school spirit— he’s lying. He’s so fucking obvious about it that Robin’s been giving him that look all afternoon—the one that says, ”I will skin you alive if you make this weird.”

And like his personal reckoning—you appear. One second, he’s staring blankly ahead, and the next, you’re sliding onto the hood of his car like you own it, all long legs and lazy smiles. The dying sun paints your skin in hues of amber and gold, catching on the delicate bend of your collarbone and the smooth plane of your thighs where your cut-off shorts ride up.

Christ.

He wants to map every inch of you with his mouth, starting at the delicate dip of your ankle—that vulnerable hollow where his lips could linger—then leisurely, torturously working his way up. Up the taut line of your calf, tracing the sensitive bend of your knee with his tongue. Higher still, along the trembling skin of your inner thigh, where his teeth might graze just to feel you shiver. An unhurried pilgrimage of worship, every gasp and hitch of your breath another sacred waypoint in his journey.

”Dude, you’re, like, actually drooling.” Dustin’s voice cuts through his increasingly inappropriate thoughts. Steve chokes on his drink, beer burning his sinuses as he wheezes, ”What? No, I’m not—!” But Dustin just raises his eyebrows, impervious. ”Uh-huh. Sure.” And then Robin’s there. ”So!” she chirps, stealing Steve’s beer right out of his hand. ”Who’s ready to watch our team get slaughtered?” You hum softly in your throat – a vibration Steve feels more than hears – as you tilt your head toward him. The calculated brush of your knee against his thigh burns through the denim between you, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. His breath catches when you don't pull away, your leg warm and insistent against his.

He’s so screwed.

Even as the midday sun is brutal at the Hawkins pool, he barely feels it—not when you’re walking toward his lifeguard chair with that look in your eyes —the mischievous Buckley spark.

You hold up the sunscreen bottle , tilting your head with a smile of practiced innocence. "Can you help me?" Before he can answer, you're already turning—presenting your back to him where the strings of your bikini top form a delicate, infuriating knot. "I can't reach," you add, voice dripping with false helplessness.

Steve's soul nearly leaves him: "I— You—Robin can—" "Robin's allergic to coconut oil," you lie effortlessly, glancing over your shoulder. The sunlight catches the curve of your shoulder blade, the flutter of your lashes. His mouth goes desert-dry. "And you are the lifeguard." You let the implication hang between you like the summer heat. "Isn't it your job to protect me?"

Fuck.

His hands tremble as he squeezes sunscreen onto his palms, the lotion warm from the sun. When his fingers finally make contact with your skin, you hum—soft, satisfied—and he swears you lean into his touch, just slightly. The sound goes straight to his gut, hot and insistent. His thumbs press into the dip of your spine, dragging sluggish circles that have no business being that deliberate. “You missed a spot,” you murmur, shifting just enough that his fingers brush the edge of your bikini tie. Steve’s breath comes ragged. This is torture.

And now? Now the bass from Tina’s stereo thrums through the floor, rattling Steve’s bones like a second heartbeat. The air is thick with sweat and cheap beer, the kind of chaos he usually lives for—except tonight, his entire world has narrowed down to you.

All evening, he’s been trapped in a loop of stolen glances and half-formed hopes, wondering if the way your eyes linger on him means something or if he’s just another fool drunk on wishful thinking. Is this real? Is this worth it? The questions gnaw at him, unanswered, even as he drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle down with a clink. And then, as if summoned by his desperation, you’re there. Emerging beside him like smoke, you lean into the wall, your shoulder pressing against his, and suddenly—the music, the crowd, the entire fucking room might as well not exist.

"Trying to hide from me, Harrington?" You taunt, tipping your drink to your lips. The bottle’s rim glistens under the dim light, and your mouth—pink, slow, meticulous—lingers there for a beat too long. It’s a calculated assault on what little composure he has left. His throat goes dry.

“Would it work if I were?” He shoots back, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. His voice is rougher than he intended, betraying the way his pulse jumps under his skin. You laugh, low and keen, before stepping into his space. Your palm lands on his chest, searing through the fabric of his shirt. “Probably not.” You admit, fingers crooking slightly—testing, teasing—and he knows you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts his jaw, “Robin talks about you all the time.”

His breath hitches.

This is dangerous.

Your knee brushes his thigh, prudent and—holy shit—his thoughts dissolve into static. “But she never mentioned how cute you are when you’re flustered.” The words curl into his ear, sweet and lethal. He should say something clever, something smooth, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale as your fingers trail up to his collarbone, tracing the edge of his shirt. You’re close enough now that he can smell the jasmine of your perfume and the faint tang of gin on your tongue. Your hips tilting, just a fraction, and— “I wonder”, you whisper, lips grazing the shell of his ear, “what else I don’t know yet.”

Before he can respond—before he can even breathe—you’re leaning in, your nose almost brushing his. His hand lifts—to pull you closer? To push you away? —when—

"Oh my God."

Robin’s voice shatters the moment as she stands there, arms crossed, looking done. “I leave you two alone for five minutes—”

Steve jerks back like he’s been burnt. "Robin! Hey! We were just—"

"—about to make my life a living hell?"

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still debating whether to reach for you again, and his gaze flickers to your lips — just for a moment— before he forces a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture does nothing to hide the flush creeping up his throat. “Come on,” he deflects, “We were just talking.”

Robin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Uh-huh. And 'talking' now involves you two looking like you’re about to re-enact Dirty Dancing in the middle of the living room?" Steve can feel your pulse kick where your thigh brushes against his, but you don’t back down. You’re clearly used to these sparring matches with Robin, a rhythm he doesn’t yet know the steps to, and he’s equal parts terrified and intrigued.

"Maybe you should’ve knocked," you shoot back, grinning wider when Robin’s jaw drops and Steve’s composure nosedives like a bird that just noticed the window isn’t open.

"Nope. No. Absolutely not." Robin jabs a finger between the two of you like she’s warding off evil. "I refuse to be the third wheel in whatever… this is." She spins toward the kitchen with enough dramatic flair to create wind resistance. "I'm getting another drink," she announces over her shoulder. "Or seven. Alone. Like the abandoned best friend in every fucking rom-com."

Steve takes a half-step forward. "Rob—"

"Save it, Dingus." She pauses, levelling you both with a glare that’s equal parts warning and surrender. "Ground rules," she announces, holding up a finger. "You—" The finger jabs at Steve's chest. “If you hurt my sister, I’ll give you a live demonstration of why The Texas Chainsaw Massacre wasn’t rated PG. Spoiler: It’s the bone saws.” Her finger swings to you, and Steve can practically hear your heartbeat kick into overdrive against his side. "And you—if you give him another existential crisis, I'm telling Mom you're the one who broke Grandma's urn and that you're the reason we had to get the couch steam-cleaned in '82."

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise of the party.

The silence between you is thick, charged. Steve exhales, slow and shaky, before turning back to you. The air crackles—Robin’s interruption only fanned the flames, and now it licks at his skin, relentless. His voice comes out rough, just this side of breaking: "She’s never gonna let me live this down." You bite your lip, stepping closer. The scent of your perfume coils around him, dizzying. "Then we might as well give her something real to complain about," you murmur, lips grazing the shell of his ear. His breath stutters when your fingers skate up his throat, nails scraping just barely over his stubble. A whimper claws its way out of him, raw and unbidden. "Christ. You’re killin’ me here." You grin, all teeth. "Good." Your thumb brushes the frantic pulse under his jaw. "We’ve got about twelve minutes until she storms back. Better make ‘em count."

This time, when you lean in, there’s no one to stop you, just the muffled clink of Robin angrily rearranging liquor bottles in the kitchen. Steve finally—fucking finally—learns what you taste like (gin and mint and something addicting), how your lips feel against his (softer than he imagined, but demanding, hungry), and how the dip of your waist fits under his palms like it was made for him. And Christ—the sound you make when he pulls you flush against him, a moan clawing its way up your throat, is enough to unravel him completely.

His brain, stuck on a loading screen for days, finally processes one coherent thought:

Fuck it.

Steve's hand fists in your hair, dragging you closer—Christ, not close enough—until your shared breath turns jagged. Just as he tilts his head to finally taste you properly, you pull back. His stomach plummets like a failed carnival ride. For one gut-twisting second, he's certain he's ruined it—misread the way your body arched against his, all heat and hunger, like you wanted to melt into his skin. Then your fingers lock around his wrist, nails biting just shy of pain, and the look you give him isn't hesitation—it's wildfire. "C'mere," you murmur, already walking down the hallway, tugging him along. Steve doesn't think; his body moves before his mind catches up, pulled by the magnetism of your touch.

The party dissolves into white noise—drowned out by the hammering rhythm of his pulse. Every passive draw of your thumb against his skin is a brand-new dare, burning straight through to his sternum. The hallway diminishes around you, lit only by a sputtering bulb that throws strobe-light shadows across your face. He doesn't miss the way your teeth sink into your lower lip as you glance at the bathroom door—or how your grip tightens like you're fighting the urge to sprint the last few steps.

Then you're shoving him inside, all impatient hands and shared momentum. The door clicks shut behind you with finality, sealing you both in the dark. Somewhere outside, a cheer goes up—maybe for the keg stand, maybe for the universe laughing at how thoroughly Steve Harrington is about to lose his goddamn mind.

The space is cramped, the air thick with the odour of soap and the lingering sweetness of someone’s perfume. The sink digs into his lower back, cold enough to make him hiss—but then your hands are on him, warm and demanding, and he forgets everything else. Forgets the way your thighs had tensed when he licked the salt off his hand before taking a shot. Forgets the way you’d watched his throat bob as he laughed at one of Robin’s jokes. Forgets the way you’d nearly choked on your own tongue when he’d rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, forearms flexing as he scooped ice into a cup. The party’s bass thrums through the walls, a distant echo beneath the serrated sound of his own breathing and the slick noise of your mouth on his skin. Christ, he hopes the music’s loud enough to drown out the way you whimper when he sucks at your pulse point.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” you admit, voice low, and the crude honesty in it makes his throat go dry. Your fingers dig into his hips, pulling him closer. “All week”, you correct, and suddenly he’s replaying every glance, every brush of contact: the way you’d “tripped” into his side at the pool, how you’d lingered in his space after movie night, your knee pressed to his thigh for a full thirty minutes before Robin kicked you both off her couch. The memory of your breath on his neck when you’d leaned over his shoulder to steal a fry at the diner—had you always smelt this good?

Steve’s hands trail up your waist, thumbs carving possessive lines into that sliver of exposed skin where your shirt’s ridden up. “Yeah?” he rasps, voice wrecked—drunk on the way your breath hitches, on the way your ribs expand under his palms like you’re already starving for it. “Funny. I thought I was the one losing my damn mind.” You hum—a quiet, perceptive sound—before inching your lips along the column of his throat. He feels the vibration of it like a live wire down his spine, sparking at every vertebra. “Show me,” you murmur against his pulse, and the challenge in it sends his blood south so fast he gets lightheaded. It’s all the permission he needs.

One hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back as he crashes into you. This kiss isn’t like before—no teasing, no hesitation—just heat and teeth and the slick, filthy slide of your tongue against his. He swallows your whimper when his other hand slips under your shirt, palm skimming the bare dip of your waist. Christ. The whimper you let out when his fingers dig into your hip isn’t just sound. It’s a bloody revelation.

Steve knows he’s on borrowed time. Robin’s sharp and observant—she’ll come looking sooner rather than later, and when she does, she’ll take one look at his flushed face and your swollen lips and know. The thought should sober him up, but right now? He doesn’t give a shit. All that matters is the way your nails bite into his shoulders, the way you gasp when he nips your lower lip, and the way your body fits against his like you were carved from the same damn stone. And when you roll your hips against his—slow, deliberate, maddening—his grip tightens, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to bruise. His voice is rough, wrecked, barely recognisable when he growls against your mouth: "This isn't exactly how I pictured our first time."

The words tear from Steve's throat, rough and wrecked—a confession to his sinful thoughts. The second they hit air, he freezes. Shit.

But you—Christ, you—just beam like you've won the lottery, dragging your teeth over his swollen bottom lip in a way that makes his knees threaten to buckle. "You pictured our first time?" Your voice drips with delight, thumb brushing the frantic pulse in his neck. Heat floods his cheeks, but you don't let him recover. You crash into him, kissing him so hard his back slams against the tiled wall. His hands move on pure instinct—lifting you onto the sink with a grunt, fingers skating up the soft underside of your thighs like he's memorising the map of you. When they dig in, kneading with a hunger that surprises even him, you moan directly into his mouth, and the sound goes straight to his dick.

You moan, and the sound tears something primal from his chest—a growl that rumbles against your lips, vibrating through you. "How about we save your ideal first time for later?" You murmur against him, biting his lip just hard enough to make him jerk against you. Your voice drops to a whisper, all heat and promise: "And focus on fucking my brains out in the next ten minutes?"

Steve's resolve doesn't just shatter—it disintegrates. Any pretence of patience evaporates as his hands find your waist, fingers pressing bruises into your hips that you'll savour tomorrow. His mouth crashes into yours again, but this time he's a man on a mission. He charts your skin like territory to be conquered—the sharp line of your jaw, the salt-slick column of your throat, the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his tongue. When he reaches the swell of your cleavage, you arch into him with a gasp that turns into a whine as his teeth scrape delicate skin. Your fingers are already working at his belt, tugging with impatient urgency.

"Steve—"

"Fuck," he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch your face. "You sound even better than I imagined." And Christ, he has imagined this—in the shower, trying to relieve the ache with his hand, in his bed with the sheets tangled around his thighs, in the fucking Family Video break room when you'd leaned too close to reach a tape. Every fantasy pales in comparison to the reality of your nails digging into his hips as he shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. Your hand wraps around him in one smooth motion, and for one blinding second, the world narrows to the slick heat of your fingers, the way your thumb swipes over the head just to watch his abs clench.

If this is heaven, he'll sign his own damn death warrant.

But then—then—you spin him around with surprising strength, dropping to your knees on the bath mat. The cool tile bites into his palms as he braces against the sink, but all he can focus on is the way your breath ghosts over him, the way your eyes lock onto his as your tongue—

Jesus.

Fucking.

Christ.

His vision fractures at the edges, tunnelling until the universe condenses to three points: the wicked curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes against your skin, and the sinful press of your tongue where he needs it most. For one suspended, blasphemous moment, Steve's convinced Robin actually killed him—because there's no earthly way this is real: your mouth sinking onto him like you've been starving for it, hot and wet and perfect, swallowing him down to the hilt with a vibration that travels straight to his fucking spine. The sound you make—a muffled, content hum around him as he hits the back of your throat—sends a full-body shudder through him.

Holy mother of God.

He knows better than to look. He knows he shouldn’t—but he does anyway, helpless as a marionette with its strings cut—

Big mistake.

Because now he's watching, really watching, as your lips stretch obscenely around him, as your throat works to take him deeper. Your eyes lock onto his, crinkled at the corners with vicious amusement as you take him deeper, and shit, suddenly he’s sixteen again, stumbling across his first Playboy, heart racing and palms sweating. Except now it’s your mouth, your knowing gaze scalding him hotter than July asphalt as you savour every choked noise he can’t suppress. He should say something, should at least try to form words, but all his head does is thud back again. That look alone—like you’re cataloguing his every twitch and heave—threatens to spill him into your throat right fucking now. If he doesn’t—

A burst of laughter ricochets down the hall, sudden and too close. Your fingers tighten reflexively around the base of him, nails grazing the sensitive skin there, and Steve’s entire body tenses like a bowstring drawn too tight, but his hips jerk forward before he can stop them, dragging a ragged groan from him.

“Fuck—we have to be quiet,” he rasps, but you just smirk around him, all devilish intent, dragging your tongue along his underside in a measured, filthy stripe that makes his vision blur at the edges. His legs actually cave in; he has to brace a forearm against the wall to stay upright.

It’s agony.

It’s ecstasy.

Then your eyes flutter shut, and the soft, satisfied hum you let out vibrates through him straight to his spine. His fingers fist in your hair—gentle, got to be gentle—but his hips jerk of their own accord, chasing the sinful heat of your mouth like it’s his only chance at salvation. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he chokes, voice shredded. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.” And he means it. Because if this is what you do to him in some shitty bathroom, with Robin and half the party just beyond the door—Then what happens when he gets you alone? His mind whites out, fever-bright with the images: Pinning you against the first available surface—his bed, his car, the fucking kitchen counter—anything to finally take what you’ve been tormenting him with. Peeling you out of your clothes with agonising slowness, just to hear you whine and beg for his name. His mouth on every patch of skin he’s watched you expose all summer—the dip of your collarbone, the inside of your thighs, that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp when he accidentally brushes it. The way you’d clench around him when he finally sinks in, tight and desperate after an eternity of stolen glances. The filth he’d whisper in your ear: “Knew you’d take me so fucking good.”

“Christ,” he grits out, hips stuttering as you swallow him deeper. His knuckles tensing against the sink. “You’re so fucking—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupts him.

“Hey, dipshits!” Robin’s voice slices through the haze, sharp with accusation. "You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there."

Steve’s head thunks back against the wall. Goddamn it.

His entire body locks up, every muscle pulled taut between the mind-numbing pleasure of your mouth and the very real possibility of Robin kicking the door in. His fingers twist tighter in your hair—not to stop you, never to stop you, but because if he doesn’t anchor to something, he might genuinely combust. The bathroom light flickers overhead, casting shadows against your cheeks as you glance up at him, and—fuck—he’s never seen anything more obscene.

"Shit," he hisses, voice shredded. "Fuck, fuck—" The litany spills from him like a prayer, like a curse, like heresy. You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, lips slick and swollen, and the sight alone nearly undoes him. "We should stop," you murmur—liar, fucking liar—your breath scorching his skin. Your tongue grazes his tip as you speak, and Steve sees actual stars. He groans, low and wounded, but his thumb trails over your bottom lip anyway, smearing spit as he claims the wetness there. "Yeah. Yeah, we—" Another knock, louder this time, rattling the doorframe.

"I swear to God, Harrington," Robin’s voice cuts through the wood, "if you’re defiling my sister in there, I’m replacing your hairspray with Nair."

You pull back just enough to make him ache, and Steve’s breath hisses through his teeth—sharp, frustrated, barely holding back something far filthier. His hands twitch at your waist like he’s debating dragging you right back, but all he does is adjust himself with a rough groan, his jeans straining. When his gaze locks onto yours, it’s wildfire in the dark, pupils swallowing every last bit of reason. "This isn’t over." The words scrape out of him like a match strike, sulfur-sharp and spark-ready.

A smirk curls your lips as you stand, lips grazing the stubble along his jaw. The shudder it pulls from him is downright criminal.

"Better not be," you murmur against his skin, your tongue swiping the sting from his skin, sweet as poisoned candy. "Or I’ll finish what you started on my own—and trust me, you’ll lie awake trying and failing to picture it half as vividly as it’ll sound."

Steve’s breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s half-hard, wholly ruined, and absolutely fucked when you step back, looking far too innocent for someone who just had their mouth on—

The door flies open under Robin’s impatient fist. Steve barely has time to yank it wider before she’s glaring up at him, arms crossed. But Steve only has one thought consuming him:

Later.

[pt. II]

1K notes · View notes

writeriguess · 2 months ago

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hello!! im new on ur account and ive been loving all the things u write! can i request reader being drunk from girls night and shes soooo clingy with katsuki while hes removing her makeup and making sure she’s comfortable 🥹 i can js imagine katsuki saying “mhm, miss you too babe now tell me how to remove your stupid waterproof mascara.”

Clingy Drunk Babe

Katsuki barely had time to catch you as you stumbled into the apartment, your arms instantly wrapping around his waist. You buried your face into his chest, sighing dramatically.

“Missed you soooo much,” you mumbled, voice muffled against his hoodie.

“Tch. You were gone for, what, four hours?” Katsuki grumbled, but his arms still found their way around you, steadying you before you could fall over.

“Too long,” you whined, looking up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” he said immediately.

You gasped, scandalized, then squished his cheeks between your hands. “Liar.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue but let you pull him down into a sloppy forehead kiss. He sighed, then scooped you up bridal style, carrying you straight to the bathroom. “C’mon, let’s get all this crap off your face so you don’t complain about it in the morning.”

You giggled, kicking your feet playfully. “You’re sooooo strong, ‘Suki.”

He snorted. “Yeah, yeah, keep sweet-talkin’ me, drunkie.”

Setting you down gently on the bathroom counter, he grabbed your makeup remover, reading the label with a frown. “The hell is ‘micellar water’? This just fancy water?”

You giggled again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “You’re so cute when you’re confused.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, ears going pink as he grabbed a cotton pad and started wiping at your foundation.

He worked in silence for a while, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he cleaned your face. But when he got to your eyes, he paused, scowling at your mascara. “How the hell do I get this stupid waterproof shit off?”

You giggled, nuzzling into his neck. “Mmm, miss you.”

“Mhm, miss you too, babe, now tell me how to remove your stupid waterproof mascara.”

“Oil cleanser,” you hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw. “Top shelf.”

Katsuki grumbled under his breath but grabbed it, diligently working until your face was clean. Once he was done, he pulled back, inspecting you with a satisfied nod. “There. Now let’s get your ass to bed before you pass out on the damn floor.”

You grinned sleepily, reaching for him again. “Only if you cuddle me.”

He rolled his eyes but easily lifted you into his arms again. “Yeah, yeah. Like I’d leave your needy ass alone right now.”

You giggled, curling into his warmth as he carried you to bed. “Best boyfriend ever.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, tucking you in and sliding in beside you.

And even though he pretended to be grumpy about it, Katsuki held you extra close that night.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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cloudyluun · 3 months ago

Text

Easy Money | sugar daddy!harry

Summary: What started as a simple transaction—a way to make some quick cash—turns into something far more complicated when Harry refuses to keep things strictly business. He spoils you, adores you, falls for you. But when he finally confesses his feelings, you remind him this was never supposed to be real. The only problem? Somewhere along the way, it became exactly that.

Wordt Count: 8k

A/N: This was a very special request from one of my absolute favourite readers (you know who you are 😉). I had way too much fun writing this, so if you find yourself blushing, looking away from your screen, or needing a cold shower—just know, that was entirely the goal. Enjoy, you little troublemakers.

Warnings:

Smut (and a lot of it)

Sugar daddy arrangement turning very real

Power struggles in bed (both of them want control and it gets heated)

Dom!Harry / Bratty!Reader dynamics

Lots of teasing, dirty talk, and tension so thick you could choke on it

Angst & emotional turmoil (Harry catches feelings first and it hurts)

Over-the-top romance (he spoils her, worships her, and claims her)

Explicit language

Mentions of financial struggles

Soft, clingy aftercare that will make you feel things

Read responsibly. Or don’t. Just don’t blame me when Harry Styles takes over your brain.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Your phone buzzes with another notification from your bank. You already know what it says before you even look, but the sinking feeling in your stomach urges you to check anyway.

LOW BALANCE ALERT

You sigh, thumb hovering over the notification before swiping it away. As if ignoring it will make the problem disappear.

It doesn’t.

Bills are due. Rent is due. Your student loans are a monster looming over your shoulder, their presence suffocating no matter how much you try to ignore them. Every paycheck disappears the second it hits your account, and no matter how many shifts you pick up or how much you cut back, it’s never enough. The math simply doesn’t math.

You’ve tried everything.

Taking extra hours at work? Done. You’re already stretched thin, running on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Side hustles? Tried. You’ve scoured every "easy ways to make money" list on the internet. You’ve filled out mind-numbing surveys for pennies, signed up for focus groups that never picked you, even considered selling pictures of your feet, only to chicken out the second you realized you had no idea where to even start.

Asking your parents for help? Not an option. The thought alone makes your stomach twist with shame. You’re an adult. You should be able to handle this.

But you’re drowning.

And tonight, after another long shift, after tipping your last few dollars to the bartender in a desperate attempt to pretend you have your life together, you lie in bed, scrolling through your phone, searching for something. A solution. A miracle. A quick fix that doesn’t exist.

Your searches grow more desperate. How to make money fast. How to pay rent when you’re broke. How to get a sugar daddy—

You pause.

The words stare back at you from the search bar, your heart skipping a beat as you realize you actually typed it. You weren’t even thinking. Just letting your thoughts spill out onto the screen, every insane idea passing through your exhausted brain.

But now the idea is there.

And worse—it isn’t immediately repulsive.

It’s not like you don’t know what a sugar baby is. You’ve heard the stories, seen the jokes. Older, rich men paying younger women just to be in their presence. Some arrangements are physical, sure, but plenty aren’t.

And it’s not like you’d actually do it.

…Right?

Your finger hovers over the search results, heartbeat picking up. You tell yourself you’re just curious. Just looking.

Twenty minutes later, you’re staring at the App Store. A bright pink logo sits on your screen, the words SUGAR DADDY APP – FIND YOUR ARRANGEMENT TODAY! flashing below it.

You chew on your lip, pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is insane.

This is absolutely insane.

But what if—

What if it’s just casual meetups? Just talking. Just dinner. Some of these girls are getting their rent paid just for going on dates. What if that could be you? What if this is the answer?

What’s the harm in looking?

Before you can second-guess yourself, your thumb presses download.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. The app opens, welcoming you with a sleek, luxurious design; gold accents, elegant fonts, a promise of “mutually beneficial arrangements.” The signup process is shockingly easy. You pick a username, upload a picture (nothing scandalous, just a cute selfie), and fill out your bio.

“Young, fun, and a great conversationalist. Looking for someone who appreciates good company. Nothing serious.”

That should do.

Messages start coming in immediately.

And it’s exactly what you expected.

Older men with awkward, borderline sleazy messages. Some are direct, offering money in exchange for explicit favors. Others try to be charming but still give off a transactional vibe. None of them make you feel… good.

You sigh, already regretting this. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe you should just—

MATCH!

A notification pops up at the top of your screen. You glance at it, ready to roll your eyes, until you see the name.

Harry.

You blink. That’s… different.

You click on his profile, expecting the same thing you’ve seen all night. But your breath catches.

He’s young. Well—not young, but younger than the rest. Late thirties, maybe early fourties. Sharp jawline, green eyes, a dimple that softens his otherwise serious expression. Dressed in a crisp, expensive-looking suit, but his tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves, a contradiction that instantly intrigues you.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here.

But then again… neither do you.

Your pulse quickens as you stare at his profile, your fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

What do you even say to someone like him?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation creeping in. A simple hi feels too basic. A joke might come off as trying too hard. But before you can overthink yourself into oblivion, a new notification pops up.

Harry sent you a message.

Your stomach flips. You exhale, steadying yourself before clicking to open it.

"Didn’t expect to find someone like you on here."

You blink. That’s… not what you expected. There’s no awkward proposition, no sleazy opener, no immediate offer of money in exchange for something degrading. It’s casual, almost intrigued. He follows up before you can reply.

"Not complaining, though. You look like you have good taste in wine."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It’s charming. Simple. Not overdone. And weirdly enough it works.

Your eyes flicker back to his profile. It really is almost too good to be true. His pictures look professional, but not in the this was stolen from someone else’s Instagram way. They’re polished but natural. He’s sitting in a sleek black car in one, leaning against a marble bar in another. His bio is short, to the point.

“Successful entrepreneur. Generous. Looking for good company, good conversation, and good wine.”

There’s no cringey flexing. No desperate attempt to lure someone in. Just confidence. And it makes you nervous.

Still, you answer.

"I do. But I don’t let just anyone buy me a glass."

A beat. Then:

"Let me take you to dinner and prove I’m worth it."

Your stomach knots. You tell yourself you should be skeptical, that this is exactly how people end up in shady situations, but… there’s something different about him. He doesn’t reek of desperation. He’s not trying to corner you into anything. If anything, he almost seems amused.

Still, you’re cautious.

"That depends on the restaurant."

His response is instant.

"Le Jardin."

Your breath catches. That’s not just a restaurant. That’s the restaurant. The kind of place that has a six-month waitlist and a menu with no prices because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Before you can even process it, another message pops up.

"I’ll pay you $3,000 just to show up."

You sit up so fast your vision tilts.

Three. Thousand. Dollars.

For dinner? For a couple of hours of your time?

Your heart pounds. Your rent is barely half of that. That kind of money would give you breathing room, let you live for a moment instead of just surviving.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. Your brain is screaming at you to say yes. But a small part of you hesitates.

You’re not stupid. You know nothing comes for free.

"And what do you expect in return?" you finally ask.

His reply is simple.

"Dinner. Conversation. That’s all."

You swallow. You want to believe him. And against your better judgment… you do.

Your fingers shake slightly as you type out your answer.

"Alright. I’m in."

You set the phone down, staring at the screen as the reality of what you just agreed to sinks in.

You tell yourself it’s just transactional.

No expectations.

No strings attached.

So why does it already feel like something else?

You shove that thought aside as you get ready.

You’ve never been to a place like Le Jardin, never even been within walking distance of it, but you know what kind of people dine there. The rich, the powerful, the ones who don’t check price tags or worry about overdraft fees. You’re not one of them, and it makes your stomach twist as you stand in front of your closet, trying to figure out what to wear.

You settle on a sleek black dress—nothing too extravagant, but elegant enough to blend in. You keep your makeup simple, your jewelry minimal, but when you step in front of the mirror, something about your reflection feels different. Almost like you belong in this world. Like you could make someone believe it, even if only for one night.

The car Harry sends for you pulls up right on time. The driver is professional, dressed in a crisp suit, and doesn’t say much beyond a polite, “Miss?” as he opens the door. The ride is smooth, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, and the entire time, your fingers twitch in your lap.

You tell yourself this is just a dinner. Just a business transaction. Just easy money.

But then you step into the restaurant, and your breath catches.

Le Jardin is breathtaking. Soft golden lighting, high ceilings, waiters gliding between tables like they’re floating. Everything about it screams exclusivity, like you’ve just stepped into a world not meant for people like you.

And then you see him.

Harry.

He stands as soon as he spots you, and for a second, the air shifts.

You were prepared for him to be attractive—you’ve seen his pictures, you knew what to expect—but this? This is something else entirely.

He’s tall, broad, the tailored lines of his suit clinging to him in a way that makes your mouth dry. Dark curls, sharp jaw, green eyes that flicker with something unreadable as he watches you cross the room.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk, not a cocky I-have-you-right-where-I-want-you grin, but something softer. Something that makes his dimple crease and his eyes warm.

It’s almost disarming.

He pulls out your chair before you can even reach for it. “You look stunning,�� he murmurs, his voice a low hum that slides down your spine.

You blink at him, thrown off. You expected arrogance, maybe a smooth line or two, but instead, he sounds almost… genuine.

You let him push in your chair, smoothing your hands over your dress as you settle in. “I try.”

He chuckles, a quiet thing, and as he takes his seat across from you, you realize he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

Not in the way the other men on the app did, like they were already calculating what they’d get out of you. No, this is different. It’s like he’s trying to figure you out, like he’s curious.

The waiter appears, offering an expensive bottle of wine without asking if you’d like to see the menu first. You don’t even know how to pronounce the name, but Harry just nods, thanking the server before turning back to you.

“So,” he says, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced together. “Tell me something about you.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Anything.” He shrugs. “Something that’s not in your profile.”

You hesitate. You could give him something basic, something easy. But for some reason, you don’t want to.

“I hate tomatoes,” you say, watching for his reaction.

He blinks. Then laughs. A real, full laugh, his head tipping back slightly.

“Alright,” he says, still smiling. “Not what I expected, but I respect it.”

The conversation flows effortlessly after that. He asks questions—genuine ones—not just about you, but your thoughts, your opinions, things that have nothing to do with the arrangement. And he listens. Really listens. Holding eye contact like he’s hanging onto every word.

The food arrives—meals you can’t even begin to describe, flavors so rich you feel out of place eating them. But Harry makes it easy, never letting the moment feel intimidating.

At one point, he cuts a bite of his dish and lifts it toward you.

“Try this.”

You don’t even think twice. You just let him. Let him feed you, his fingers brushing the corner of your lips as you take the bite.

It doesn’t faze you.

But him?

He’s gone.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second longer than necessary—but you catch it. And for some reason, it makes you smile.

Dessert comes, and he reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, absentminded motion, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

The look in his eyes is something you can’t quite place.

You don’t hesitate.

You nod, lips curling slightly.

You’re getting paid, after all.

That’s what you tell yourself when the gifts start rolling in.

At first, they’re subtle. A bottle of perfume left on your doorstep, the kind you’d never splurge on for yourself. The packaging alone screams luxury, sleek and weighty in your hands. You hesitate before opening the attached note, curiosity bubbling in your chest.

“Reminded me of you. - H”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. You spritz a little onto your wrist, inhaling. It’s warm, sensual—notes of vanilla and something darker, richer. Expensive.

And then it doesn’t stop.

A few days later, a box arrives. Big this time. Too big for just perfume. You tear through the pristine wrapping to find a designer handbag nestled inside, the leather buttery soft beneath your fingertips.

Your first thought is: What the fuck?

Your second thought is: How much did this cost?

You barely have time to process before your phone buzzes.

Harry: Saw this and thought of you. Hope you like it.

You blink down at the message, at the bag, then back again.

Is this normal? you wonder. Is this what this arrangement is supposed to look like?

You send back a single text.

You: You’re insane.

His response is immediate.

Harry: I like spoiling you.

You don’t know what to do with that, so you just… let it happen.

At first, it’s funny. It feels like playing a role, stepping into a world you don’t belong in. You make jokes to yourself every time another absurdly expensive thing lands in your lap.

Then come the texts.

They start out simple, routine check-ins that could easily be brushed off.

“Morning, love. Hope today isn’t too stressful.”

“Made it home safe?”

“Sleep well?”

But then they start happening like clockwork.

Every morning, without fail—

“Good morning, darling.”

Every night—

“Sleep tight. Dream of me.”

You laugh when you read that one, shaking your head. It’s charming. Ridiculous.

And then there are the touches.

He kisses your forehead when he greets you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When he hands you a drink, his fingers brush yours, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. When you walk into a room together, his hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady, like he’s guiding you, claiming you.

The thing is… you don’t encourage it.

But you also don’t stop it.

Because—if you’re being honest?—it’s kind of cute.

And, really, what’s the harm?

You meet up with him again. And again. It becomes a pattern, slipping into your life with alarming ease. Lavish dinners, expensive outings, stolen moments where he looks at you like you’re something rare, something fragile.

Then, one night, it happens.

You’re seated across from him at a dimly lit restaurant, the hum of soft jazz filling the air. Your wine glass is half-full, your plate mostly cleared, and he’s been watching you all night—watching in that way he does, like he’s memorizing you.

And then, almost absentmindedly, he stirs his drink and murmurs, “Didn’t like being away from you today.”

You barely register his words at first, too focused on the way he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.

But then he looks up.

And there’s something there.

Something warm, something vulnerable.

“Missed you,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You snort, reaching out without thinking, patting his cheek lightly. “That’s adorable.”

He huffs out a laugh, but he leans into your touch like a man starved, like it means something to him.

And that’s when it hits you.

Like a freight train, like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You’re in it for the money.

He’s in it for love.

You know it now. You’ve known it for a while, haven’t you? If you really take a second to think about it, you’d realize that every expensive gift, every lingering touch, every look of pure, devoted affection was leading up to this.

You should’ve seen it coming.

Maybe you did, but you ignored it. You chose to believe that this was just fun for him the same way it was fun for you. That he was playing along with the fantasy, indulging in the illusion of something deeper—just because he could.

Because it was easy. Because it was nice.

Because it meant neither of you had to be alone.

But Harry?

Harry was never playing.

And tonight proves it.

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. You knew it would be.

With Harry, everything is excessive. He likes to spoil you, to spend absurd amounts of money just to watch your reaction. It’s fun for him, you think.

But this is different.

This isn’t just extravagant. This is romantic.

The entire penthouse-level dining room is bathed in golden candlelight, the glow flickering off the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city. The table is set for two, an elaborate spread of silverware and delicate wine glasses that you already know you’ll be too nervous to touch. The scent of fresh roses lingers in the air, overwhelming but intentional.

It’s the kind of setup someone arranges when they’re about to propose.

The thought makes something uneasy curl in your stomach.

Harry has been off all evening. Not in an obvious way—no, he’s still charming, still soft-spoken, still perfectly polite.

But he’s quiet.

More than usual.

His touches have been different tonight, too. Deliberate. Lingering. When he pulled out your chair for you, his hands skimmed over your shoulders, his fingers trailing against your skin like he was memorizing the feeling. When he handed you your wine glass, he let his fingertips brush over yours, his touch slow, like he needed it. When you made a joke about the ridiculous amount of forks in front of you, he didn’t just laugh—he looked at you like you’d just hung the moon.

And the way he’s looking at you now?

Like he’s about to say something you won’t be able to take back.

You should stop this.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve spent so long pretending that this—whatever this is—can exist in some untouchable space. That as long as you don’t acknowledge the shift, as long as you don’t name it, it will stay the same.

But you were wrong.

And Harry?

Harry is about to prove it.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of music in the background, the flicker of candlelight making shadows dance across his face.

And then—

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body locks up.

The words don’t register at first, like your brain is physically rejecting them.

Because, no.

No, that’s not what this is.

That’s not what this was ever supposed to be.

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, something hot crawling up your spine, your throat suddenly too tight, your hands suddenly too still.

You blink.

He’s still looking at you.

Still waiting.

Like this is the moment everything changes. Like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Like this is the moment he gets you.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

You inhale sharply, your pulse roaring in your ears, the weight of his confession settling onto your chest like a ton of bricks.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you, holding you there like an anchor. Like he can sense that you’re about to run.

You swallow hard.

“Harry…”

The smile on his lips falters. Barely.

But you notice it.

You notice everything.

The way his fingers twitch. The way his eyes search yours, desperate. The way his jaw clenches, like he already knows.

You have to do this.

You have to say it.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve him open.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve yourself open.

You take a breath.

“This isn’t real.”

It’s quiet. A whisper. A tiny, fragile thing.

But it shatters him all the same.

You see it.

The way his entire body stills. The way the warmth drains from his face, his hands slipping away from yours so slowly, so painfully, like he’s forcing himself to let go.

Like he doesn’t want to.

But he has to.

His throat bobs.

His eyes flicker, something shifting in them—something soft breaking, something hopeful dying.

“Not real?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like it physically hurts him to ask.

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

Because what do you even say?

What could you possibly say to fix this?

To fix him?

To fix the way he’s looking at you like you just ripped the ground out from beneath him?

You weren’t supposed to mean this much to him.

But you do.

And that’s the problem.

The problem isn’t that he loves you.

The problem isn’t that he confessed.

The problem isn’t even that you saw it coming and did nothing to stop it.

The problem is that when he looks at you like this—like this—you don’t want to stop it.

His hands are still cradling your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Like if he just holds you tightly enough, he can will you into feeling the same way he does.

And maybe he can.

Because something about the way he’s looking at you now makes something deep in your chest ache. Makes something warm coil low in your stomach, makes your fingers tremble against the tablecloth.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t still be sitting in this candlelit penthouse with him.

You should say something sharp and final, put an end to whatever this is before it gets worse. Before he gets hurt. Before you get hurt.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because his eyes are flickering over your face like he’s memorizing you. Because his lips are parted, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

Because when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, wrecked.

“It is for me.”

It knocks the air right out of you.

It’s not pleading. It’s not even a question.

It’s just fact.

And you feel it—God, you feel it.

He has never been playing.

Not once.

Not for a second.

This was always real for him.

And now?

Now, it’s real for you, too.

You should pull away.

You should.

You should tell him you’re sorry, that you never meant to let it get this far, that you never meant to make him fall for you.

But instead—

You tilt your chin up, let your gaze lock with his, let the tension between you thicken and twist until there’s only one way this ends.

“Then make me believe it.”

It’s barely a whisper. But he hears it.

You know he hears it.

Because his entire body reacts—his grip on your face tightening, his lips parting, his chest rising with a sharp inhale.

And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, before you can stop yourself—

His mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

It’s months of lingering touches, of stolen glances, of suppressed feelings exploding all at once.

His hands slide from your face to your jaw, tilting your head up, angling you the way he wants, the way he needs. His lips move against yours with a hunger you’ve never felt from him before, all-consuming, his body leaning forward until you have no choice but to grab onto his shirt, fisting the fabric in your hands to keep yourself steady.

You gasp against his mouth, and he groans, deep and guttural, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

And maybe you do.

His hands are everywhere now—sliding down your neck, tracing your collarbone, curling around your waist as he yanks you toward him. The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, pulling you up with him, pressing your body flush against his.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging, and he growls, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll feel it tomorrow.

You don’t care.

You don’t care about any of it anymore.

Not the arrangement.

Not the money.

Not the way you told yourself this wasn’t real.

Because right now, with his lips hot and insistent against yours, his body pressed against you like he needs you to breathe—

It is.

It is real.

And you want more.

“Harry,” you murmur against his mouth, your fingers tugging at his shirt, nails scraping down his back.

He groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “Say it again.”

You shiver.

His voice is different now. Lower. Rougher.

More possessive.

You lick your lips, tilting your head, letting your nose brush against his. “Harry.”

It’s all he needs.

He moves fast. One second, you’re standing by the table, and the next, he’s walking you backward, his grip firm but gentle, like he’s guiding you, like he’s making sure you want this.

And you do.

God, you do.

The backs of your legs hit something soft—one of the long velvet couches lining the floor-to-ceiling windows—and then he’s pushing you down, following you without hesitation, his hands bracketing your hips, his body pressing you into the cushions.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, kissing, nipping, claiming.

“You have no fucking idea,” he rasps against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You arch beneath him, your breath stuttering.

“How long I’ve waited for you,” he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingers dragging over bare skin.

Your nails dig into his back.

This is different.

This isn’t just sex.

This isn’t just fulfilling an arrangement.

This is him showing you what he means.

This is you finally admitting what you want.

“Then show me,” you breathe.

He does.

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

He surges forward, claiming your lips again, this time slower, deeper—like he’s savoring you, like he’s tasting something he knows he’ll never get enough of. His hands tighten on your body, strong fingers splaying against your ribs, dragging up, up, up, until his thumbs are teasing along the sides of your breasts, just enough to make you arch into him.

A low groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he kisses you harder, as his tongue sweeps against yours in a kiss so deep it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

And then he’s moving, lifting you effortlessly from the couch like you weigh nothing, like you belong in his arms. His grip is strong—possessive—one hand on your thigh, the other curled around your back as he carries you across the room.

His lips never leave yours.

His kisses are slow now, teasing, dragging, pulling soft whimpers from your throat that he swallows like they belong to him.

He walks you straight to the bed, laying you down like you’re something precious, something breakable.

But you’re not breakable.

And when he starts to pull away, you don’t let him.

You grip his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him back down until he’s hovering over you, his body caging yours in. His breath is heavy, uneven, his eyes blown wide and desperate.

“You want to take your time?” you murmur, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, sliding them through the fabric one by one, teasing.

His jaw clenches.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, voice low, rough. “For months.”

Your lips curl.

“So why are you still dressed?”

Something snaps.

Harry growls, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before his hands are back on you, slipping under your dress, pushing the fabric up, exposing skin he’s been dying to touch.

“You think you’re in charge?” he mutters, mouth against your throat, kissing, nipping, dragging his tongue over the spot that makes you shiver.

A smirk plays at your lips.

“I know I am.”

His fingers tighten on your hips. “Not tonight.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s got you flat on your back, hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head as he stares down at you, chest heaving.

And fuck, he’s beautiful like this.

Eyes dark, lips swollen, hair falling into his face, body hard and tense against yours.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, voice thick with need, his fingers tracing over the pulse point in your wrist.

“Good,” you whisper back.

His lips crash against yours again, hungrier this time, rougher.

He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you.

And you let him.

You moan into his mouth, rolling your hips up, grinding against the hardness pressing between your legs, and he hisses, his grip tightening.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “D’you have any idea what you do to me?”

You smile, slow and teasing, tilting your head, lips brushing against his jaw.

“Show me.”

He does.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, caressing, exploring.

He strips you slow, torturous, dragging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, pressing soft, lingering kisses to every inch of exposed skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, his lips brushing over your collarbone, his hands palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, making you gasp.

“Harry,” you whimper, arching into his touch, nails dragging down his back.

He groans, sucking a mark onto your skin, his tongue flicking over it, soothing, before he starts moving lower.

His mouth trails over your ribs, your stomach, his fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slow, too slow.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

You squirm beneath him, breath hitching. “You.”

His teeth graze your skin. “Be specific.”

You bite your lip, staring down at him, the way he’s kneeling between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, waiting.

You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly. “I want your mouth.”

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Good girl.”

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, fingers tightening in his hair as he licks, sucks, devours you like he’s starved.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

His tongue moves slow, deliberate, teasing, and when you let out a breathy moan, he groans against you, gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he eats you like he’s trying to ruin you.

Like he’s claiming you.

Your thighs tremble around his head, pleasure building too fast, too strong, and he knows, because he presses his tongue against your clit, flicking, sucking, driving you insane.

“Harry—fuck—”

“Come for me,” he rasps against your skin, voice rough and commanding, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you do.

You unravel beneath him, your body arching, pleasure washing over you in waves as you cry out his name, your fingers tight in his hair.

He works you through it, his mouth never leaving you, softening the strokes of his tongue until you’re panting, trembling beneath him.

Then he’s moving, crawling back up your body, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he pushes his hips against yours.

He’s hard, straining against his pants, and you reach down, palming him through the fabric, making him groan.

“Your turn,” you murmur, eyes dark, wicked.

His breath hitches.

You flip him over, straddling his hips, pinning his wrists to the bed, watching as his pupils dilate, his breath stuttering.

“You like that?” you tease, rolling your hips against him.

His jaw clenches. “You have no idea.”

You smirk. “Then let me show you.”

And you do.

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, feeling the thick press of him still trapped beneath layers of fabric. His breath shudders, his fingers twitch where you’ve got them pinned, but you don’t let up. You grind down again, watching his jaw clench, the way his body tenses beneath you, all muscle and restraint.

“You like being underneath me?” you tease, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, feeling the way his abs tense at your touch.

His eyes darken. “Don’t push me, love.”

You lean down, just enough for your lips to ghost over his, barely brushing, teasing, taunting. “Or what?”

His breath hitches. Then he growls.

A low, dangerous sound that sends heat pooling between your thighs.

He bucks his hips, trying to shift the power, but you press down harder, hands splaying over his chest, keeping him pinned.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out, head tipping back against the pillows. “You’re a tease.”

You smirk, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “And you love it.”

His hands flex against the sheets, his muscles straining beneath you like he’s dying to grab you, flip you, take back control. But he doesn’t. He lets you have it—for now.

“That’s it,” you murmur, leaning down, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses over his throat, nipping lightly at his pulse point. “Be good for me.”

He groans, his fingers twitching, desperate to touch.

But you don’t let him.

You grab his wrists again, pressing them firmly into the mattress, locking him in place as you start moving properly, rocking against him, dragging the thick outline of his cock right against your soaked panties.

His breath shudders.

“Jesus fuck,” he rasps, eyes fluttering shut for a second, chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

You roll your hips harder, the friction sending pleasure shooting through you, and when he lets out a strangled moan, you smile.

“Poor baby,” you coo, running your tongue along the shell of his ear. “Does it feel good?”

His jaw clenches so hard you think it might break.

“Y’think you’re in charge, hmm?” His voice is thick, rough, dangerous.

Your lips curl as you grind down again, harder this time. “I know I am.”

Something snaps.

In a blink, Harry moves.

One second, you’re in control—the next, you’re not.

With a low, feral growl, he rips his wrists free, grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back so fast your breath catches. Before you can even react, he’s on you, pressing you into the mattress, his body heavy, his hands rough.

“You think you can tease me like that?” he murmurs, eyes dark and dangerous as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

You inhale sharply, shivering at the sudden shift, at the way he’s towering over you, at the raw hunger in his eyes.

“Maybe I wanted you to break,” you whisper, testing, teasing, pushing.

His grip tightens.

“Fucking hell, you’re a brat.”

You smirk. “And you love it.”

His lips crash against yours.

It’s rough, desperate, all tongue and teeth, like he’s punishing you, like he’s claiming you. You moan into his mouth, arching up, pressing your body to his, feeling the hard lines of him against your softness.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, spreading you open beneath him as he grinds against you, letting you feel how much he wants this.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, rolling his hips harder, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. “You feel that, baby? Feel what you do to me?”

You whimper, nodding, your head spinning, body thrumming with heat.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck, sucking hard at your pulse point, leaving marks. Claiming you.

“Yes,” you breathe, hands clutching at his back, nails digging in. “I feel it.”

“Yeah?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, dangerous. “You ready to stop playing, then?”

Your breath hitches.

You smirk. “Make me.”

His eyes flash.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, threatening. “You’re gonna regret that.”

His hand suddenly fists in your hair, tilting your head up just enough for his lips to hover over yours, breaths mingling, tension thick and electric.

“As much as I love watching you think you’re in charge,” he murmurs, his voice thick, deep, commanding, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

A shiver racks through you, but before you can respond, he moves.

In one swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, pressing you down into the mattress, his hands everywhere—gripping your hips, running up your sides, ghosting over your ribs like he’s savoring every inch of you.

“My turn,” he breathes, dragging your wrists above your head, holding you still as his mouth finds your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your heated skin.

You try to shift beneath him, to gain some control back, but his grip tightens, fingers wrapping around your wrists, pinning you down completely.

“Be good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing down your back, teeth grazing over already-sensitive spots.

You whimper, squirming, desperate for more, but he takes his time, teasing, torturing, his touch featherlight as he drags his fingers down the curve of your spine, over the swell of your ass.

“You’re too fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, squeezing your hips, dragging you back against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is. “Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this.”

Your breath stutters, body burning, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“Harry,” you whimper, rolling your hips back, silently begging. “Please.”

He groans, low and dark, his restraint snapping.

“Yeah?” he taunts, lips ghosting over your ear as he presses his chest to your back. “You ready for me, baby?”

You nod frantically, arching against him, needing, aching—

But he still makes you wait.

Dragging his hand between your thighs, he strokes you with maddening slowness, gathering your wetness on his fingers, groaning at how ready you are.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Dripping for me already?”

You whimper, nodding. “Harry, please—”

Finally, finally, he aligns himself with you, pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, waiting—

“Look at me.”

His voice is commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes—dark, hungry, wild.

He watches you, waiting, holding you there in the moment, making sure you feel it before he gives you what you want.

And then—

He thrusts in.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you open, deep and overwhelming.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he buries himself inside you, his grip bruising on your hips, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he grits out, his voice rough, ragged, vibrating against your skin. His head falls forward, his forehead resting against the nape of your neck, breath hot and uneven. “You’re so—shit, you’re so tight.”

You arch beneath him, back bowing, body tightening around him in response, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness of him inside you. It’s almost too much, the way he splits you apart, the way he holds you still, like he’s savoring the feeling, savoring you.

Your hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white as you try to ground yourself, try to keep from losing yourself completely.

He must sense it, the way your body trembles, because his grip softens, fingers splaying over your stomach as he kisses your shoulder, slow and tender.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice strained but gentle. He noses along your skin, pressing his lips to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

His free hand finds yours, threading his fingers through yours against the mattress, grounding you, anchoring you to him.

He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him before he moves.

And then—

Then he ruins you.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, pushing deep, making your breath hitch, making your fingers tighten around his.

Then another. And another. Each movement calculated, precise, dragging against every nerve ending inside you, pulling you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips.

His rhythm starts slow, deep—like he’s savoring the feeling of being buried inside you. Like he wants to take his time, to make you feel him, make you remember this.

But it doesn’t last.

The control snaps, his patience evaporating like steam off your overheated skin.

He growls, the sound primal, desperate, as his hands shift—one gripping your hip, the other pressing against the small of your back, keeping you in place as he pounds into you.

The bed shakes beneath you, every thrust sending ripples through your body, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours, lips brushing but never quite kissing, too lost in the moment, too consumed by the way your body wraps around him.

You can barely breathe, barely think, all logic drowned out by the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, filling you, wrecking you.

You meet every thrust, grinding back against him, chasing your high, needing, aching—

He notices, because of course he does.

“Yeah?” he pants, voice rough, strained. “You want it, baby? Want me to fuck you like this?”

You nod frantically, gasping, moaning his name, nails digging into his forearm, marking him, branding him.

He growls at the sting, his hand tightening on your hip, holding you still as he drives into you, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the dimly lit room.

And then—

Then he shifts, pulling out just enough before slamming back in at a new angle, hitting deeper, stroking against that one spot that makes you see stars.

You cry out, arching, body tightening around him, pleasure slamming into you like a tidal wave.

His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, gripping, hitching it up, opening you wider, letting him sink in even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

“That’s it,” he pants, lips brushing against your temple, damp with sweat. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles.

It’s too much. The pressure, the stretch, the overwhelming intensity of it all.

Your body locks up, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm hits, crashing over you in violent, shattering waves.

You tremble beneath him, gasping his name, clenching around him so tight that he lets out a broken moan, his movements stuttering, losing rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck—”

And then he’s gone, head tilting back, mouth falling open as he lets go, spilling into you with a guttural groan, his entire body tensing before he collapses on top of you.

The only sound in the room is your combined panting, heavy and uneven, the sheets tangled beneath you, bodies still pressed together, skin damp with sweat.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, pressing one last, lingering kiss there before he whispers, voice hoarse and spent—

“Mine.”

The word settles between you like a slow-burning flame, flickering, catching, spreading.

His breath is still uneven, chest rising and falling against yours, his weight a comforting anchor rather than something pressing you down. His arms stay locked around you, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t plan to.

And for the first time, you don’t want him to.

You don’t move. You can’t move.

His fingers start tracing slow, lazy patterns along your spine, light and absentminded, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

His touch isn’t just post-bliss reflex. It’s deliberate.

It’s different.

And you feel it.

You feel it in the way his body stays molded against yours, in the way his lips linger at your temple instead of pulling away, in the way he wants to stay close—like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

This was supposed to be an arrangement. A job. A transaction.

But the way he’s looking at you now?

It’s anything but.

You shift slightly beneath him, just enough to see his face, to meet those green eyes that are softer than they should be, searching yours, waiting.

And he knows.

Of course, he knows.

Harry’s always been able to read you better than you’d like.

His fingers drift up to your cheek, thumb brushing against the curve of your jaw, his touch gentle—so unfairly gentle for someone who just ruined you minutes ago.

You should get up.

You should remind him of the rules, of the terms, of the fact that this was never supposed to mean anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—

You don’t want to leave.

You don’t want to pull away.

And that realization knocks the breath out of you faster than anything else ever could.

Harry’s eyes flicker down to your lips, back up to your eyes, something vulnerable creeping into his expression before he speaks.

"Tell me you feel it too."

His voice is low, careful, but there’s an edge of uncertainty underneath. Like he’s terrified of your answer.

Like he needs it.

You open your mouth, hesitate—because this is the moment. The moment where everything changes. The moment where you either run, or you jump.

And you jump.

You don’t answer him with words. You don’t have to.

Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him down.

And you kiss him.

Not because you’re supposed to. Not because it’s part of the act.

But because you want to.

Because you don’t want this to be about the money anymore.

Because it isn’t.

Not anymore.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

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#harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut

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angelltheninth · 4 months ago

Note

Love your LADS writings! Could we maybe get them reacting to their girlfriend wearing their shirt?

I love writing for LADS, now that Caleb is here there's even more hot men to fawn over.

Pining: Zayne, Rafayel, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, established relationship, sharing clothes, domestic fluff, clothes shopping, possessiveness, being playful, flirting

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Wrote this a bit fast because my new PC came in today so I need to set it up. It's gonna be awesome.

Zayne pretends not to notice that it's his shirt you're always wearing in the mornings when you stay over at his place. It's only a shirt, he's got many more just like it. So why is it getting to him when you wear it? Simple, it looks cuter on you, and he tries not to get worked up about it, that would go against his stoic, professional self. However when he sees you wearing his clothes he always tells you that it looks good on you. A sort of subtle encouragement that you should do it more often, and also spend more time at his place because he tries not to leave his clothes at your place.

Rafayel wants to buy some matching clothes when he saw that you wear his on occasion. He's always had a good sense of style and is very happy that you do to, furthermore that you like it so much that you want to wear what he wears. When he sees you wearing his clothes he makes sure to memorize what it looked like on you so he can sketch it later. Before he knows it there are a dozen sketches of you in his clothes. Not that it's a bad thing by any means and he thinks you're catching on to him buying matching clothes because every time you're on a date you're pointing out cute outfits that you say would look great on him.

Xavier doesn't think much of it when he leaves some of his stuff at your place when he comes and goes. What he does think about is how his pants looked on you, too long, cozy, some a bit tight on you, others hanging off your hips, all depending on what you get your hands on at the time. The scene is almost domestic, seeing you not even think about putting on something of his, you don't even say why you do it and he's fascinated by that. Playfully he tugs on the waistband of the pants and tells you he wants them back, only for you to turn the tables and tell him to take them off you if he wants them so bad.

Sylus is very perceptive of what you do when you're around him so there's no way he wouldn't notice you wearing his fancy shirts around the apartment. Those aren't exactly outfits for casual wear so there was no way you could have mistaken them for one of your own, which means you took them on purpose. A man like him doesn't do well when other people touch what belongs to him without his permission. It's bad business practice, and dangerous when you're in deep with criminals like he is. But he could be persuaded to let you get away with it, only because you're his girl and his girl can do whatever she wants with and to him.

Caleb leaves his hoodie at your place on purpose. He did it because he wanted to use it as an excuse to visit again early, he didn't expect that you'd be wearing it when you opened the door for him. All the blood rushed to his brain and caused him to stop all train of thought for a few moments before he smirked and leaned in to whisper how cute you look, his breath hot against your lips before he claimed them in a searing kiss. From that day on he never mentioned anything about you giving him his clothes back. Why would he want it back when it looks so much better on you, sometimes it's all you wear around him.

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moonysbookshelves · 3 months ago

Text

The Cadence of Part-Time Poets

The Cadence of Part-Time Poets by @motswolo

Have been working on this 10 volume set for the past few months now, and they are finally complete. My Magnum Opus. I have peaked and probably depleted all of my brain power.

Thank you to @motswolo for writing such a beautiful story. My brain chemistry has been favourably altered. Will forever flinch when I hear Queen, The Beatles or Bob Dylan. Love to you from western Canada (west coast best coast lets gooooo).

I also posted a TikTok Reel of these since posts here are limited and I love the insides as much as the covers, so if you wanna see between the pages, here’s that.

Also thank you @avisbindery for letting me scream and cry in your DMs while I read the fic. May you get some uninterrupted sleep now LOLLL.

Going to write a whole essay below about the ideas and details because uhhh I wanna yap bit!

So for starters, I wanted to make these binds look like magazines because of the epilogue where (spoiler) Tonya sees Remus in a copy of New Musical Express. But of course this fic is long, so I was like, what if I do multiple volumes? This very quickly spiralled into me painstakingly (finding publication-accurate fonts almost sent me to an early grave) recreating 10 different music-focused magazines from the 70s and 80s from scratch (thank you to Photoshop, Affinity, Procreate and Canva). Each volume features a unique cover, along with stylized typesets to match that display the songs for each chapter but in different designs. And then I went a little crazy and made a 45 sleeve and a cassette too, to really set the scene when I took the photos lol

While the covers display the dates pertaining to the contents of that particular volume (Sept 1975 for volume one, for example) I was thinking about what the magazines would say if they were really published when Marauders are traipsing about being spectacular and famous in the future. I sprinkled in details from the fic itself and fanon-ed it a bit, but that was the general inspiration :-) Tried to keep the photos used either faceless/obscured, or to use the fancasts on Mots’ Cadence master post. I also tried to use period-accurate photos but didn’t always succeed, so settled for photos of 4 member bands where I had to :”) But the general intent with the facelessness was that they could be implied to be Marauders. If you squint? lol. Just pretend. Pls.

Volume One: Based upon The Record Song Book. This magazine went on to inspire the typesets, since it publishes lyrics and such. The cover images are of Spacey Jane and David Thewlis.

Volume Two: Based on ZigZag, specifically the issue from July 1978 featuring Siouxie and the Banshees just because I thought it looked sick as fuck. I re-drew the abstract shapes and such in procreate. The cover images are The Clash and a young Gary Oldman. Lord he was foiiine.

Volume Three: Based on Trouser Press, November 1980. The cover images are a young Metallica, and my personal fav fan cast for James, Reiky De Valk. The film negatives are from a Bruce Springsteen tour, 1976.

Volume Four: Based on Gay Times (November 1984), a queer magazine from the UK because this volume contains Wolfstars first kiss hehe. Also hence Somebody To Love plastered all over the covers. The Front cover is Inhaler. The “4A” on this one is of course the boys’ dorm number, but I made the A the lambda symbol as this was a pride symbol in the 70s after Stonewall.

Volume Five: Based on Melody Maker. Front image is Alex Turner. All of the text on this one is pulled directly from the fic. The scene where they all drop acid and James jumps off the roof Almost Famous style had me hootin’ and hollerin’… until Tomny showed up hahaha :”)

Volume Six: Based on IT (International Times, Aug 1971). Front image for this one is Joy Division, and the back features Jane Asher for Lily

Volume Seven: Based on Record Mirror, June 1976. Front image is John Taylor of Duran Duran. Yum.

Volume Eight: Based on Rolling Stone. More vibes than anything for this one, but the quote still makes me laugh. Front image is of Matt Hitt. Can you tell I photoshopped a cell phone out of this one? IDK. This photo just screamed ‘Remus’ to me so I had to use it. The back image is an old cigarette ad, but the photo is taken in Shepherd’s Bush.

Volume Nine: Based on Fusion magazine. Front image for this one is once again Inhaler. Oops. Back cover is our gals. Images are Jodie Foster as Cherry, Brenda Sykes as Mary, and Goldie Hawn as Lottie.

Volume Ten: Based on New Musical Express. You know why :”) These are all victims of fanon, but this one especially. I wanted it to be NME instead of the re-invented logos I’d been doing for all the rest, as I wanted it to look like the magazine the Sister gives to Tonya. I referred to an issue of NME from October 1979 for this and layered in fic references where it made sense to. The cover image for this one is (I think) Cigarettes After Sex. This issue also contains all of the B-Side chapters, and the Marauders song lyrics too just for fun :)

Slasher Chick: This is just my take on what Sybill’s zine could’ve looked like. Prob way off but I just wanted to have fun with this one since I had no cover to reference lol. The zine contains her little write-up and the interview, lifted straight from the fic :")

ok yap sesh over byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee lmfaooooo

#fic: the cadence of part-time poets #motswolo #wolfstar #fanfic #sirius black #remus lupin #james potter #peter pettigrew #regulus black #mybinds #bookbinding #tcoptp #coptp #the cadence of part time poets #marauders #moony #padfoot #my binds

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thepencilnerd · 30 days ago

Text

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere.

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight.

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne.

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day."

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.”

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed.

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché."

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary.

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk.

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away.

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.”

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget?

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in.

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents."

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst.

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl.

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back.

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours.

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed.

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it.

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you.

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy.

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up." Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were.

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot #jack abbot imagine #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot smut #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you

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wonsiwon · 2 days ago

Text

a crown between us. y.jw

synopsis: in the halls of the palace, where secrets are dressed in silk and love is the greatest betrayal, a maid finds herself caught in a dangerous entanglement with the crown prince, jungwon. though bound by duty and royalty, their stolen glances and whispered promises bloom into something neither can escape. but when the queen announces his arranged marriage, everything shatters.

pairing: prince! heir to future throne! jungwon x maid! reader

genre: historical royal romance, angst, forbidden love, smut

content warning: forbidden love, royalty vs. heart, emotional betrayal, class divide, political manipulation, dramatic confrontations, sacrifice, smut.

a/n: hii, i was finally able to upload this small project on which i have been working for several weeks (maybe months). i often run out of ideas or have a mental block to continue writing, so it usually takes me a few days for that inspiration to come back with more ideas. i want to clarify that I tried as much as I could and tried as much as possible that the dialogues had that style of royalty, noble, old-fashioned or dramatic. i hope you enjoy this it really took me long time and I hope you at least like it a little.

i. the garden kiss

your plans that night were simple. finish polishing the candelabras in the east wing, drop off the basket of white linens in the laundry, and finally retreat to your quarters to rest. nothing unusual. nothing that hinted you’d end up with the prince’s lips pressed against yours, hidden behind a bush covered in blooming hydrangeas.

but here you are.

your heart racing, his highness’s fingers barely resting on your waist like even the slightest touch might shatter you. his breath is warm, scented faintly with jasmine tea and unsaid promises, and his eyes… those eyes that never stop looking at you like you’re the most treasured secret in the kingdom.

“milady…” he whispers, pulling back just slightly, his fingers still on your cheek. “do you know how long i’ve longed for this?”

you can hardly answer. because even though it’s been weeks of sneaking off to see him, you’re still not used to how it feels to be kissed by a prince, the prince jungwon, who looks at you like you’re anything but just a servant.

your dress hem is dusty with soil, your hands still a little rough from the day’s work, and your hair is poorly tied with a frayed ribbon. but he never seems to care. he never has.

“my lord… if we’re caught…”

his brow furrowed. just a little. that gesture he made whenever something bothered him, even though he tried not to show it.

“milady…” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. “i don’t care if we get caught. i couldn’t find you all morning. where were you?”

your hands tremble slightly at how close he is, how being with him like this feels both terrifying and perfect.

“i was… working.” you whisper, eyes falling to the flowers near your feet. it’s hard to look at him when he speaks with that kind of gentleness. “as i’m supposed to.”

he lets out a soft sigh, low and quiet. then his hand lifts to your face, tilting your chin with such delicate care that your breath hitches in your throat. his touch is gentle, too gentle for someone of his status. a prince shouldn’t touch a servant like that.

“working?” he repeats, raising a brow. “don’t you know that seeing you is far more important than any royal duty?”

he makes a dramatic little face, pretending to be offended, but his eyes sparkle with softness. his thumb gently brushes your cheek, and that stupidly charming smile of his doesn’t budge.

“i was about to launch a kingdom-wide search. or worse… interrogate every guard in the castle. do you know how bad that would look in the official records?”

you giggle softly, shaking your head, heat blooming on your cheeks.

“you missed me that much?”

“that much?” he echoes, smirking. “i almost wrote you a tragic letter and slipped it under your pillow. in golden ink, of course. signed: his royal highness, the hopelessly desperate prince.”

you cover your face with both hands, laughing while he leans closer, clearly proud of himself.

“what was the letter going to say?” you ask peeking your eyes through your fingers.

“something like… ‘my heart beats only for you, my radiant flower from the northern wing of the castle.’” he says, lowering his voice with mock seriousness, pressing his forehead against yours. “though… i still have time to write it. maybe it’ll convince you to sneak off with me more often.”

you bite your lip, heart fluttering like crazy. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and you’re enchanting, milady.” he says without missing a beat, whispering so close you can almost feel the smile on his lips. “now give me five more minutes before duty drags you away again, will you?

“actually… “you murmur, glancing toward the dark path. “i’m done for the day. i was on my way to my quarters.”

“to sleep?” he asks, with a look of mild betrayal, like you just insulted him.

you nod, a bit amused, and he immediately steps ahead, subtly blocking your way like it’s a royal obligation.

“milady, i’m afraid i cannot allow that.”

“excuse me?” you raise a brow, trying not to laugh.

“i spent the whole morning without seeing you.” he says, bowing dramatically like he’s putting on a show. “and now you want to simply… go to sleep? without letting me steal at least a few smiles?”

“jungwon…”

“yes, milady?” he responds with that face. that impossibly sweet, infuriatingly charming face.

he takes your hand and gently lifts it to his lips without breaking eye contact. his mouth brushes over your knuckles in the softest kiss imaginable, warm and lingering.

“just five minutes.” he whispers. “i’ll let you go after. though… i can’t promise i won’t steal one more kiss first.”

“just one…” you say, lifting a finger.

“one very long one.” he corrects with a mischievous grin, and before you can protest, he’s already pulling you in, his nose brushing yours, his voice soft enough to make your knees go weak. “i can’t help it, milady. there’s something about you that makes me want to break every rule in the kingdom.”

you fall silent, heart thudding faster than any royal horse could gallop. he leans in a little closer, and just when you think he’s about to kiss you, he murmurs.

“besides… i can’t let you go to sleep without wishing you sweet dreams”

“you’re going to wish me sweet dreams with your lips?” you ask, trying not to giggle. you bite your lip, and of course he notices, he always does. his eyes drop to your mouth, and he smiles again.

“of course.”

and then he does. it’s a soft kiss, sweet, so tender it feels like it was stolen out of a fairytale. and in that moment, you forget the castle walls, the titles, the fact that he’s the crown prince and you’re just a servant.

because right there, between bushes and whispers, he’s just jungwon. your jungwon.

after your encounter with the prince you made your way to the shared servants quarters, tucked away in the quieter wing of the castle. far from the golden halls and polished staircases that royalty walked. your room was small, simple, and lit by a few flickering candles. stone walls surrounded you, cold and silent, but the soft glow and warmth of your friendship with gisselle made it feel almost safe.

the candles were still lit, though dim, their wax spilling over the edges of their holders, pooling like forgotten time. the room was quiet, save for the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath your bare feet. your nightgown brushed against your ankles as you opened the door slowly, breath still uneven.

as soon as you stepped inside, gisselle sat up in her bed, eyes wide.

“finally!” she whispered sharply, sheets rustling as she motioned for you to come closer. “i was about to sneak out and find you. where on earth have you been?”

you closed the door gently and padded across the floor, not to your bed, but to hers. you dropped to your knees beside it, heart thumping, face flushed.

“i saw him, gisselle.” you whispered, breathless.

she clutched your arm immediately, her eyes even wider now.

“was it him? the prince?” she nearly gasped, then caught herself and slapped a hand over her mouth. “good god, what if someone had seen you?”

“no one did. i ran into him on my way back to the quarters. he came to see me.”

“oh my—” gisselle fell back onto her pillow, clutching it to her chest. “tell me, was it tender? did he call you milady?”

your heart skipped at the memory, his voice so gentle, like you were something delicate in his hands.

“yes..” you whispered, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “he called me milady. and… it was like a dream, gisselle. i don’t know how to explain it. everything just felt… perfect.”

her eyes sparkled with excitement. she leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper, like she feared the walls might lean in too.

“i can’t believe it. you’re really living a fairytale.” she grinned. “did he… did he kiss you? like..” she paused, eyes flicking around the room. “like a prince would?”

you swallowed hard. the memory was still fresh, still warm. your fingers brushed your lips without thinking.

“he did.” you whispered, shy. “it was soft. gentle. like he thought i might break if he wasn’t careful.” a laugh slipped out, light and breathless. “i never thought i’d feel like that… with him.”

gisselle gasped, her hand flying to her mouth again like she physically couldn’t contain her joy.

“oh my stars..” she breathed. “you’re not just some servant anymore, are you? you’re the prince’s secret. this is madness. pure, beautiful madness.”

you chuckled, glancing toward the soft candlelight flickering on the nightstand. shadows danced across the stone walls, quiet and warm.

“he’s royal, gisselle.” you murmured, your smile faltering. “if anyone finds out… it could mean trouble. for both of us. for everything.”

gisselle’s expression softened. she reached out and took your hand in both of hers, her touch grounding.

“i know.” she said gently. “but it’s his choice, isn’t it? if he wants to be with you… then who’s to say no? he sees you for who you really are. not just some servant girl.”

you bit your lip, her words comforting, but the worry still lingered like a shadow in the back of your mind.

“but i am just a servant.” you whispered. “and he’s the prince. his family, his kingdom… they’ll never accept it.”

gisselle squeezed your hand a little tighter, pulling you closer.

“forget them, y/n.” she said with quiet conviction. “you’ve got a love story worth telling, and no crown or title can take that from you.”

you sighed, the weight in your chest easing a little. just enough. for a moment, everything felt simpler. you closed your eyes, thinking of him. the way his lips had brushed yours.

“i don’t know what will happen.” you murmured. “but for now… i’ll treasure it. i’ll treasure him.”

gisselle leaned back into her pillow, her eyes warm with affection as she looked at you.

“you’re so hopelessly in love.” she teased, voice soft and fond.

“am i?” you smiled, resting your head against the edge of her bed, gazing up at the flickering candlelight.

she giggled, nudging you gently with her foot under the blankets.

“yes” she said. “and somehow, you’re going to make it all work. i just know it.”

you smiled, squeezing her hand once more. her warmth, her words, made everything feel a little less impossible.

“thank you, gisselle..” you whispered. “for everything.”

she smiled softly, voice like a lullaby.

“always.”

ii. lavender hands

the scent of lavender clung to the air, subtle and clean, as you stood in the linen room, carefully folding pressed sheets into perfect thirds. it was quiet, peacefully, so save for the rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of the old wooden shelves that lined the walls. sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting golden beams across the room like soft ribbons of light.

you didn’t hear the door at first. not until the latch clicked gently, then closed again. your head lifted quickly, heart stuttering when your eyes met his.

“your highness—”

“shh.” jungwon grinned, finger to his lips as he stepped inside. “i should scold you for calling me that.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed. “you shouldn’t be here. if anyone were to see—”

“they won’t.” he said simply, voice soft as he approached you with featherlight steps. “you fold these sheets too quickly. i hardly have time to catch a glimpse of you.”

you sighed, turning away to keep your hands busy. “i have work to do.”

“and i am only here to assist, mylady.” he said, lifting the edge of a sheet beside you, mimicking your folds with little success.

you tried not to laugh, but the way he fumbled the corners and stared at the linen as though it had offended him, it tugged a smile from you.

“you’re hopeless.”

jungwon beamed. “and yet, you are the one who’s hopelessly pretty.”

you turned, sheet half-folded in your arms, eyes narrowing with a blush warming your cheeks. “that’s improper.”

“so is sneaking in here to see you.” he murmured, stepping closer. his voice dropped, lower now, just for you. “and yet, i can’t seem to stop myself.”

his fingers brushed yours as he took the linen from your arms, folding it with surprising care this time. his eyes didn’t leave your face.

“every hour i’m away, i wonder where you are. what you’re doing. if you think of me.”

you looked away, heart racing. “you should be with your court. preparing for—”

“a future that bores me endlessly.” he finished for you. “i’d rather be here. with you. in rooms that smell like lavender. watching you tuck corners.”

you turned back to him, brows furrowed. “jungwon…”

“may i hold your hand?” he asked softly, like it was sacred.

you hesitated. then slowly reached for him, your fingers slipping into his like puzzle pieces long separated.

he let out a breathless smile, as if he’d just been handed the world.

“forgive me.” he said, raising your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles. “but i find you so terribly lovely.”

you couldn’t speak. not with the way his eyes looked at you, like you were something precious.

“you make it so difficult to stay away.” he whispered, his hands moving from your waist to gently cup your face.

he took his time, studying your face with such intent that it made your heart race. his thumb traced along your cheekbone, and you caught the small, soft gasp that escaped him when his fingers brushed a lock of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear.

you laughed under your breath, cheeks still warm where his hand had been. “you’re ridiculous.” you whispered, voice barely louder than the fluttering in your chest.

jungwon grinned, the boyish kind, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your heart stumble. “ridiculously in love with you, perhaps.”

you nudged his shoulder, trying and failing to look stern. “you shouldn’t say things like that.”

“but it’s true.” he leaned against the shelf beside you, hands tucked behind his back, as if resisting the urge to reach for you again. “besides, you blush every time. it’s very rewarding.”

“you’re impossible.” you muttered, turning to the linen stack again, but you smiled, and he saw it.

you pretended to be busy continuing folding, but he stepped closer, his shoulder brushing yours lightly.

“do you ever think..” he said, voice low. “about sneaking away? just for a day. no titles. no expectations. just you and me and the world outside the gates.”

you tilted your head, the idea painting soft, wild colors in your mind. “what would we even do?”

he brightened. “we’d eat sweet bread from the baker’s cart. get our boots dirty in the fields. maybe i’d pretend not to know how to ride a horse just so you’d help me.”

you snorted. “you’re an excellent rider.”

“then maybe I’ll pretend to get lost. that way you’d have to find me.”

“jungwon—”

“and when you do..” he continued with a playful grin. “i’d thank you with a kiss.”

your hands paused, eyes flicking up to meet his. the air between you filled with something golden and warm.

“i think you just want an excuse to kiss me.” you said softly, smile tugging at your lips,

he leaned in a little, lowering his voice like a secret. “i don’t need one.”

your heart flipped. and maybe it was the sunlight or the lavender or the way he was looking at you like the world had slowed down, but you didn’t stop him this time.

his lips brushed yours in the gentlest of kisses, barely there, like a promise.

when you opened your eyes again, he looked dazed, a little stunned with happiness. “i’ve been wanting to do that since the first time i saw you in this room.” he admitted.

you smiled, shy but radiant. “then you should’ve come to fold linens sooner.”

he laughed, full and bright, the sound echoing off the shelves.

“i’m never missing a laundry day again.” he said solemnly.

you giggled, swatting lightly at his chest, but he caught your hand and twirled you in a slow, clumsy circle, right there in the middle of the linen room, amidst half-folded sheets and sunshine.

“what are you doing?” you laughed breathlessly as you stumbled into him.

“practicing for our secret royal ball.” he said with a wink. “it’ll be just the two of us. dress code: aprons and laundry dust.”

you rested your forehead against his, still laughing. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you love it.” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours.

“i might.” you admitted, so softly he nearly missed it.

he stilled.

“say it again..” he murmured, his voice suddenly shy, like he couldn’t believe he’d heard right.

you looked up at him, eyes round and warm. “i might love you.”

his breath hitched. and then he kissed you again, this time giddy and just a little clumsy, like he couldn’t believe you were really there, saying things like that.

you both dissolved into giggles when your teeth bumped. he kissed you again to make up for it. and again. and again.

“you taste like honey.” he whispered against your lips.

“it’s probably the tea from the kitchens.” you replied, cheeks aching from smiling.

“no.” he said, nose brushing yours once more. “it’s just you.”

and there, in a room filled with nothing but fresh linen and sunbeams, jungwon kissed you like the world had finally gotten something right.

iii.

the room was too quiet.

you could feel it in your fingertips as you poured tea into a cup. your movements steady, but not calm. there was no one else in the chamber. no guards, no attendants. just you… and prince ri ki.

ri ki was the second-youngest of the royal line, born into silk and sharp expectations. where jungwon carried the warmth of spring, ri ki was winter, graceful, exact, and difficult to read. his words always seemed carefully chosen, his presence always perfectly composed. he was the kind of boy who wore velvet like armor and wielded silence like a sword.

he sat at the far end of the long table, posture flawless, gaze unreadable. his gloves rested beside his untouched plate, fingers steepled beneath his chin as if the entire room was waiting for his permission to breathe.

you bowed politely. “will there be anything else, your highness?”

“sit.” he said.

you blinked.

“…pardon?”

he nodded to the chair beside him, not unkindly. “i asked you to sit. not as a command, but a courtesy.”

after a heartbeat of hesitation, you obeyed, lowering yourself slowly into the seat. your hands folded in your lap, your breath held.

the silence stretched.

ri ki turned his head, studying you, not cruelly, not unkindly. just… watching.

“you’ve been spending time with my brother.” he said at last.

your pulse stuttered.

you answered carefully. “he sometimes visits the servants’ quarters. he’s friendly.”

ri ki tilted his head just slightly. “you think i’m such a fool?”

you stayed quiet.

“i’ve seen the way he looks at you..” ri ki continued, voice like polished stone. “i’ve also seen the way you look at him.”

your throat tightened. “i never meant—”

he cut you off raising a hand, not accusing, just tired.

“for it to become something real?” he finished, arching a brow. “it already has. and that’s the danger.”

he leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. “i’ve lived in this palace long enough to know the rules, even the unspoken ones. who’s allowed to look at whom. who’s allowed to want. and who’s not.”

you stared at your hands in your lap, fingers curled too tightly.

he sighed. not cold. not even annoyed. just… older than he looked. like someone who had been watching too long from behind a wall of gold.

“i’m not here to threaten you..” he said finally. “i came because jungwon trusts me. and i trust him. but love, especially his, is no small thing.”

you lifted your head.

“he’s always been brave.” ri ki went on. “but lately, i see something more in him. something… reckless. like he’s standing too close to a fire and smiling anyway.”

you breathed. “and you think that’s me?”

“no.” ri ki looked at you calmly. “i think it’s both of you.”

you swallowed, hard. “so what are you going to do?”

“nothing.” he stood, slipping his gloves back on one finger at a time. “at least… not yet.”

you rose with him. “why?”

he paused, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. “because for once, it doesn’t look like a scandal. or a game. it looks like something real. and if it is… you’ll need more than each other to survive it.”

he met your eyes one last time.

“you’ll need to be strong. careful. and above all… silent.” ri ki nodded once. “take care.”

you stood as well, heart still pounding. “your majesty, you’re not going to tell anyone?”

he turned for the door, then paused. “like i said, im not going to do nothing. but be careful.” he said over his shoulder. “not everyone in this palace will be as kind as i am.”

and then he was gone.

you stood there in the quiet, hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the truth that had just been laid bare.

because now, you knew someone else had seen the flame.

iv. mylady

the ballroom was packed.

music swelled from the golden chamber like waves crashing against your skull, strings, trumpets, voices, clinking glasses, laughter that didn’t sound happy, not really.

you didn’t belong there. you were just passing through the corridor when you saw him bolt.

jungwon.

a blur of dark blue royal suit, hair combed back too perfectly, expression unreadable as he walked fast, then faster, then ran. no one stopped him. they were too busy bowing.

you didn’t think. you followed.

and now you were here. in the stables. the royal stables, to be exact. where the scent of hay and saddle leather replaced perfume and wine, and moonlight poured in through high wooden slats.

jungwon was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, crown gone, his white undershirt wrinkled beneath layers of discarded uniform.

his knees were drawn up. his elbows rested on them.

he looked…small.

like a boy.

not a prince.

not someone with the weight of the entire court on his back.

“you’re not supposed to be here.” he said softly, not even looking up.

“you’re not either.” you whispered.

he looked up then. his eyes were red. not crying, but close. his jaw tightened when your gaze met his.

“did they send you?”

you sat beside him slowly. your skirts rustled. “no. i just saw you leave.”

he didn’t answer right away.

you watched his hands. they were shaking. he kept flexing his fingers like he couldn’t get the feeling back into them.

you swallowed. “what happened?”

jungwon let out a humorless laugh. “what han’t happened?”

he leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the beams above, silent for a moment.

“my uncle’s drunk..” he started. “my mother’s furious because i didn’t want to dance with the viscount’s daughter. the duke from glenmare asked me what my plan was for international strategy, and i—I’m eighteen.”

you glanced over. he looked so tired.

“i just wanted to breathe..” he muttered. “but then they said i needed to smile more. and shake hands. and bow. and act like i give a damn about any of it.” he turned his head to you suddenly. “and i couldn’t even find you.”

your throat tightened. “me?”

“you always find me when i need air..” he whispered. “but you weren’t there. i couldn’t see you anywhere in that room.”

you were frozen. you never realized he looked for you like that. you thought you were invisible most of the time.

“i was in the west wing..” you said softly. “cleaning.”

he nodded slowly. “of course.” he sighed and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.

silence again.

but not uncomfortable. just…settled. after a moment, you reached over and touched his hand. he tensed. then relaxed. your fingers stayed there and jungwon stared at them for a second, then intertwined his with yours without looking at you.

his hands were warm now.

“sometimes i wish i wasn’t the prince..” he said quietly. “sometimes i just want to be jungwon.”

you didn’t say anything. instead, you leaned your head on his shoulder. his breath caught. he looked down, stunned at first, but then his whole body seemed to settle. like your touch reset something inside him.

“you feel like peace..” he whispered.

you shut your eyes. he was still holding your hand. your pinky was twitching because of how close he was. you were just a maid. you weren’t supposed to be here. you weren’t supposed to comfort him like this.

but you were. and he was letting you.

“do you ever think about leaving?” he asked. “just…running off? starting over somewhere they don’t know your name?”

you nodded. “all the time.”

jungwon turned to look at you, really look this time. his lashes were long in the moonlight. his eyes soft.

“would you go with me?” he asked.

you blinked. your chest tightened. “what?”

“if i asked..” he said. “would you come with me?”

you wanted to say yes. god, you wanted to scream it.

but instead, you whispered. “is that what you really want?”

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze dropped to your lips. his face was close, so close you could count every texture of his skin.

“no.” he said finally. “what i really want is to kiss you. right now.”

your breath caught.

“but i won’t.” he added. “not unless you want it too.”

your fingers squeezed his, you looked up at him and you nodded. that was all it took.

jungwon didn’t hesitate. his hand came up to your face, gently cupping your cheek like he was scared you’d vanish if he touched you too roughly. his lips found yours, warm, slow at first.

then he kissed you again. and again, deeper this time.

you moved closer without thinking, climbing into his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs, skirts bunched around you. his hands settled on your waist, gripping like he needed something to hold onto.

he pulled back just barely, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. “tell me if this is too much..” he whispered.

“it’s not..” you said, voice shaky but sure.

his mouth found yours again, more desperate this time. you felt his fingers slide up your back, warm under the fabric of your dress, holding you tighter. your own hands moved up into his hair, finally messy, the way you liked it, the way no one else was allowed to see.

he kissed you like he’d been waiting forever. like he didn’t care about the kingdom or the rules or the titles.

just you. just this.

when his lips left yours, they found your jaw, then your neck, slow, hot kisses that made your breath hitch. you felt dizzy. not from fear, not from nerves. from how real it all felt.

his hands roamed, careful but curious, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the bare skin where your dress had slipped just slightly off one shoulder. you gasped quietly when he kissed there, slow and lingering.

you rolled your hips slightly, testing the tension between you. he groaned, quiet, breathy, right against your collarbone, and you felt it, the proof of his want pressing up into you through layers that suddenly felt like too much.

“milady..” he muttered, voice low and rough. “are you.. sure about this?”

you nodded, hands tugging at the buttons of his shirt.

jungwon let out a short breath that could’ve been a laugh, but he was too busy dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing a slow path over your skin. your fingers finally got the last button undone, revealing more of his chest, pale, warm, already flushed. he looked up at you as your hands explored him, watching your face like every move you made was the answer to something he’d been aching to know.

“are you quite certain?” he asked again, one hand slipping up your thigh, pushing your skirts higher. l.

you nodded, breath catching where your fingers brushed his chest. “yes… are you?”

a flicker of colour bloomed on his cheeks. “i’ve never… not once. not with anyone.”

your eyes met his, wide and surprised. “nor have i.”

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the stillness between you felt reverent, sacred. not rushed, not impulsive, just two souls baring themselves.

jungwon exhaled shakily, his thumb brushing your cheek. “then we take our time..” he murmured. “we learn… together.”

your lips curved into the smallest smile. “alright.”

his kiss came slowly, deliberately, with every ounce of care he could give. his lips ghosted over yours as though you were something fragile, something royal in your own right. your hands slipped into his hair, anchoring yourself to him as the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

you helped him undo his pants, fumbling a little with the fabric, both of you shaky and flushed. by then he was free, hard and flushed and already throbbing against your thigh. your underwear came off too, discarded somewhere behind you, forgotten in the soft hay.

“i’ve no notion what i’m doing, mylady.” he admitted softly, flushed and breathless.

“nor i…” you whispered back, a nervous laugh escaping. “but i trust you.”

“may i…?” he asked, voice catching.

you nodded. “slowly.”

and he did. you took him in carefully, inch by inch, both of you holding your breath. it stretched and burned a little, but it wasn’t bad.

his fingers gripped your hips as though anchoring himself. “you’re alright?”

“yes.” you breathed. “just… give me a moment.”

“say the word, and i’ll stop.” he whispered.

but instead, you kissed him.

your bodies moved in soft rhythm, unsure but willing, each motion a question answered with breath and touch. his head rested against your shoulder, his voice a quiet sound of wonder each time you rocked into him.

there was no bed. no privacy. just the hay, the moonlight, and the way he held you like this moment might break him.

“sweet mercy...” he groaned, head tipping back against the stable wall.

you couldn’t think. could barely breathe. all you could do was move, slow at first, easing yourself into the stretch, the fullness. his hands gripped your hips, holding you like he didn’t want to let go.

“mylady, look at me.” he whispered.

and when you did his eyes burned into yours.

“jungwon..”

you moved together, slow, grinding, chasing the edge like it was the only thing that mattered. each roll of your hips dragged a whimper from your throat and a quiet curse from his. he kissed you through it, messy, desperate, open-mouthed kisses as your bodies met again and again.

you felt him throb inside you, knew he was close.

“mylady..” he begged.

you came together quietly, holding each other close, his breath mixing with yours. and a moment later, you followed, falling apart against him, your face buried in his shoulder.

neither of you moved for a long time. you both stayed there, tangled in silence.

his breathing was still uneven, lips slightly parted as he buried his face in your hair. one of his hands lay over your back, fingers twitching gently.

your heart thudded slow but steady, matching his. it felt like the world had paused around you. no court. no crown. just sweat-slick skin, shallow breaths, and the press of two people who shouldn’t have had this, but did.

you exhaled first. and then, softly, barely audible, you speak. “ri ki knows about us.”

jungwon didn’t move. he blinked once. then again.

slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you. his eyes were puffy but his brows drew together with concern.

“…what?” he whispered.

you swallowed. “your brother knows about this.”

jungwon was quiet. his expression didn’t twist into panic, he just leaned his head back against the wooden beam behind him, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling.

“don’t worry about him.” he murmured. “he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

you nodded slowly, fingers still resting lightly on his chest. “i know. but he’s also loyal. to the crown.”

jungwon looked back at you. there was something unreadable in his eyes now. something sharp beneath the softness. “he’s loyal to me.”

you held his gaze. “are you sure that’s enough?”

he didn’t answer right away. outside, a horse shuffled in its stall. the night breeze creeping through the cracks in the stable walls.

jungwon reached for your hand again, intertwining your fingers.

“i’ll protect us..” he said quietly. “i swear it.”

and you believed him.

the morning sun had barely crested the hills when jungwon stepped onto the practice grounds.

his boots sank slightly into the soft earth, dew still clinging to the grass. his tunic stuck to his back with sweat, already, though it was barely past dawn and the guards who usually assisted him were dismissed.

jungwon exhaled through gritted teeth, blade locked against ri ki’s. both brothers stood at the center of the courtyard, boots planted firm on cobblestone slick with dew.

“you’ve gone soft.” ri ki muttered, pushing back with a smirk.

jungwon twisted his wrist, parried, and stepped aside. “i’ve not.” he grunted. “you’re just insufferable this early.”

“speak for yourself, your highness.”

their swords clashed again, fast now, the rhythm sharp, prince to prince, brother to brother.

jungwon’s movements were aggressive. sharp turns. no hesitation. each strike carried more than just training, it carried frustration.

“you’re distracted.” ri ki said after another parry. “again.”

“and you’re irritating.” jungwon bit, swinging low. ri ki dodged, barely.

“not the first to say so.” they paused, swords crossed, faces close. ri ki studied him. “it’s her, isn’t it?”

jungwon’s jaw tightened. “say it again and i’ll knock your teeth out.”

ri ki lowered his sword.

“you truly believe you’ll keep her hidden forever?” he asked, more serious now. “you’ve always been daft when it comes to consequence, but this, this is foolish beyond reason.”

jungwon stepped back, sword still in hand.

“you think i do not know that?” he snapped. “you think i do not wake with dread in my gut each morn, wondering if mother’s already caught wind?”

“then why continue?”

jungwon looked away, silent for a moment. “because she’s the only thing that feels… honest.”

riki scoffed lightly. “how poetic. write her a sonnet then, not an obituary.”

jungwon turned to him sharply.

ri ki’s tone darkened. “she could die.” he said bluntly. “you know what mother is. you know what she’s done. you’ve seen it.”

a silence felt and jungwon’s knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword. he was breathing hard, but not from the drills.

he stared down at the sword.

ri ki continued, his tone cold. “if word of this reaches her, if she senses even a breath of rebellion, she will not speak of it. she will act.”

jungwon’s jaw clenched. “she would not dare harm her.”

ri ki’s gaze did not waver. “she would. and has. you are heir, jungwon. you were not raised to love. you were bred to rule.”

he felt it then. the doubt.

for the first time.

like rot in his lungs.

he’d always believed he could protect you. that if he loved hard enough, held you tight enough, it would be enough.

but what if it wasn’t?

what if he was dragging you into a fire, blindfolded and barefoot?

what if loving you was a death sentence?

ri ki sighed. “mother wants you ready for tomorrow’s.”

jungwon turned his head. “what is it now?”

“you leave by carriage this afternoon. the royal instructors have been summoned. they are to accompany you by carriage through the northern route.”

jungwon looked up sharply. “i was not told.”

“you’re to meet the princess. she’ll be seated beside you during supper.” ri ki said flatly.

jungwon’s heart sank.

“it begins.” ri ki added. “whether you like it or not.”

he gave jungwon a long look before he left.

vi.

the hour was far past decent.

moonlight stretched pale across the marble floors, and the long hall you crossed seemed to echo with silence. torches flickered low in their sconces, their flames casting golden shadows that danced across your path.

your skirts whispered with each step, arms tired from scrubbing, apron dusted with ash from the hearth. your hands were smudged faintly with soot, apron crumpled, hair tucked back loosely.

you moved quietly through the corridor, long and dimly lit, you just wanted to reach your chambers. you rubbed your arms absently, your shoulders aching. only a few more steps until a hand caught your waist.

you startled, breath caught in your throat, but before you could speak, a second hand came around, pressing gently over your mouth.

your back was against the wall in an instant.

warm breath touched your ear.

“hush.” the voice was low, familiar. your eyes widened as jungwon stepped into view.

his tunic was open slightly at the throat, the royal crest gleaming faint beneath the fabric. his hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d been running fingers through it all evening. he said nothing at first. just looked at you.

you blinked at him. “you scared me.”

“forgive me.” he murmured, brows furrowed as he stepped closer. “i did not intend to, i only… gods, i could not wait.”

your back pressed further into the stone as he closed the distance, eyes still searching his.

he looked tired.

“i’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

you straightened. “leaving?”

he nodded once. “just for a few days.” he reassured, his voice quiet in the empty corridor. his fingers curled gently at your waist. “nothing dangerous. just business. royal duties.”

you looked up at him, trying to read past the calm in his tone.

he was dressed simpler than usual, his dark tunic a bit wrinkled from rushing, the crest at his collar half-buttoned, and his hair messier than you’d ever seen it. like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times.

“will you miss me?” he asked, his head tilting slightly.

you shrugged, arms crossed loosely. “a little.”

he huffed a laugh. “liar.”

his arms came around you then, slow, deliberate, like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it. like he needed to be sure.

but you didn’t move away.

you let him hold you.

his arms slipped further around you then, drawing you in. slower this time, gentler. his head dropped to your shoulder, warm breath brushing your skin.

you didn’t move away.

his hold tightened a little, just enough to pull you closer. he didn’t speak right away, just stayed like that, forehead against your neck, fingers curling at your lower back.

“you’re tense.” you said quietly, hand brushing through his hair.

he hummed low in response, then leaned back just slightly to look at you. his eyes searched your face, soft, a bit heavy-lidded.

“am i?” he said with a small smirk.

you raised an eyebrow. “you look like you haven’t slept.”

“maybe i haven’t.”

his gaze flicked to your lips.

you felt your breath catch, just barely, and when he leaned in, reflexively you turned your face, shy, cheeks warming before you could stop it. not out of rejection, but out of memory. of that night. of how close you had been. how bare.

he noticed.

“ah..” he said under his breath, a small, knowing sound.

his hand simply moved to the back of your neck, thumb gently rubbing along your skin as his forehead came to rest against yours.

“you’re shy now?” he whispered, teasing.

you rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, eyes refusing to meet his.

jungwon hummed, gaze dropping to your lips, and he leaned closer. murmuring near your ear. “you weren’t shy last time. you—”

“don’t say it.”

“you begged, dove.”

“jungwon!”

he burst into quiet laughter, pulling you in with both arms now, clearly too entertained.

“you’re never seeing me off again.” you grumbled into his shoulder.

he smiled against your hair.

“too late. i’m already leaving with a memory i’ll take to my grave.”

you pulled back just enough to glare at him, only for him to steal that kiss after all, quick and soft, catching you off guard.

your breath caught and he smiled smugly.

“miss me properly, yeah?”

vii. just for a minute.

the days moved on like they always did.

your mornings began early, before the bells rang. you helped prep the main halls, swept ash from the fireplaces, and kept the west wing windows polished so the steward wouldn’t complain.

gisselle was the one who kept you sane.

she cornered you in the linen room two days after his departure, arms full of folded sheets and suspicion in her eyes.

“you’re quieter.” she said bluntly, dropping the stack on the shelf.

you blinked. “i’m tired.”

“tired, huh?” she echoed, clearly unimpressed. “you’re always tired. this is different.”

you didn’t answer, and she didn’t press. just gave you a look and passed you a basket of fresh towels.

“well, whatever’s keeping you up, tell it to let you sleep. you look like a sad candle.”

“a sad candle?”

“yes. all dim and droopy. it’s tragic.”

you huffed a laugh despite yourself.

afternoons were filled with errands, refilling water jugs, delivering notes between staff, helping the kitchen girls carry bread loaves up to the great hall.

nights were quiet.

gisselle snuck you extra biscuits from the kitchen. you returned her hairpins when she left them scattered across the vanity table. and sometimes you’d crawl into her bed with a sigh and ask if they feed him properly out there. gisselle could only said that he was a prince. he’ll survive.

one week passed. then another.

you did your duties. you kept your head down. you kept that folded parchment beneath your pillow. untouched.

no letters came. but you kept waking before the sun. just in case.

you found yourself, as always, in the same places. tidying the east wing, sweeping the hallways, delivering messages to the royal chambers. and yet, you carried on.

then, one evening as you were passing by the library, before you could even turn, hands were at your waist, lifting you from your thoughts and pulling you.

you barely had time to process it.

“what—jungwon?” you managed, though his name came out more like a question, a gasp, and you couldn’t quite place the confusion or the shock, both because you hadn’t expected him to be back and because, honestly, you hadn’t heard a thing.

he didn’t immediately speak, though his presence alone was enough to unsettle you. you finally turned your head to face him, your eyes searching his.

“when did you return?” you whispered, a bit breathless from the unexpected turn of events.

jungwon’s eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, there was something unreadable in them. the usual spark was gone, replaced with something deeper, unease, maybe?

“this morning.” he said, his voice quieter than usual. he took a small step back, but his hands never left your waist.

you frowned, noticing the way his brows were furrowed, the tension in his jaw. he was acting different, too still, too careful with every movement.

“you seem…” you trailed off, trying to find the right words. “what’s wrong?”

he gave a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “nothing’s wrong.”

but it didn’t sound convincing.

you tilted your head slightly, studying him, feeling the quiet pull between you as he remained unusually distant.

you watched him carefully, he couldn’t keep his gaze on you. instead, his eyes flicked around, scanning the corridor.

finally, after a few moments of silence, he met your eyes again, this time with a softer look.

“i missed you.” he said simply, already pulling you by the hand, into the familiar hush of the library.

it was quiet. lit only by candles. he let go of your hand then, and you rubbed your wrist out of habit, though it wasn’t sore. just warm. still tingling.

you turned away first, pretending to examine the nearest shelf. “you know i’m still working.”

“then consider this… an unauthorized break.”

you glanced over your shoulder. “what if someone finds us?”

he raised a brow. “then we’ll lie. you were dusting books, and i was brushing up on agriculture.”

“you hate agriculture.”

“exactly. no one would believe it. they’ll leave us alone.”

you snorted, crossing your arms and leaning back against the railing of the spiral staircase. “you’re impossible.”

but your heart was already thudding. you hated the way it did that, loud and reckless, whenever he looked at you the way he was looking at you now.

god how much you’ve missed him.

“you like it here.” he said suddenly.

your eyes flicked to his. “the library?”

he took a step closer, hands tucked behind his back. “you always slow down when you walk past. i’ve noticed.”

“…maybe.” you shrugged, turning back to the shelves. “it’s peaceful.”

jungwon moved slowly then, careful, like he was testing the weight of every step. the candlelight hit the side of his face, softening the sharp lines. making his eyes look warmer than you remembered.

“you looked absolutely beautiful, mylady.”

you shake you head. “i looked completely horrendous.”

his hand reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. gentle. slow.

“i mean every word when i speak to you.” he said.

you looked away, but he didn’t let you. his hand was careful, lifting your chin just slightly until your gaze met his again.

your lips parted. the breath caught in your throat. and then, just as suddenly, he stepped back. turned away. his shoulders shifted as he exhaled. he moved to one of the velvet armchairs near the tall window and sat down without another word.

“come here.” he said quietly, patting the armrest beside him.

“jungwon…” you hesitated.

“just for a minute.”

you sighed but walked over anyway, sitting beside him. your knees bumped lightly.

it was quiet again. the kind of quiet that felt private. heavy.

he looked at you, something thoughtful in his expression. something almost… hesitant. but he didn’t say anything. he didn’t say what he came here to say.

instead, his gaze fell on the shelves again. “read something to me.”

you blinked. “what?”

“pick anything. i want to hear your voice.”

you gave him a strange look, but reached for a nearby book anyway. you flipped through the yellowed pages until you found something legible and started reading, something about a royal banquet that had ended with someone’s wig catching fire.

he laughed and you glanced at him, smiling without thinking. you didn’t even notice how close his hand had gotten until your fingers brushed against his.

his fingers were long, soft, a little cold. yours were rougher, calloused from cleaning floors and silverware.

he liked your hands. he noticed they always shook a little when you were around him, and he’d never say it out loud, but it made his chest feel warm in a way that almost scared him.

you didn’t dress like the other girls he saw in the ballroom. no jewels, no silks. you wore a faded apron, scuffed shoes, sleeves rolled to your elbows. but somehow, you looked more beautiful to him than all of them combined.

and tonight, as you stood beside him under the library chandelier, face lit softly in candlelight, he couldn’t stop staring.

“why’re you looking at me like that.” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed.

“you’ve a smudge on your cheek.” he said, his hand reaching up your cheek to clean it. and when he did you looked away first, flustered.

he always looked at you like that, like you were something he wasn’t supposed to want, but did anyway.

it was confusing. it made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t understand.

jungwon stepped away slowly, pretending to inspect the books. his hair was slightly messy, soft brown strands falling into his eyes. he was always clean-cut, always neat in public. but in these stolen moments, he looked real.

less like a prince.

you stood in place for a moment, heart hammering, unsure of what to do with the space he’d left behind. the room still felt like it belonged to him, even when he wasn’t touching you.

you turned back to the book, pretending to read. you weren’t following the words. you were listening to him move behind you. the quiet creak of the floorboards under his boots. the way he breathed a little slower now.

“i didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” you murmured.

“neither did i.”

you glanced at him over your shoulder. he wasn’t looking at you, just tracing the spine of a dusty volume like it held something important. like if he focused hard enough, it would tell him what to say.

“did something happen?” you asked, voice low.

he paused. only for a second. but you noticed.

“no.” he said simply. “just… plans changed.”

you tilted your head, confused. “you’re usually kept longer when you travel with the council.”

jungwon let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but not a real one. more like something tired.

“turns out, not everything goes according to plan.”

you nodded slowly, still watching him. his voice was steady, but something in it felt… off. and he still wasn’t meeting your eyes.

you didn’t ask more. you should’ve. but you didn’t. instead, you took a step toward him.

“well… i’m glad you’re here.” you said and grab his hands with a smile across your face.

and that’s when he looked at you. fully. his eyes soft but guarded, like he was memorizing something.

“don’t say that.” he murmured.

you blinked. “why not?”

he didn’t answer at first. just glanced down at your hands joined like he hadn’t meant for that to happen.

but he didn’t let go.

“you make it harder.” he said, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

you frowned.

he shook his head. “forget it.”

you opened your mouth to ask again, but then he kissed you. thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“you talk too much, mylady.” he said softly, teasing, even if his voice sounded far away.

“that’s new.” you muttered, trying not to sound breathless.

he smiled faintly. “you’ve always talked too much.”

you narrowed your eyes at him. “you’re so strange lately.”

“am i?” he murmured, like he wasn’t even listening anymore.

you paused, leaning your forehead lightly against his shoulder. “you sure everything’s alright?”

his hand slid gently down your spine.

“yeah.”

he didn’t look at you when he said it. but his arms stayed around you like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

you didn’t ask again.

and he didn’t say anything else. just held you because maybe he wouldn’t get to again.

viii. the promise that wasn’t for me

the days passed, but jungwon was quieter than usual. he didn’t come around like before, didn’t seek you out like he did in the library that night. you heard his footsteps less often, his voice rarely reached your ears. sometimes, when you passed the great hall or the council chambers, you caught glimpses of him in the distance, always alone, always serious.

you kept yourself busy, going about your chores like always, sweeping floors, polishing silver, and running errands for the steward. it was easier to focus on work when your mind was crowded with questions you didn’t want to ask.

gisselle noticed, of course. she teased you less and watched you more, like she was waiting for you to say something anything about jungwon’s sudden silence.

you wanted to say something. you wanted to ask why he came back only to disappear again, why his eyes looked tired and distant the last time you saw him. but you didn’t have the words. maybe he didn’t either.

sometimes, when the palace was quiet and the sun was low, you found yourself standing near the library, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. but he never appeared. the empty space beside you where he used to stand felt heavier than any silence.

tho this morning the palace was louder than usual.

you had barely tied your apron when the head maid grabbed your arm and thrust a tray of covered dishes into your hands.

“to the golden parlour. now. her majesty is having a private breakfast with a guest.”

“a guest?” you asked, adjusting your grip on the tray. “shall i prepare tea, or—”

“princess navina of esthrene.” she cut in. “do not speak unless spoken to. and mind your posture.”

you offered a tight nod and made your way down the corridor, trying not to roll your eyes.

another one.

prince jungwon had been “introduced” to more noble daughters than you could count. you’d seen dozens. each one laced in foreign perfumes and draped in their kingdom’s finest silk. each one trying, and failing, to draw a smile from him.

jungwon never smiled at them.

you balanced the tray and made your way to the parlour. your chest felt calm. you had nothing to worry about.

he was yours.

even if no one knew it.

the doors to the golden parlour opened with a soft click, and you stepped inside, careful not to let the tray wobble.

the room was warm with gold accents, sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. the queen sat at the head of the gilded table, elegance in every movement. across from her, a young woman, presumably princess navina, adorned in seafoam silks and delicate pearls. her poise was flawless. she looked composed. polished. untouched.

but it was jungwon who made your breath falter.

he sat beside her. straight-backed in his ceremonial robe, the one with black and gold threading reserved for national announcements or courtships.

when he saw you enter, tray in hand, something shifted. his eyes widened just slightly, lips parting as though caught mid-thought. he hadn’t expected you. not here. not now. and definitely not like this.

he looked down, then back up, expression unreadable again, face settling into calm.

but he wasn’t calm.

you bowed low, eyes on the floor. “breakfast is served, your majesties.”

“set it down.” the queen said evenly.

you obeyed, fingers steady, until you reached him. you didn’t look at him. but you felt him. he didn’t speak. didn’t move. but his eyes found yours. not cold, not warm. something in between. something stuck.

then, as if remembering where he was, who he was, he looked away.

you quickly stepped back to your post. hands clasped behind your back with posture perfect.

“well princess navina” the queen began. “we’re grateful your family agreed to the shortened engagement. a summer ceremony will be most fitting.”

your stomach dropped.

“indeed, your majesty.” navina answered softly. “my mother preferred a spring celebration, but i insisted. i would rather stand beside my husband from the beginning of his reign.”

jungwon didn’t say a word.

“the royal tailor arrives tomorrow.” the queen continued. “the wedding colours shall be gold and seafoam. the announcement will go out by week’s end.”

your heart fell to the ground before the silver tray.

because yes, you dropped it and the porcelain dishes shattered on the marble floor.

the entire room went silent.

you dropped to a bow without thinking, heart thudding against your ribs. “f-forgive me, your majesty.“

the queen didn’t answer right away.

you stayed in position, knees pressed to the floor, hands trembling slightly. the sound of the broken cup still echoed in your ears. it was foolish. you knew better. you were trained better.

but you hadn’t expected that.

you hadn’t expected her.

princess navina sat gracefully at the table, one gloved hand resting in her lap, the other holding a silver spoon just above her untouched plate. she didn’t flinch. didn’t look startled or annoyed. only concerned, the type of calm concern taught in finishing schools and royal drawing rooms.

she was beautiful, of course she was.

her dark hair was swept back into an intricate twist, not a strand out of place. her eyes, soft and almond-shaped, were framed with kohl and intelligence. her dress shimmered faintly with seafoam thread, and the pearl comb in her hair caught the light whenever she moved.

she looked like she belonged there.

next to him.

and that made your stomach twist.

you heard the queen shift in her seat. “get it cleaned.” she said sharply. “then leave us.”

you bowed lower. “yes, your majesty.”

you scrambled to gather the broken porcelain, careful not to cut your palms. jungwon didn’t move. not a muscle. but you felt his eyes on you.

you didn’t look up.

you couldn’t.

as you stood, you caught a glimpse of princess navina watching you. her expression unreadable. curious, maybe. or amused. or nothing at all.

you turned and walked out, heart pounding, cheeks burning, pieces of porcelain rattling on the tray.

you hadn’t cried.

not yet.

but gods, your eyes stung.

you set the tray down in the scullery with shaking hands. no one was there and the silence pressed in around you like a second skin. you stared at the shards, white and delicate, now ruined. like something else you couldn’t name.

you pressed your palms flat to the counter, trying to steady your breath. your reflection in the tarnished silver tray stared back, eyes red-rimmed and wide, lips parted like you might speak if you only had the strength.

you didn’t see jungwon for the rest of the day.

you kept your head down, kept busy, scrubbed the kitchens until your fingers ached. you avoided the golden parlour. you avoided everyone.

even gisselle, who cornered you by the laundry with furrowed brows and folded arms.

“you’re not made of stone.” she said, not unkindly. “you can talk to me, you know.”

but you couldn’t.

that night you lay on your straw mattress, the thin blanket barely keeping the chill away. the quiet was comforting — except for the absence of giselle, who was supposed to be nearby. she had left a few minutes ago saying she needed a bath before bed, wanting to wash away the day’s dirt and tension.

then your door creaked open and you saw him. soaked in rain, his cloak dripping onto your stone floor and hair flat against his forehead. you sat up fast, heart leaping,

your breath caught in your throat. “you can’t be here. someone will—”

“why?” he stepped fully inside, shutting the door behind him. “because if anyone finds out i’m marrying someone else, they’ll know i’ve been sneaking into a maid’s room at night for months?”

“you lied to me.”

“i didn’t lie.”

“you didn’t tell me.” you snapped, rising to your feet.

“i was going to tell you.”

“when?” your voice cracked, raw. “when, jungwon?”

“i didn’t think they’d agree to the shortened engagement.” he rushed out. “it was supposed to be discussed, just discussed. i was going to tell you, but not like this—”

“so you were just going to keep lying to me.”

“i wasn’t lying!” he said, louder now. “i wasn’t ready.”

“you weren’t ready.” you echoed bitterly.

“i was trying to protect you.”

you stared at him. “by marrying another woman?”

“i’m not choosing her. you know that. you think i’d stand at an altar with someone else, knowing what we have?” his voice sounded tired. defeated.

“you already are.” you whispered, voice breaking. “you sat beside her today. you let them plan your wedding.”

“and what would you have me do?” his voice rose. “declare my love for a servant before the entire court? bring scandal to your name? put a target on your back?”

“you already have.”

his face crumpled. “y/n…”

you looked away, blinking hard, throat burning. your voice came quieter this time. “you should go.”

“please don’t do this.” he stepped closer but you backed away quickly.

“go.” you whispered and crossed your arms, not to defend yourself, but to keep from shaking.

jungwon stood in the middle of the room like a storm himself, unwelcome, uninvited, and yet impossible to look away from.

he didn’t move.

he pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly, as if trying to wipe the weight of it all away. “i thought i could buy us time. i thought—i thought if i kept things quiet, i could figure it out without hurting you.”

you turned away, gripping the edge of the small wooden table near your bed, trying to steady yourself. “you should go before giselle comes back.”

he stayed where he was.

“jungwon..” you said again, softer now, tired. “please.”

he looked at you like he was memorizing you, the distance between you was breaking something inside him. he opened his mouth, then shut it. and then, finally, he nodded.

“i’ll fix this.”

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t look back when the door creaked open again. or when it shut behind him.

your knees gave out the second the door shut behind him.

you dropped to the floor, hard, hands hitting the stone as you caught yourself. and then it all crashed in.

you cried.

you cried like it hurt to breathe, like the ache in your chest might never leave. the tears came hot and fast, spilling down your cheeks, dripping onto the floor. sobs tore through you, quiet but wrecking, the kind that left your whole body trembling.

because you loved him.

you pressed your forehead to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, wishing the stone would swallow you whole-wishing you could go back to before, when it was just you and him and a library full of stolen moments.

but those moments were gone.

ix.

the days following were torment. not just for him, but for you too.

the palace didn’t sleep. there were whispers in every hallway, servants sprinting across stone floors with velvet fabrics, golden plates, and endless flowers. everyone preparing for the arrival of the royal guests.

and you?

you kept your head down, hands busy, ears deaf. or at least, you tried. but every time someone said lady navina, it felt like someone dug their fingers into your chest and twisted.

you spoke only when spoken to.

and when you did, you called him, my lord.

the first time it left your lips, the pen slipped from his hand like it had burned him.

now jungwon was looking for you all over the palace.

in the marble corridors, in the garden, in the library where you used to sort the books by color just because he said he liked it like that.

but you were no longer in any of those places.

you had asked to be transferred to the kitchen.

away from the east wing.

away from him.

and still, jungwon kept looking for you.

through the hallways.

through the art gallery.

he even asked about you in the laundry room.

but you ignored him. more firmly each time.

you were never under any illusion, it was never meant to last. you knew he would come. and so he did. three days later, the doors burst open with such force, the very knives upon the table trembled in their place.

the kitchen fell still. not a word, not a breath.

even the head chef, midway through stirring, froze in silence. only the soup dared to continue its boil—blissfully.

“leave. all of you.” jungwon’s voice rang out—clear. commanding. no one moved at first. until he lifted his gaze. “i said leave. now.”

the cook dropped her knife. the helpers rushed to remove their aprons. one by one, they left, confused. you did the same. left the board, turned toward the back door, but his voice reached you before you crossed it.

“not you.”

you halted. and slowly, so slowly, you turned to face him. he came closer, closing the door behind him.

“my lord.” you said, with a curt nod. “if you’ll excuse me—“

“is that it?” he bit out, stepping forward. “are you truly going to keep pretending you don’t know me? that you don’t know what’s between us?”

“i’m not pretending anything, my lord.” the coldness in your voice was worse than any slap.

“don’t call me that. not you, for god’s sake.”

“but that’s what you are now. my lord.”

“no!” he took a step closer, his voice breaking with anger. “not after everything. not after the way you looked at me. not after those nights we spent talking about the world beyond these walls, dreaming of something more than

“that was before your engaged.”

his eyes softened for a second, like your coldness tore him apart. he walked toward you, slower this time, like he was unsure, like every step hurt.

“don’t look at me like that. not you.” he whispered.

“how am i supposed to look at you?” you asked, not with anger, just resignation. “like nothing happened? jungwon, you knew this was going to happen. you chose it.”

“they chose it for me.”

“but you accepted it. and i don’t blame you. you’re the prince. you have a duty.” your voice cracked a little, but you kept going. “i already knew my place. i’m just… a mistake in your story.”

“you were never a mistake!”

“but it seems like one. doesn’t it?”

he breathed heavily. you remained unmoved.

“you don’t understand.” he murmured, turning away and running a hand through his hair. “you don’t understand how hard it’s been to pretend i don’t care about you. how i ache every time i see you and can’t touch you. you don’t understand what it’s like to smile at a woman i never chose while thinking about the scent of your lavender-covered hands.”

you didn’t cry. you wouldn’t give him that.

“i love you..”he let out, almost a desperate secret. “don’t you get it? i’d do anything to give you the truth back, to turn back time. tell me you still believe me.”

“believing you isn’t the problem, jungwon.”

you looked him straight in the eyes, finally.

“the problem is that none of this matters anymore. because you have a duty. a kingdom. a crown. and i’m just a stone in the path to all that.”

“you’re not.”

“yes, i am. and you know it.”

jungwon lowered his gaze. he looked tired. his jaw was tight, eyebrows drawn like he’d been clenching them all day. but it was his eyes. red, a little swollen, like he hadn’t slept right in days. they kept flicking from your face to the floor, like he couldn’t decide where to settle.

“i didn’t expect to stay with you. i’m not that naive.” you added. “but i did expect you to be honest with me. after everything… i thought at least that much, you owed me.”

he closed his eyes, like your words were blades.

“i tried..” he murmured. “i tried to find a way out. i thought that if i postponed the announcement, if i delayed the ceremony… i could find you, explain everything myself. but things moved faster than i imagined.”

“it wasn’t your duty to delay it.” you said softly, eyes down. “your duty was to become king. i was just the mistake you made along the way.”

that broke him. you knew it because he stepped back, like he needed space to breathe.

“you weren’t a mistake.” he said again, firm, with a mix of pain and anger. “don’t say that. you were… the only real thing.”

jungwon looked at you as if hoping you’d interrupt him, say something, anything, but you just stayed silent. the kitchen was heavy with tension.

“say something. anything.” he pleaded, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“what do you want me to say?” you finally asked, still not looking at him. “that i understand you? because i do. that i forgive you? i do that too. but none of it changes what you are now.”

“you talk to me like i betrayed you on purpose.”

“i don’t blame you, jungwon.” you repeated calmly, but it was the kind of calm that only hides exhaustion. “i really don’t. i just… didn’t expect to find out while serving bread and tea.

jungwon shut his eyes tightly. “it hurts when you talk to me like this.”

“and you think it doesn’t hurt me?” you said, finally looking at him, eyes wet but no tears falling. “you were the only thing that didn’t make me feel invisible in this place.”

he stepped toward you again, desperate.

“i don’t want this to end like this. i don’t want you and me to…” his voice broke.

“but it already ended, jungwon.” you interrupted. “it ended the moment you signed the papers. the moment you swore loyalty to someone else.”

he looked at you with a mix of sorrow and fury. not at you, but at himself. for not protecting you. for losing you. for not having the courage to break from what was expected of him.

“if i could go back…”

“but you can’t.” you said, and this time you smiled, a sad resigned smile. “this was your destiny. i was just a pause in the middle of your duty.”

the silence stretched.

“and still, i love you.” he murmured.

that made you tremble. you lowered your gaze. you didn’t want to hear that. not now. not when you had already forced yourself to let him go.

“don’t say that to me, jungwon.” you whispered.

he stared at you for a long time. too long. and for a second, just a second, you wondered if he might say screw it. if he might reach for your hand. pull you close. risk it all.

but he didn’t.

he just looked down. his shoulders dropped a little. then he nodded, once.

“i’m sorry.” he said quietly.

you didn’t answer.

and this time, when he turned to leave, you didn’t stop him. you didn’t even look.

and maybe that’s what hurt most.

x. the bells said I died

the palace glowed as if it were already celebrating a fairytale you never asked to be part of. white flowers climbed the windows, golden velvet curtains hung from every arch, and a thousand scented candles waited to be lit once night fell. the grand ball in honor of prince jungwon’s engagement to lady navina was just hours away.

and you… you walked through it all as if you were just another piece of furniture. invisible. as if you hadn’t woken up before dawn for months to prepare the tea he always said he preferred when no one else was paying attention. as if you hadn’t memorized the sound of his breathing while pretending you were the only one in love in silence.

it was the day before the royal ball. the celebration in honor of the prince’s engagement to lady navina was already filling the palace with decorations. the halls overflowed with white flowers and golden ribbons, and every servant was rushing from one end to the other with trays, fabrics, crowns of leaves, while you just… walked through it all with your head down, pretending it didn’t affect you.

“more to the center, dear, that table must be perfect. the princess wants everything to look flawless.” ordered one of the ladies-in-waiting, adjusting her headpiece with a handheld mirror.

you were about to answer, but gisselle ran up to you, breathless.

“prince jungwon…” she said in a hushed tone, as if afraid someone else might hear. “he hasn’t gotten out of bed. the physician was called. they say he has a fever.”

you froze. “how bad is it?”

“i don’t know. no one is allowed near him. his mother isn’t letting anyone in except for her most trusted staff.” she lowered her voice again. “but he hasn’t eaten. hasn’t spoken. it’s been all day.”

“and navina?”

“she hasn’t even gone to see him. she’s too busy choosing the flowers for the banquet.”

you walked away without a word.

that night, as the sun finally disappeared behind the palace towers, you sat in your chambers pretending to sew. the thread slipped from your fingers more than once, and your stitches were uneven—your mind too loud, too far from the needle in your hand. you hadn’t truly been focusing, not for hours, but you kept your posture straight, lips pressed into a line, like you’d been taught.

across the room, giselle slept curled beneath a soft wool blanket. her back rose and fell in steady rhythm, face turned toward the window.

the only light came from a single candle on your desk. shadows danced along the walls, and every creak of the old stone outside felt louder than usual.

you were about to put down the needle when someone knocked on the door twice. you turned your head slowly, not wanting to wake giselle, you rose quietly, crossed the room, and opened the door just a crack. and when you opened it you weren’t expecting to see him.

prince ri ki was there, slightly out of breath, as if he had run all the way. you slipped into the hallway before he could speak, closing the door gently behind you.

“your highness?” you quickly bowed, trying to keep your voice steady.

he shook his head, glancing over your shoulder, making sure you were alone.

“no time for formalities. pack your things.” he said quietly but firmly. “only what’s necessary.”

“what?” you blinked. “i don’t understand.”

“it’s an order.” he repeated, gentle but serious.

you didn’t ask anything else. you didn’t have the strength to. with trembling hands, you stuffed what little you had into a small bag. giselle was still asleep, unaware of what was happening. you didn’t have time to say goodbye.

you paused for a second at the door, glancing back toward the bed where giselle was still asleep under the thick blankets, her breathing calm.

“don’t worry about her.” ri ki said quietly when he saw you hesitate.

as you followed him, you passed through corridors you were usually not allowed in. ri ki walked quickly but with ease, greeting every guard naturally, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“can i know where we’re going?” you whispered, trying not to sound scared as you stepped through a back door into the garden.

ni ki didn’t answer. he just kept walking, circling one of the old fountains in the back.

and then you saw him.

jungwon. standing beside the oldest rose bush in the palace. no sign of fever. not a trace of illness. his back straight, his face lit by the moon, and his eyes fixed on you like he had never stopped watching.

“what is this…?” you asked, confused, dropping the bag at your feet.

“no time, milady.” jungwon said, walking toward you. his voice was urgent, different, like he knew every second counted. “we have to go.”

“go?” you frowned, stepping back. “what are you doing?”

“i’ll explain later.” he said, taking your hand. his palm was warm, steady, and that only confused you more.

“there’s a carriage waiting further down, at the north path,” said ri ki giving his brother your bag. “i’ll take care of the rest.”

ri ki looked at him for a long second, like he wanted to say something else. then he simply pulled him into a hug. strong, one arm across his back, the other hand resting on the back of jungwon’s neck.

“you’re going to be okay, alright?” ri ki murmured into his ear, voice trembling. “i’ve got it. you just… live, okay?”

jungwon nodded, biting his lip as he pulled away.

“thank you, brother. for everything.”

ri ki grabbed his shoulders and gave him a small shake, eyes glistening.

“don’t thank me now. thank me when you’ve got a home far away from here, a new name, and… her by your side.” he looked your way briefly before turning back.

you stood frozen, feeling the air shift. you still didn’t fully understand what was happening, just that it was big. too big.

“take care of him, will you?” ri ki said quietly, almost pleading.

before you could reply, he turned and walked back into the garden, disappearing into the mist and shadows of the palace.

jungwon didn’t wait another second.

“quickly.” he said, tugging your hand.

“what—? jungwon— where are we going?”

“trust me.” he said simply, and then started running.

your steps were clumsy at first, stumbling a little from the pace. the mud clung to your shoes, and soon the edges of your white gown were completely stained. the hem dragged dirt, leaves, branches. the cold bit at your skin, but jungwon didn’t stop.

and neither did you. because he didn’t let go.

the bells started ringing before you reached the carriage. one, then another. their echo sliced through the air violently, making you shiver.

taaan!

the sound spread through the valley, from the highest towers of the palace. it wasn’t any ordinary bell. it was the mourning call. the one they rang only when someone of royalty had died.

and then, you heard it. a distant scream from the east wing of the castle.

“prince jungwon is dead!”

epilogue.

the sky had that soft color that appears when the sun starts to set but hasn’t quite decided to leave yet. a shade between gold and peach slipped through the light curtains of the small country house they now lived in. it was one of those afternoons when everything felt calm, like even time itself had decided to pause for a few more minutes.

the kitchen smelled like freshly baked bread and mandarins. lots of mandarins. your daughter, barely five years old, was sitting on one of the high chairs with a wrinkled apron and sticky cheeks from juice. she had peeled four, or maybe five mandarins with more enthusiasm than technique, leaving a messy pile of peels on the wooden table.

“mom, look at this one, it’s weird.” she said with a smile, holding up a slice that, in her eyes, looked like a heart.

“it’s because it has love.” you replied, gently brushing her hair, feeling that warmth that only simple moments can give you.

the back door was open, letting in the sound of the wind, rustling branches. your youngest son came running down the stairs. barefoot, holding a stick he insisted on calling his “royal sword”.

“i’m going with dad!” he yelled, his giggles being contagios.

you barely managed to say “put on shoes” but he was already gone. you watched him run across the garden, where the grass was still wet with dew.

and there was jungwon.

his back turned. hair longer, tied with a leather strap. his body stronger, broader. arms marked by daily labor, broad shoulders under a white linen shirt rolled up to the elbows. chopping wood like he’d done it all his life.

the prince he once was, now just a man. a husband. a father.

“daaad!” the boy yelled, running toward him, barefoot and with mud-stained pants. jungwon dropped the axe instantly to lift him into the air, spinning once as they both laughed.

you stepped onto the porch holding your daughter’s hand. she kept eating mandarins while you tried to wipe the juice from the corners of her lips.

the image stayed with you like a painting: the sunlight filtering through the trees, your daughter playing with mandarin peels, your son clinging to jungwon’s neck, and him, looking at you from the garden as if he didn’t need anything else in the world but that.

you.

jungwon looked at you, and kissed your forehead when you got close. his hand was rough from working the land, but warm. real. your fingers laced with his almost without thinking, like your body did it on its own.

“today’s a good day to go to the lake.” he murmured.

“yeah… today everything feels right.”

you looked around. there were no carriages, no jewels, no titles. there were winters by the fireplace with everyone huddled under a blanket. there were summers running through flower fields, and laughter that disappeared into the wind. there were nights when jungwon held your hand in silence, saying nothing, but with eyes full of gratitude because you chose him. because you saved him.

the sacrifice.

the lie.

the freedom.

all to get here.

the kingdom you built together had no castles. but it was, without a doubt, the happiest one.

821 notes · View notes

junkissed · 6 months ago

Text

goodnight n go

★ | member — fwb!vernon x f reader ★ | genre — smut, angst, non-idol au, happy ending, fwb to lovers ★ | word count — 10.2k

★ | synopsis — you keep coming back for more, but every night ends the same. maybe this time things will be different.

★ | warnings — guitarist!vernon, rock band!hhu, mentions of alcohol, vernon has commitment issues (but he gets over it) ★ | smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, consensual drunk sex, car sex, oral (reader receiving), fingering, piv, making out, multiple orgasms, pussy drunk vernon (he's down baddd), some aftercare ★ | notes — thanks to @onlymingyus for always being the best and to @wonustars for proofreading !! i did not intend for this fic to be this long but i'm actually really proud of how it turned out so i hope you like it!! also i often make playlists for my fics but i never share them, but i've been listening to this one for months while i've been writing this fic so i'll link it so you can listen too. if you enjoy this fic, please reblog and let me know in the tags!! reblogs are super important to tumblr and they help motivate me to keep writing more like this :)

check out the playlist! featuring — goodnight n go - ariana grande ; black eye - vernon ; uh oh - tate mcrae ; sunset - caroline polachek ; romanticise this - james marriott ; entertainer - zayn ; & more

“hey, you wanna get drinks tonight?”

as usual, that’s how it starts.

you probably should have said no. you’d played this game before. you knew exactly what hansol meant when he offered to hang out after band practice, because it was never just “hanging out”.

you don’t even know why you still go to practices anymore. for a long time you’d avoided them; it wasn’t really your style, and you were never interested in being a groupie for their local gigs. your roommate seungcheol always invited you to every practice and every time you declined with the excuse of homework or other plans, but cheol finally convinced you to come just one time.

at first, it had been because he wanted you to hear a new song they were working on and he’d wanted to know how you liked it before they played it at an upcoming show. but then he’d introduced you to the rest of his bandmates, and after that there was no going back.

you couldn’t help the way your eyes always gravitated towards hansol, who insisted that you call him his real name instead of his stage name that everyone else called him. from the very first practice, you were captivated by him: the way his long fingers seem to dance along the neck of his guitar so effortlessly, the way his voice rasps when he sings, the way your breath catches in your throat when he grips the microphone stand and rolls his head back, lips parted in ecstasy.

he’s addictive, and it’s exactly the reason why you find yourself in the backseat of his car over and over again.

every time, it was easy to pretend that things would be different. you’d walk into the bar together and sit at the table in the back, order a few drinks, chat for a while about nothing. did you like the new stuff we played tonight? yeah, i know cheol is really excited to perform it saturday. you been doing any writing lately? mmm, a little. i’ve been feeling inspired. we could go back to my place and i could show you. except he never does.

hansol wasn’t a bad guy. he always paid for your drinks no matter how many times you offered to pick up the tab, he was polite, he listened to what you had to say. he just didn’t want more than that, and that’s where it all fell apart. you’d screw around for a while, then you’d part ways and wouldn’t speak to each other until next week. you never went to see them play shows, he never texted, you never called, never went on a real date besides meeting in the same bar down the street every thursday night after practice.

he seemed fine with that. you weren’t. and yet every time, you ended up back in his arms.

he groans into your mouth, pushing his hips into you and pinning you harder against the faded leather seats of his old honda. his lips are sloppy but eager, messily pressing his mouth into yours as his fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck. you can taste the beer and smoke on his breath, but for some reason it doesn’t bother you. maybe you’re used to it, or maybe it’s just because it’s him. you don’t want to know which reason is the truth.

he kisses you until you’re dizzy, and you can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or from the thrill of kissing him once again. it’s a high you’re convinced you’ll never get tired of, although you’re not quite sure yet if it’s one that he will.

hansol always lets you set the pace, but tonight he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. both of your shirts met the floor of his car what seems like hours ago, leaving you in just your bra and pants as he makes out with you as if it’s the first and last time he’ll get that chance. his fingers breeze over your waist the same way they breeze over his guitar strings when he plays: careful yet greedy, each touch intentional yet impulsive as he grips your waist.

he drags his fingers higher and it sends a shiver down your spine, arching your hips up against him and rolling your head back against the seat’s headrest. if there’s only one upside to this relationship, it’s that he’s good at this. really good. if he weren’t, then you wouldn’t have spent so many nights letting him fuck you in the parking lot of your shitty local bar. it does something for your confidence knowing that he must feel the same about you, or else he wouldn’t keep inviting you out. at the very least, this arrangement is mutual, even if you wish it wasn’t.

his hips rock against your crotch again, and even through both of your clothes you can feel how hard he is. your mind is clouded, everything’s a haze, and all you can think about is how badly you want him. the warmth of his skin, the gentle scratch of his nails on the back of your neck, his long eyelashes that flutter against your cheek as he kisses you.

you feel your hands slide haphazardly down his bare chest, fumbling over his hips as you tug on the waistband of his jeans. none of it feels graceful, not like the way he handles his music. it’s sloppy, desperate, clumsy, and it’s everything you need right now.

he manages to lean back from you enough to undo his pants and push them down to his knees, but his mouth is back on yours in an instant. somehow you end up on your back across the seats, gazing up at him with slack lips as his thin silver chain dangles over your face. you might not remember a lot of what happens on these nights when you’re with him, but you’ll always remember this moment. him hovering above you with heavily lidded eyes, biting his lip and cursing as he pushes into you, is etched into your mind in a way you simultaneously love and hate. love because it feels so good, hate because it never lasts.

the last half of those nights never stands out in your memory. you remember feeling good, you remember trembling in his arms and gasping and moaning and crying in pleasure, but the images are too fuzzy to make out. you don’t really need to reflect on them anyway; you know he’ll just bring you out next week and do it all over again.

hansol kisses you once more after you’re both finally spent, but the kisses afterwards are always different. more… hesitant, more uncertain. none of the passion and desperation that you’ve come to crave from him. not what you really want.

“i can drive you home,” he offers once he’s finished cleaning you up. for once you think he might genuinely mean it, but you can never be sure enough to take that chance. you want him to drive you home. god, you want him to so bad. to have him come over with you and stay the night, stay another night and another until your apartment isn’t just yours anymore, that’s what you’ve wanted all this time. and it’s what you’ll never have.

“i’ll call an uber,” you answer.

“i’ll wait with you, then.”

the silence that settles over his car is heavy as you climb back into the front passenger seat. you want to tell him to get in the uber with you, stay more than just a couple hours with you in the furthest back corner of the bar parking lot that’s too far to be illuminated by streetlights. you want to argue that he’s too drunk even to drive himself, that he needs to come home with you and sleep it off together in the comfort of your bed, but you know it’s not true and it won’t work. this is a conversation you’ve had many times before. every night you’ve spent with him blurs into the next, always the same.

sometimes you want to laugh at how naive you are, for thinking he’d eventually come to his senses and realize there’s more to you than a good lay before a gig. sometimes you want to grab him and shake him by the shoulders and tell him to grow the fuck up, give him an ultimatum and make him tell you what he wants from you or else put an end to it all. sometimes you just want to cry, to mourn your wasted time when you’re fully aware it’s never going to lead to something more, no matter how badly you want it and how hard you try.

no matter how many times you get your hopes up, no matter how many times you pray and beg and plead with god and the universe and every other higher power to get him to realize this can’t keep going on the way it is forever, nothing ever changes. you’re never going to stop running to him when he calls, and he’s never going to stop calling.

finally another car pulls into the lot, and you manage to pull yourself out of his car. you hear your name behind you and you stumble, swaying on your feet as he rolls down his window.

maybe this time will be different.

he says his usual goodbyes and goodnights, flashing you a loose grin and a wave as his engine sputters to life, and he asks if you’re planning on coming to practice next week.

and you find yourself nodding.

you’re left standing there, your head and your heart pounding, watching his headlights fade as he drives away, until you’ve stood there for so long that your ride starts honking and calling for you to get in the car so you can leave.

maybe next time will be different.

this is going to be the last time, you swear.

you exhale as you stand inside the lobby of the venue, repeating the words to yourself. there’s a chill in the air tonight. the wind blows smoke in your direction from the couple standing by the door, abandoned cigarettes clutched between their fingers as they make out sloppily.

you grimace and turn away, studying the faded graffiti and half-ripped posters and advertisements that litter the walls around you. you mean it this time, seriously. the only reason you came tonight was because it’s the last time. a goodbye, of sorts.

you have to admit, you were a little shocked when hansol texted you after your weekly meet-up after practice. not only did he want to make sure you got home safe after you left, but he’d asked if you’d come to their next performance.

you stare down at your phone in your hand, rereading the texts for what feels like the thousandth time in the past few days just to make sure you haven’t imagined them. but no, there they are, bright pixels staring right back up at you from the screen.

hansol: hey just wanted to make sure you made it back home

hansol: btw we’re playing at the phoenix on saturday and i was wondering if you had plans? i wanna see you

hansol: maybe we could get dinner after or somethin if youre down idk

hansol: hoping youll be there

you’d been tempted to refuse him, out of bitterness or resentment or something else, but you can’t say you weren’t shocked by his offer. he’d suggested every once in a while that you should come see them play sometime, but it was always clear to both of you that it was out of small talk rather than genuine interest in you being there. but this time he’d said he wanted you there.

it was nice to feel wanted, for once. maybe you hadn’t been going crazy. maybe things really were different this time.

you glance at your phone once more to check the time before you slip it into your pocket, taking a deep breath as you walk through the second set of doors into the main room. you can hear the deep sound of wonwoo’s drums warming up, but the stage is obscured behind a ratty set of faded red curtains.

there’s still a few minutes before their set, but the room is already crowded with people so you push your way to the side wall near the back. you don’t really want anyone to see you here, anyway. you don’t want anyone to see that your resolve is paper-thin when it comes to hansol.

you hadn’t told him that you were coming tonight, just sending him a vague response and telling him you’d have to see if your schedule is free. even that felt too generous, after the anguish he’s put you through the past few weeks. he doesn’t need to know that you’re here, just like he doesn’t need to know the real reason you’ve been avoiding ever coming to see him play. and it’s not because you always have other plans.

you’re hoping to just watch the performance quietly from the back, then sneak out without ever having to talk to him, and text him later that you’d enjoyed it. you already knew you were going to enjoy it. you’d heard every original song, cover, and riff they’d ever played together, and at this point you could probably recite their setlist by heart. anyone could see that they were talented together, so it isn’t surprising that the venue is packed tonight. honestly, it’d be for the better if you got lost in the crowd and never saw him face to face.

the house lights suddenly fade into darkness and the crowd starts to quiet, the curtains finally pulling back to reveal the band. seungcheol stands in front of a microphone in the center of the stage, with wonwoo in the back at his drum set and mingyu to his left holding a bass guitar. and then, of course, there’s hansol.

you hate the way your gaze immediately lands on him, standing in the same position he always does, with his guitar slung around his neck by a thick red strap. the crowd starts cheering, and distantly you recognize seungcheol’s voice introducing the group, but you can’t make out any of his words.

your mind flashes back to all the nights you’ve spent sitting on a folding chair in mingyu’s garage, watching them laugh and bicker and fool around. it’s different seeing them actually on a stage for once, the metal of their instruments glinting under the harsh, colorful stage lights.

it’s not a large stage by any means, just a few feet higher than the ground and barely wide enough for all four of them to fit. but their presence is captivating, and it makes the dingy local theater seem more special than it really is. but then again, hansol makes everything seem more special than it really is.

seungcheol finishes speaking and the crowd around you lets out whoops and cheers, but you stay silent. your eyes are still stuck on hansol, watching him scan the crowd as he twists the tuning pegs on his guitar.

even from the back of the room, you can tell he’s nervous. his fingers shake just a little, in a way you know they never do because you’ve watched him tune his guitar a thousand times under the dim interior lights in his car. you watch his eyes dart around the room, squinting to see into the crowd before turning his attention back to the fretboard in his hands.

he’s not the most outgoing guy in the world, but at the same time you know he’s not the kind of person to get stage fright. something is different this time. or, maybe it’s not. you’ve never actually seen him play in front of an audience. you don’t know him as well as you think you do, you have to constantly remind yourself every time your mind starts to wander and you let yourself daydream. after all, he doesn’t know anything about you, and he doesn’t seem to care enough to learn. neither should you.

the band opens with a song you’ve heard a thousand times, then another and another, pausing after every few songs to talk to the crowd. time seems to fly by around you, but everything moves in slow motion when you're looking at hansol. you study the way his hair falls in soft brown waves around his face, his head bobbing to the rhythm as he strums his guitar. it's one thing you've always enjoyed about watching him play; he always gets so lost in the music, and it's fascinating to watch. it's clearly on the list of things he's passionate about, and even if you aren't one of those things, at least you get to see him doing something he loves.

you shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. you can't let yourself think like that. you're here to end things, not to reminisce. you shouldn't care if he likes music or not, that's not your problem anymore. he's not your problem anymore.

you zone out for a while, trying hard not to think about him but he's the only thing you can focus on. your eyes wander every once in a while, when you hear cheol's raspy voice in the mic or a particularly cool guitar riff from mingyu, but they always end up back at hansol.

they finish playing what you know is their last song, but the crowd is still bursting with electricity. it’s not long before everyone starts to chant, begging for one more song.

“encore?” seungcheol laughs into the mic, and flashes one of his signature dazzling smiles that sends the group of girls standing in front of you into hysterics. he glances over at hansol and nods. “mmm, yeah. i think we can do one more.”

you fold your arms over your chest. now is probably your best chance to leave. it’s not a very big venue, but from the amount of people here it’s obvious that there’ll be chaos once things are over as people start to file out. though most of them will probably be trying to fight their way to the front instead, giving wonwoo their phone numbers written on stained cocktail napkins and asking mingyu to sign their tits. but just as you’re about to start pushing your way back towards the exit, cheol’s deep voice makes you pause.

“we’re gonna play something real special tonight,” he says, making eye contact with hansol again. “something brand new, that we’ve never performed before. you guys wanna be the first to hear it?”

the room erupts into cheers again, and cheol grins. “yeah, i figured. so, i’m gonna let vernon explain this one. take it away, man.”

you stand still, arms crossed and curiosity piqued. maybe you can wait until after the last song. if this is going to be your last hurrah, then you might as well see it through til the end. just this once, and never again.

hansol clears his throat and looks out into the darkened theater. “this song is about a girl i’m in love with,” he starts. that gets a light laugh out of the crowd, a couple whistles and cheers, and he chuckles into the microphone before continuing. the words that have been brewing in your head for weeks seem to instantly melt on your tongue as his voice rings in your ears, echoing through your mind. that’s not you. that’s definitely not you.

“i hope she’s here tonight, but i wouldn’t blame her if she wasn’t. because i think i kind of fucked everything up.” he swallows, his eyes darting back and forth as he scans across the crowd, searching for something. searching for you? “so if she’s out there, i’m sorry. and i know this won’t make up for it, but i hope you like it anyway.”

the crowd cheers again, louder than they have all night, but the noise quickly dies down once hansol begins to play. the lights go dim, and the room fills with a soft melody from his guitar. the sound is unfamiliar, a song you haven’t heard before, and you realize he must’ve been working on it outside of the band’s usual practices.

even if he isn’t talking about you, the song is beautiful. his guitar seems to sing every note that plays, and you can practically see the air around him shimmering with energy. the rest of the room seems to fade away, the audience that separates you suddenly disappearing. it’s like you’re the only two people around, sitting beside him as he plays just for you.

he’s done that a few times, played you little snippets on his guitar. you can almost picture it now: it’s always right after he parks outside the bar, before you head inside together. he’ll unzip the case and pull his guitar from the backseat, positioning it on his lap. he comes up with a different reason every time; sometimes he’ll ask if the chords he’s been working on sound good together, sometimes he’ll tell you to listen to see if it needs tuning, sometimes he’ll say he just needs to practice this section a couple more times before giving up for the night and getting shitfaced with you off too many shots.

but you always see right through his flimsy excuses; obviously he’s doing it to show off, to impress you or something. but for the life of you, you’ve never been able to figure out why. why should he care about impressing you, if he doesn’t want to go any further with you?

and suddenly, as you stand in the back of the theater, watching his eyes sparkle under the lights and his fingers breeze over his guitar, looking more focused and frustrated and angry and sad and sorry than you’ve ever seen him look, now you finally have your answer.

you don’t want him to be talking about you. he shouldn’t be talking about you. you almost wish he would just be an asshole to you, give you a good reason to yell at him and cuss him out and tell him to fuck off, but he never does. sure, he’s a little dense to the not-so-subtle hints you’ve been trying to drop, but he’s always been good to you, even if it’s breaking your heart in the process. maybe you’ve been the dense one all along.

the show ends in a blur, and the lights come back on as people start to file out. there's cheers and more shouts for another encore, but it's clear the night is over. this is the part you've been dreading; even after days of convincing yourself, you're still not sure what you're going to do.

when the crowd finally clears out enough for you to move towards the stage, you can already see the group that’s formed around the members. cheol is off to one side, giving out autographs to whoever waves their napkins closest to him. mingyu’s helping wonwoo pack up his drum kit, smiling shyly at the girls calling his name and promising he’ll come back out to the lobby to meet them once he’s finished.

and then there’s hansol, looking flustered as people crowd around him, a deep blush in his cheeks as he waves his hands to try and get them to leave. you’re just far enough from his line of sight that you almost hesitate. it’s not too late to turn around. it’s not too late to leave before he can see you, to disappear from his life forever, but your heart won’t let you.

you walk a little closer to the stage, hanging back behind the crowd of people, but he sees. his face lights up with relief, and even from a few feet away you can still see his eyes soften. he tells the people to move, more firmly with his words this time, and he hops down off the stage as they part to make room for him. when it’s clear his attention is no longer on them, they grumble and walk away, talking to their friends about the show and how hot all the members are and how they’re definitely planning on coming back the next time they perform.

hansol reaches you in a couple of strides, stopping just in front of you. he stays silent for a second, his eyes roaming over you almost gratefully.

“hi,” he says finally, offering you a lopsided smile. he wipes his palms on his jeans nervously. “you came.”

you bite your lip for a second before you nod. “i did.”

“so you’re— did you— were you here for the end of the show?” he asks, trying to hide the stutter in his words. it’s cute how shy he is all of a sudden. it’s not like him to be shy like this. but then again, the only times you’ve seen him are when he’s playing with the guys or fucking your brains out while he's drunk, so it’s not like you’ve really gotten to know him. maybe he’s always been this shy and you were just too caught up in him to notice.

you know what he’s trying to say without outright saying it. obviously you were there the whole time, a fact you aren’t the proudest of, but you aren’t about to let him know that. “i heard your song,” you finally settle on, cutting straight to the point.

his face goes through about a hundred emotions in the span of a second, from surprised to happy then right back to shy again. “yeah?”

even though most of the room has cleared out by now, he starts walking as he talks, pulling you through the side door into the quieter backstage area. you follow him around the corner until you reach a private room, a wrinkled sheet of paper taped to the door with his name written in sharpie. his guitar case that you've seen so many times lies open on the floor, his backpack slumped against one wall.

“i liked it.”

he exhales in relief as he turns back around to face you, and you can almost see his whole body relax. “i'm so fucking sorry,” he says, nearly stumbling over his words with how fast he tries to get them out. “i've been really, really stupid. the way i left you the other night… i shouldn't have let you go like that. i regretted it the second you left.”

you purse your lips as you listen. you can tell he really means it, and it's getting harder and harder to stay mad at him. but you can't let him off that easy, not after how long you've been going through this.

“i just don't understand what it is you want, hansol. you treat me like— i don't know, like nothing.” you pause and chew on the inside of your cheek for a second, letting your words sink in. “and then out of the blue you beg me to come to your show, and you play this really sweet, heartfelt song, so how the hell am i supposed to take that?”

he winces, but the wounded look on his face doesn't feel as satisfying as you'd hoped it would. “i know. i'm just… i'm bad with words. i'm better at music.” he sighs. “but that's not an excuse. i didn't ever wanna make you feel like that, not on purpose. i just got scared. but i shouldn't have.”

you stand silently, waiting. clearly, there's more on his mind. he stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, shifting from one foot to the other.

“i love the way you laugh. i love the way you watch me when i'm playing and it makes me feel like the only person in the whole world. i love the way you smile when you're drunk and the way you kiss me. and it was stupid of me to ever think i didn't want that all the time.” he lifts his gaze to meet your eyes, the fear in his expression more obvious than anything you've ever seen before.

you let out a breath, your voice dropping almost to a whisper. “you should've just said that.”

“i should've,” he agrees.

you offer him a tight-lipped smile, trying to keep yourself together. this is not how you thought tonight would go. you didn't even think you'd talk to him, and if you did, you thought it would be a shouting match, screaming and cursing before angrily storming out of the venue, finally feeling vindicated after all this time. yet here you are, standing quietly in front of him and trying not to cry.

he waits for a second, trying to gauge your reaction before he continues. “you're, like, my best friend,” he says, adding a nervous little chuckle to lighten the mood. “i think about you every time i play or whenever i try to write something. it's always about you. you don't know how much i look forward to thursday practices and getting to see you.”

now it's your turn to laugh. “you literally could've just texted me and i probably would've dropped everything to be there, anytime.”

he grins, his smile a little wider this time. “yeah, i know. i tried, the other day when i invited you. that was scary as shit.”

he looks up at you again, his soft brown eyes and long eyelashes shining even under the dim flickering bulb overhead. “i'm really glad you came tonight, though. i wasn't expecting you to, but i really hoped you would.” he offers you another nervous smile. “will you let me try again?”

you don't answer right away, and the look of nervousness starts to seep back into his features. “i promise i—”

but you cut him off, pulling him in by his shoulders and pressing your lips against his. he falters for just a second but his arms immediately wrap around your waist, tilting his head to lean into the kiss, and somehow that one little action feels more natural than anything you've ever done together.

you slide your tongue against his lips, and he lets out a groan into your mouth before he pulls back to breathe. “is that a yes?”

you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes and laugh, but instead you just nod. “yes.”

you definitely didn't come here tonight expecting to get laid. in fact, the last thing you ever thought you'd do is sleep with hansol again. but all of that feels like a distant memory as you head out of the community theater together, his guitar case over his shoulder, walking hand in hand towards his car.

the routine is familiar, but nothing is the same. you're not drunk, you're not in the parking lot of a cheap bar, and you don't feel lonely anymore.

he unlocks the doors and you start to climb into the backseat, but he lets out a little noise and shakes his head, and you look up at him in confusion.

“we're going back to my place. or yours, if you want.” he reaches down to offer his hand and help you out of the car. “i said i was gonna do it right this time, didn't i?”

by the time you get back to your apartment, your stomach is in knots in the very best way. your hands shake as you fumble with your keys, and if you weren’t so on edge it would have almost made you laugh, the way hansol looks away and pretends not to notice. you're more alike than you thought, and suddenly you're overcome with a feeling of excitement. now you get to discover all these little things about him: things you didn't allow yourself to see before, things he wants to show you and tell you and share with you.

you try not to let the awkwardness seep back in, but you pause outside your bedroom door, almost as if you're waiting for hansol to tell you what to do. in just one night he's turned your life on its head, and now you're at a loss.

so he takes it as a sign and kisses you, his hands finding your waist and slowly trailing up your body until he's cupping your chin. it's different from all the other times he's kissed you. it's not just the fiery passion you're used to when you can tell he's worked up, but there's a hint of uncertainty in it, more similar to the kisses he gives you afterwards when you're trying to figure out whether to ask for a ride home or not. and then, the pieces finally settle into place and you realize he wasn't kissing you like that because he didn't want you; he was kissing you like that because he did.

you pull away and he freezes a little, and you can tell from the worried look in his eyes that he thinks he's gone too far. “relax,” you laugh softly, your forearms still resting on his shoulders.

he complies, but his eyes still dart across your face in nervousness. despite how badly he wants you, how badly he needs to prove himself to you, there's clearly still so much that needs to be discussed before you can move forward, things that've been left unsaid for far too long.

you inhale and look up into his eyes, trying to find what emotion is hidden there. “what do you want, hansol?”

“want you to be my girlfriend,” he breathes out without hesitating. if it were any other time and place you might've thought he was joking, but you can tell he's dead serious.

“i—” whatever words you had ready instantly die in your throat, not expecting such a genuine answer. “yes. but i meant, like, right now. what do you want, right now.”

his expression shifts in understanding and he grins, though it's still shy. “oh. well…” he pauses again to think. “what do you want me to do?”

you watch his eyes carefully for a moment before you reply. you've wanted him to do a lot of things. you wanted him to be better, you wanted him to be worse. you wanted him to do anything besides being stuck in this weird limbo of friend-zoned friends with benefits. but now that the choice is up to you… you don't want any of that.

“i want you to be honest,” you start softly, almost shy to say it, but you know it needs to be said. “i want you to tell me how you feel. because i can't lie, you really fucked up. i shouldn't have given you so many chances.” he winces at that, but you brush your thumb along his cheek and pull his attention back to you. “but i did. so you need to earn my trust again. and i just want you to not be so afraid anymore.”

he stays silent for a long moment before he nods, as if he's seriously considering your words. “i know,” he says finally. his voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper. “i'm sorry. you're gonna get so fucking sick of hearing me say how sorry i am, but i'm not gonna stop saying it.”

you want to laugh, but his tone is so serious that you know you shouldn't, so you keep a straight face and ask him again. “so… what do you want?”

he lets out a sigh, still holding you face in his hands. “shit, everything. but, first— i really wanna taste you. can… can i?”

you take a step backwards into the bedroom and he follows, tearing off clothes one by one in a hurry until you're both left with just underwear. with the limited space in his car you've never actually been fully naked together before, and the thought of him seeing you is both terrifying and exhilarating.

he leans you down onto the bed and you pull him down with you. he falls beside you, pausing to kiss you once more before rolling off the bed and onto his knees, holding your legs in front of him as he stares up at you.

it's the kind of image that could drive a woman mad. you didn't think he was capable of being this patient, but it seems he's full of surprises tonight. “yes,” you breathe out and finally give him an answer. your eyes are locked onto his, a silent conversation happening between you in the span of a second.

he clears his throat and slowly pries your legs apart, pulling his gaze away from your face to stare between your thighs instead.

“god, this pussy…” he groans in delight as he settles your legs over his shoulders, his gaze transfixed on the wet spot at the seat of your panties.

he slides his palms up your thighs, and for his sake you pretend not to notice the way his fingers are shaking just a little. you lift your hips to encourage him, and he slips his long fingers beneath the hem of your panties before pulling them down, taking his time to slide them off and toss them on the floor behind him.

his hands immediately come back up to your thighs, using his thumbs to press your legs apart to give him a better view.

“so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles to no one but himself. it's like he's in a trance, admiring the dripping mess between your legs like it's about to be his last meal. if he hadn't been so enthusiastic, you might've been embarrassed at the electric shiver that runs through you from his praise. but when there's a man this hot in front of you, kneeling and staring up at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life, it's hard to feel embarrassed for long.

he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, and you nearly jump out of your skin at the feeling. he's never been incredibly rough with you before, but he’s never been this gentle, either. he's touching you so delicately, like a statue at a museum that he's not sure yet if he's allowed to touch or not.

your reaction spurs him on, and he leans in further to flatten his tongue against your entrance and gives a long, slow lick. your hips lift automatically, trying to push him closer and add more pressure.

he curls his tongue through your folds before pulling away, his hands coming up to rest on your hip bones and hold you down. “even better than i imagined,” he groans, looking up at you from his spot on the floor, and the image of him down there makes you so dizzy that you have to lay back down against the bed again.

“more,” you whimper desperately. in the back of your mind there's a distant feeling of shyness at how demanding you're being, but you don't think twice about it. after everything he put you through, he still needs to prove himself to you, that he's not going to break your heart again. but he's doing a damn good job so far. “vernon— ah, fuck!”

“mm, anything.” he presses a kiss against the soft skin on inside of your thigh. “anything you want, baby.”

you don't even have time to process the nickname before he's diving back in, his lips wrapped around your clit as he sucks at you. you let out a strangled noise of surprise, your hand instantly flying down to hold his head.

your fingers tangle in his hair, his tongue so deep in your pussy that you're already gasping and writhing under his touch. you can't tell which one of you has been more stupid for not letting this happen sooner, because it almost seems like he's enjoying this more than you are.

the coil in your stomach already feels like it's about to burst, pent up with white-hot energy that feels hotter than the sun. it hardly takes a few more pointed laps of his tongue before you fall apart into his mouth, whimpering and groaning and begging shamelessly for him.

“you called me vernon,” he says when you finally manage to push his head away, shivering with overwhelming sensitivity. he lifts one hand to wipe at his chin, way too nonchalant after everything he just did.

you're still fighting through the haze of your orgasm but his words bring you back down to earth, and your face fills with heat. “huh? sorry, i—”

“everybody calls me vernon,” he says as he shakes his head, quickly cutting you off. he stands up and moves onto the bed, flopping down beside you. “i liked that you always called me hansol. made it feel special.”

your eyes follow his movements, still laying on your back as you catch your breath. “but…?”

he grins, and you swear there's a hint of blush in his cheeks. “but that was really sexy when you called me vernon. it sounds way cooler when it's coming from you.”

all you can do is laugh, letting your eyes close as you rest your hands on your stomach. “noted,” you giggle. “so should i do it more, then?”

he hums in thought, rolling over onto his side so that he's closer to you. “you can do whatever you want, baby.”

that nickname again. he's already started leaning in to kiss you again, but you grab his shoulders and pull him down to meet him halfway. there's a bitterness on his tongue that you'd almost forgotten about, but you're quickly reminded once you feel his hand sliding across your stomach and down back between your legs. you let out a surprised but happy moan into his mouth, one of your hands moving to the back of his head to kiss him harder.

your legs part, accepting the warmth of his palm as he gently presses it against your sensitive clit. he holds his hand there for just a moment, pausing his movements as he kisses you, eagerly swallowing the whimpers and sounds you give him in return.

after a minute he shifts his hand, carefully pressing his index and middle finger into you. you're right up at the edge again already, clenching down hard around his fingers as he sets a slow pace, pulling them out halfway before thrusting them in deeper than before. you're seeing stars, releasing a constant stream of muffled moans into his lips as he curls his fingers inside you. he follows the rhythm of your hips as you rut against his palm, letting the movement force his fingers even deeper.

his fingers are dripping with your juices, down his knuckles and pooling in his palm, but it only makes him want to fuck you even more. it's not like this is the first time he's fingered you. the guys at the auto shop down the street know him all too well, from the amount of times he's had to take his car in to get the seats cleaned. he always claims that it's because he's a messy eater, and while that's true in some ways, he knows those guys don't buy it for a fucking second.

his fingers are completely buried inside you but he never stops kissing you, breathing almost as heavily as you are. he stops thrusting his fingers and adjusts his hand once more, pressing his thumb against your clit to rub lazy circles over it.

“ver—vern— fuck, hansol!” you finally manage to pull away from his lips, nearly gasping for air as another orgasm rips through you. his other hand slides down your body and it feels like the first time you've ever been touched, his palm so warm and tender against your skin that it somehow makes your high even better. you're shaking in his arms, lips parted in a soundless moan as you clench wildly around his fingers, but he just holds you tighter against his body and keeps pressing kisses along your jaw.

his lips are wet with both spit and slick as he watches you, his eyes filled with stars. usually when you're together, in the dark backseat of his car illuminated only by the moonlight and nearby streetlamps, it's hard to make out the details. it's dark, and everything is fuzzy from both the alcohol and the late hour. but now, he's realizing how stupid he was for never letting this happen sooner. he could've ended up going his whole life without ever seeing you like this, laying completely fucked out under the soft light in your bedroom, your pupils wide and eyes watery and so, so beautiful.

he waits until you've calmed down again, leaning away to give you a little space, but your hand shoots out to grab his wrist and keep him close to you and he can't help but smile. when you open your eyes you're expecting to find a cocky smirk, to see how proud of himself he is for having you in the palm of his hand so easily, but it's not there. just that soft smile.

“now. what do you want?” he says. “i should be asking you that way more often.”

“want you inside,” you pant out. “now. please? i— i missed you.” you shouldn't have said the last part out loud, but at this point you don't care anymore. all your cards are out on the table.

his eyes widen a little at your boldness, but he bites his lip and nods. he can't lie and say he wasn't secretly hoping you'd say that, but he'd be just as happy to sit here on the floor and eat you out over and over and over again. he'd do anything you want at this point, and not just because he feels like he owes you. he does, but it's deeper than that. it's a different kind of feeling, one that makes him want to do cheesy shit like lay his jacket over puddles for you and buy an airplane to write your name in the sky.

as he starts to position himself between your legs on the bed, you watch his face. his expression is outwardly neutral, but little by little you've started to recognize the signs of his happiness. it looks good on him.

but your brain isn't content with that, not just yet. you swallow as a thought crosses your mind, and you can't push it down any longer.

“wait,” you say quietly, forcing the word out before you can reconsider. he stops immediately, his eyes searching your face for anything he can find, any sign that you've changed your mind about this.

“yeah?” he replies, his voice just as quiet, as if he's afraid to speak too loudly and break the tension of this moment.

you clear your throat as best you can manage, though it's kind of starting to get sore from how much and how loudly you've been moaning all night. “just curious,” you start, nervousness suddenly starting to creep in. but tonight is for being honest, and you can handle the truth. probably.

“before, while we were together— well, it doesn't really count as being ‘together’ but you know what i mean.” you pause again, chewing your lip. “did you ever… y'know. was there ever anybody else?”

hansol exhales, still hovering over you. “no. unless you count lotion and my hand, ‘cause there was a lot of that.” your eyes soften and you visibly relax at his words, and he mentally kicks himself for ever making you even think that was the case. that there would ever be anyone else for him but you. “i know i was stupid, but i'm not that stupid.”

“okay.” you pause again, trying to figure out how to get back on track. “sorry, i just wanted to know. i don't care.”

he scoffs, but his tone is more melancholy than angry. he shifts on top of you so he can rest on his elbows, getting closer and brushing his hand over your hair. “you should care. if i had, i would've given you full permission to lay into me, cuss me out, whatever. i would've deserved it. you don't deserve that.”

“i wanted to, trust me.” you sigh. “but you're too nice to me. i thought…” you chew on your lip, eyes searching his as you try to figure out what to say. “…i don't know what i was thinking.”

“i don't think i'm anywhere near ‘too nice’,” hansol laughs. the sincerity in his expression almost makes you feel better. “i'm the luckiest dude on the planet that you didn't decide to, like, slash the tires on my car and egg my house or something instead. i really wouldn't have blamed you if you did.”

“maybe i should then, next time,” you say, a smile creeping onto your face.

he shakes his head. “there won't be a next time.”

the room goes quiet and you stare at each other for a second, letting his words sink in. you can tell he's being lighthearted, but he's not even trying to hide the sincerity behind his words.

“you can… continue now,” you say after a tense moment, breaking the silence. the tension in the room is thick but it's not uncomfortable, slowly but surely melting into a lust that's deeper than any of the times you've been drunk and horny in his car.

he nods, and he reaches down to brush your hair back behind your ear before his hands slide down your body. he seems so hesitant to let go of you, but finally he lifts one hand to grip his cock and position himself at your entrance. he braces his other hand against your hip, shivering as he brushes the tip of his cock up through your folds. fuck, he's not gonna last.

after steeling his nerves as best he can and trying to convince himself not to bust the second he's inside you, he angles himself between your legs and starts to push in.

by some miracle he manages not to cum immediately, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think about literally anything else but how fucking beautiful you are lying beneath him, but what actually happens instead might be worse.

hansol groans once he's fully inside, slowly splitting you open bit by bit until he bottoms out with his hips flush against yours. there are so many words on his tongue begging to spill out, but he can't think straight. holy shit, he can't even think about anything right now. why did he never say anything sooner? why did he waste so much time content with putting in the least amount of effort when he could've been having you like this all along?

“i love you,” he blurts out, and for a split second you think maybe this is all a dream and somehow you passed out at the show and hit your head so hard you started hallucinating this. but then his eyes widen and he winces in that way you've started to recognize, and you almost laugh because now you know it's real.

“shit, i don't know why i said that. i'm sorry. fuck, i'm sorry,” he groans and hangs his head, but despite his embarrassment you can still feel every inch of his dick twitching inside you and it feels way too good to ignore. “you don't have to say it back. i know it's way too soon—”

“did you mean it?”

“what?”

“did you mean it?” you repeat. his attention pulls back to you, a confused yet hopeful look in his eyes that makes your heart warm.

he clears his throat, obviously trying to hide the pink spreading across his cheeks. “yeah. i think i did. and not just because you have the best pussy ever.”

“are you sure? because that's what it sounds like to me,” you tease and try to roll your eyes, but his words make you clench involuntarily around him and he curses under his breath.

“fuck— yes, i’m very sure, i meant it and i'll keep saying it forever if you'll let me.” he lets out a groan, both hands now firmly planted on your waist. “but, god, please let me fuck you now. i'm trying so goddamn hard to hold back and i'll gladly go for another round later but i'm trying to make it up to you right now and it's gonna completely ruin it if i cum in, like, five seconds.”

you can't help your laughter in that moment so all you can do is nod, lifting your hips a little to try and get him going. and he takes the hint, pulling halfway out of you before slamming back in, a loud, deep string of groans leaving his lips.

his pace starts out frantic but he quickly calms himself down, stabilizing himself through his grip on your waist and pulling you to meet his thrusts. he snaps his hips into you at a smooth pace, his cock dragging against your walls with each stroke in a way that has you clawing at his wrists for support as he holds onto you.

hansol may be bad at relationships, but he's never been bad at sex. even on a good day it really doesn't take much to have you seeing stars, but this is different. this is desperate, determined, thankful, and hopeful all wrapped into one movement, sliding in and out of you with a passion you've only ever seen when he's playing guitar.

“ha— ngh— hansol!” despite your efforts to keep it steady, your voice still comes out broken, his name escaping your lips as easily as breathing. you roll your head back against the pillow, and you're suddenly even more grateful that you're at home in your bed instead of alone in a parking lot. this is so much better, better than you could've dreamed.

“fuck, you always take my cock so good,” hansol groans as he leans forward and buries his face in your chest. “i should’ve been telling you that every single time, how good you are. so fucking good.”

the way he fucks you is strangely tender, in a way you're not sure you've ever felt before. it's rough, but somehow in a gentle way. he's taking you apart piece by piece and putting you back together with his hands, his kisses, his touch. none of the times before have ever come close to this.

maybe it's the feeling of a mattress beneath your back instead of a hard plastic seat, or maybe it's the promises hanging in the air between you that makes this time feel brand new. maybe you're just too caught up in the moment to think straight, but for the first time it finally feels like a fresh start. this time is different.

“baby, please, one more for me,” he moans into your skin as his hips begin to grow weary, his breath hot against your chest. “‘m not gonna last much longer— fuck, cum for me one more time, baby. god, you're so perfect. please, let me make you cum.”

at this point he's rambling, almost as far gone as you are, but it's like he doesn't even need to ask. as soon as the words leave his mouth you feel the familiar sensation starting to build again, burning hotter and quicker than before. you almost start to panic because you can't even tell if you have another one left in you, but you look up and meet his eyes one last time and suddenly a wave of calm washes over you at the sight of his soft brown eyes filled with way more love than you're expecting to find there.

you don't even have time to tell him when it hits you one more time, you just grab him and hang on tight as your high tears through you. you struggle to lift your legs and wrap them around his back, pulling him in even closer to you as your walls flutter uncontrollably around him. he invades your senses and you can feel him everywhere, and you can only hope he feels the way you do.

but it's obvious that he does, because “ah, shit—” is the last thing you hear before he pulls out, barely managing to get back in time before he spills all over your stomach, your thighs, your pussy, the sheets. it's everywhere, and neither of you care. his hands are still on you gripping your waist tightly like he can't bear to let go, his cock pulsing limply as it rests against your stomach. rope after rope of thick white floods over your skin, and yet it's like he barely even notices because he's so busy repeating your name, praising you again and again in between swears and shaky moans.

you're panting, your hands shaking as you reach for him, but he's already right there. he's breathing heavily himself as he drops down on the bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and burying his head in the crook of your neck.

his weight half leaning against you is grounding, and eventually you feel your heart starting to return to normal as you become aware of the sticky puddle of sweat and cum that you're both laying in. but you just close your eyes and rest, focusing on his body warmth and his palm holding your side and the tickle of air coming from his nose as he breathes against you, and you realize nothing, no feeling in the world, has ever felt better than this.

when he reluctantly pulls himself away from your body to go look for a towel, you already know there's no question about whether or not he's staying over tonight.

once he's done cleaning you off he lifts you up into his arms, laughing and nuzzling his nose into your neck as he sets you down at your desk chair to start stripping the mess of sheets off your bed, and in that moment you can't help but think how lucky you are. he keeps saying that he's the lucky one for letting him have a second chance, but you're lucky in a lot of ways, too. lucky that it turned out he wasn't as much of an idiot as you’d thought. lucky that your heart wouldn't let you give up on him, no matter how hard you tried. lucky that after everything, hope still works sometimes.

after stumbling around your room, tossing blankets and sheets around and looking the happiest you've ever seen him, you're finally settled down together and you're back where you've always belonged, laying in his arms. it's so late that the sun is probably coming up soon and you're exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of a night, but you couldn't care less about what happens next because everything finally feels right.

hansol sighs, his arm curled a little awkwardly around your shoulders as he twirls a lock of your hair between his fingers. “can… we not do this anymore?” he asks finally.

his voice is quiet; not shy or uncertain, just quiet. it's different than what you're used to with him. usually when you're around him everything is loud, it's fast and messy and jumbled, a whirlwind of a night followed by heartache and a pounding headache in the morning. but now he's just… quiet. all the thoughts that normally rush through your head are gone, leaving nothing but silence.

you swallow, confused. although you've already talked out all your worries, you can't help the uncertain feeling that starts to return. “what do you mean? like, right now?”

he exhales like he's thinking, and his fingers pause in your hair. “like… i don't know. i want things to be good between us. whatever we were doing before— anything but that. no more not talking about stuff. no more tension. y'know? i promise.”

“mmm.” you hum, letting his words sink in for a while. you drum your fingers absently against his chest, almost trying to make sure he's still there. “yeah. i think… i think things are good between us now.” you giggle, leaning your head against his chest. “as long as you don't pull that shit again.”

he laughs, reaching up to grab your hand off his chest and hold it there. “oh, yeah, i know. you're way too good to me for even giving me another chance. i'm so sorry i almost fucked it all up.”

“you don't have to say that anymore.”

“well like i said, babe, i'm going to—”

“you can just keep saying ‘i love you’ instead.” you interrupt, squeezing his hand in yours.

he stops short in the middle of his sentence, caught in surprise, but as soon as your words register a grin slowly begins to make its way across his face. “cool. then… i love you.”

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, please reblog or leave a comment or an ask! it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! i put a lot of time, love, and effort into writing this, so feedback is really appreciated :) thanks for reading!!

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caramelkoo · 7 months ago

Text

before we shatter — jjk [one]

genre : established relationship, idol!jungkook

word count : 6k

summary : dating an idol is fun, they said. having a family with one is fun, they said. Until you're falling face forward because of your reality. A reality where Jungkook dreams of a future and a reality where your own future is collapsed.

chapter warnings : nsfw, strong language, mature content, fluff, so much angst, smut, talks of infertility, clit sucking, fingering, Jungkook worships her, dirty talk, doggy style, reader is in so much pain i love her sm, fall vibes <33, gift giving as a love language, pussy slapping with his d, big dick energy, jungkook is desperate. that's about it please mention if i missed anything.

read part two here

a/n : based on this ask so thank you anon for coming forward and giving me a chance to write this. i also wanna mention that im no doctor so please forgive me if i didn't do the topic of infertility justice. the second part gives more clarity in their case so please be kind to wait. enjoy and im v v grateful for you. you're so loved.

When you were a child, barely five, an orange butterfly came flying outside your front door. Your mom told you about it since she saw it first causing your entire face to instantly light up like the fourth of july.

An inexplicable joy filled your whole body making your day ten times better, not that you were having a bad one. A five year old can’t have a bad day whatsoever.

After you were done chasing it around, secretly hoping that it would land on your nose just the way they show on television, you had to let it go and head back inside.

Oddly enough the next morning you saw it again, this time it was not flapping its wings like it had last night, instead it was sitting on the window beside the door. Quiet and still.

You, ever so curious, had to ask your mom about it. “It might find comfort there,” she said.

Up until you met your boyfriend you had spent the majority of your time wondering where your comfort place is, what is that one place where you can just be yourself and not pretend to be some stoic woman. A place which lets you cry whenever you want but also replaces those tears with wide smiles and loud giggles.

Turns out, it’s your boyfriend’s arms.

It’s true. Jungkook with his kind, sparkly bambi eyes and bunny smile stole your damn heart a few years ago and is not willing to give it back. Although you can’t complain, in a world where people can’t seem to find the one for themselves, the angels up there granted you a guy every inch a gentleman. Safe to say it’s not one like one of those titular relationships you've come across.

He’s your solace, a roof where you can safely just about exist.

He heals you.

Dating an Idol comes with several perks, the biggest one of those being dealing with the huge amount of selective criticism. You feel hurt, of course, but when you’re with Jungkook, they are nothing but words behind a pixel. A pain that only lasts momentarily.

This pain though, is not as mundane. This one is making your stomach twist in apprehension. You’ve lost the count of how many deep breaths you’ve taken.

“I’m afraid this is a case of infertility miss _____” the doctor says, earning your attention.

You’re not able to form a word, however that does nothing to stop your subconscious mind from screaming, I knew it.

Being stupid enough to think you were well prepared to hear her say this, you mustered up the courage to enter the four walled white space which, at that time, didn’t feel as narrow as it does now. It’s almost as if it’s closing up on you.

Only after you sat before the woman in white coat and bad news, did you realize how gut wrenching this actually feels.

You face her with a weak smile, one that doesn’t actually reach your eyes, “Are- are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

Dr. Ana leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. The move itself tells you more than you need to. “Miss _____, I know it’ll be hard for you to come to terms with this but I suggest you try. I would also like to tell you, and I hope I’m not overstepping, but you can always go with adoption. The options are endless.”

Your throat feels awfully dry and you gulp. “Thank you uh, can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything”

“If you happen to cross paths with Jungkook, please don’t mention anything about this to him.”

Dr. Ana flashes you a kind smile, “Of course not ____. It’s your personal matter. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Thanks a lot.”

With one last nod you excuse yourself from her office. Your phone buzzes inside your pocket and you take it out, seeing Jungkook’s number stare up at you.

“Hey”

“Hey, my love. Are you busy?” His voice nearly brings tears to your eyes. It also brings up a question. Will he act the same towards you after you tell him where you are and what you just heard? Will his voice be filled with the same amount of excitement and affection for you?

“No, honey. I’m actually at my sister’s place. She was craving some alone time with her husband and asked me to babysit Coco”

You can visualise him awing already. Jungkook has grown attached to your sister’s daughter a little too much. His bond with Coco is just so bright it makes you wonder if they happened to be an actual father and daughter duo in the past life. They’re both full of beans and it’s a delight to see them both together.

He chimes, “Ah my little Coco bean. Is she near? Let me hear my angel.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you try to come up with any transitory excuse that doesn’t make you run for the hills. “She’s sleeping right now. Made me work for it but I managed to settle her down”

Jungkook moans from the other side of the line and you mentally curse yourself. Not only are you lying through your teeth but also using your innocent niece as a pawn. From the day you began dating Jungkook, you’ve not looked at any other man. For the first time now, you have this nagging feeling as though you’re cheating on him.

“Well, alright next time then. When are you coming back home?”

“As soon as they do. Do you miss me already?” I tease.

“Pfft me and miss you? Impossible”

You gasp, the audacity of this boy. “How rude!!”

Your goofy boyfriend dares to chuckle, “I carry you with me everywhere I go, love. It’s hard to miss someone who’s this close to you every time of the day.”

It doesn’t take you long to grasp what he is referring to. The heart shaped bracelet rests proudly on his wrists and the man had refused to take it off ever since you gifted it to him. A sense of longing already creeps up in your heart, twisting it until you run out of breath.

Your chest expands as you fill it with much needed air, “Listen, honey I’ll give you a call soon yeah? I think Coco has woken up and I must go check if she needs something,” you fake a chuckle, “You know how she gets when she’s irritated”

“Oh yes of course. Promise to give me a call soon?”

This time the smile on your face is genuine, “I promise”

“Give Coco a kiss for me. I love you.”

“I love you.”

There’s a heavy weight on your chest as soon as you hang up the call. Maybe it has always been there. So, for a couple of minutes you just stand there in the hallway of the hospital taking in the sterile smell and worrisome patients, praying that the highest power up there gives you one last chance so you could try and fix what’s been ruined.

The commotion around you does nothing to overtake the voices in your head and sadness fires through you as you feel like you’re burning your boats. Despite all of that, you pray for one last time, this time for again being strong enough to let go.

Let go of your happiness.

Let go of your salvation.

Let go of your comfort.

Let go of Jungkook.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

You click the door shut behind you, hanging the coat on the rack. You’re not even done turning around when a muscular arm wraps around your abdomen and you’re pulled back against a taut chest.

“I missed you” his voice is muffled against your jumper.

You run your palms over Jungkook’s forearm, stopping to interlace your fingers with his.The way his hands fit with yours is adorable to you as if they were made to do so. The bracelet on his wrist is cool against your skin and you smile. “You know what’s funny? This guy I talked to earlier said it’s impossible for him to miss me”

He rests his chin on top of your shoulders, cheeks warm against yours. He has grown out a stubble which makes him look manlier for some reason and you can’t stop caressing it with your fingers whenever you cup his face.

“You’re talking to other guys?” If you hadn’t known Jungkook better than himself, you would have missed the pout of his lips when he said that.

You turn your face and place a sloppy kiss on his cheekbones, “Only my favourite guy in the whole world.”

He breaks out in a toothy grin and holds your gaze. “You’re my favourite girl too but I think you already know that.”

You nod but the pang of guilt is still lingering in your heart. “Still love hearing it.”

Jungkook releases you from his embrace and walks back, rounding the kitchen counter until he’s holding up a large bowl. “Ready for our fall ritual?”

Jungkook and you have been using your mum’s recipe to bake chocolate chip cookies every fall and while you enjoy baking with him, the thing that you take the most pleasure from is his face when he munches on the first cookie.

It’s one of your favorite sights ever. It takes quite a bit of effort to bake them but hell if you wouldn’t do it all over again just to see him close his eyes and moan like it is the best thing since sliced bread.

You join him behind the counter and look around. From the way the batter has already been prepared you suppose he’s been at it for a while. There are some chocochips in a small bowl across from you with some cranberries next to them because he knows you like them in your cookies.

“You don’t ever forget about the cranberries, do you?”

“Nope. They’re your favourite plus if you eat well, I can eat you well– ouch,” he jumps, “What was that for?”

You offer him a glare which does nothing to stop the smile threatening to break out of your lips, “Behave”

His face inches closer to yours, “Now honey don’t be acting like I didn’t give you the best orgasm this morning”

Oh well, how can you forget about that? Ninety nine percent of the time you love waking up in his arms while he’s the big spoon but there’s that one percent where he wakes you up with his head between your legs, sometimes with his face under your shirt sucking on your nipples. Indissoluble passion within him. His ability to satisfy you with his mouth alone needs to be studied because god if you don’t crave more and more.

You blink, once twice thrice, “You’re incorrigible”

He lets out a cackle at your flustered face as you wonder when you will stop blushing like a fool around him. It’s been years and he still makes you feel like you’re wrapped up in a ball of jitters. Jungkook leans back and straightens up. He plucks the apron from the counter before coming up behind you. “Hold your hair up for me” He demands.

You grab a fistful of your hair and lift them up as he settles it on your neck before tying the knot at your back. With one last kiss on the back of your neck he joins you.

“How long has it been since you began making this?”

“Not long ago. Thought I’d wait for you to come back home and then continue”

You watch him add the chocochips into the dough. His tattoos are barely visible behind the cozy sweater he’s wearing. At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, Jungkook with his perfect physique and gorgeous face looks good in everything, more so naked, but nothing triggers your cuteness aggression more than him wearing a fluffy knitted sweater, believe it or not. One which you knitted at that.

He pulls your attention away pausing your little drooling session, “How’s Coco bean doing?”

A sudden urge of getting close to him creeps up and you sneak between the counter and him, hugging him as you nuzzle your face in his chest. He smells like cinnamon. He places a gentle kiss on the crown of your head before resting his chin there.

“You smell so good”

“Thanks and she’s as chaotic as ever. Nailea bought the cutest pair of pyjamas for her,” you look up at him, “She looked like a loaf of bread when they made her wear it.”

“No way. Should we buy her another one of those?” he pulls back, barely able to hide the excitement on his face.

“You’re gonna spoil her”

“Damn right I will and if you call this spoiling, wait till I get one of those made by me.”

There it is.

If Jungkook wasn’t so fond of children, would it have been easier for you to cope? You do realize that you’re a stone’s throw away from losing him for once and for all. In the old days you heard somewhere that it takes a strong man to save to save himself and a great man to save another.

You want to be that brave person who saves him from lifelong loathing and regret towards you.

This turning point in your life gives you two options, one where you can hang by a thread and bite your tongue while you continue your life with him, another where you set him free. The latter one wins and you, however, lose.

“Hey you went silent there. You okay?” He cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing your cheekbones so gently you try not to cry.

You nod and flash him a smile. Or at least you try to smile and detach yourself from him. “Perfect. Let’s get those cookies baking shall we?”

Jungkook keeps looking at you with an expression which tells you he’s trying to search for something, but you try not to give anything away. Yet.

He gives you a look, his eyes sparkling under the low light in the room,

“Wait here for a second i’ll be right back”

“Where are you goi-”

“Just a second. Don’t move” His voice trails off as he goes further into the bedroom. A minute later when he comes back, there’s nothing different about him except the sneaky smile on his face. He walks towards you and grabs you by the waist as he sits you on the counter. Your hands instantly clutch his shoulders for support.

“What is happening, baby?” You mumble, clearly in a fog.

He says nothing as he gets down on his knees. Taking a hold of your right leg, he places it on his thigh. You swallow.

He looks up, clashing his eyes with yours, “You ask too many questions, do you know that?”

Seconds later he’s taking something out of his jogger pocket and a cool sensation brushes your skin. You peek down, curiosity finally killing the cat as you see a silver anklet adorned by a pink stone in the middle of it embraced around your ankles.

His name is a whisper on your lips, “Jungkook”

He gets up, facing you as he stands. But not before pecking the anklet as well as your skin. His face which earlier was eerie, now entirely soft.

“Mom sent this for you.”

You don’t hold back tears this time, letting them run free. You glance at the jewellery again as it shines under the light of the kitchen lamp. The pink stone glares at you as if it knows you’re not worthy of such a valuable item.

“It’s beautiful”

He gently wipes the tears away,

“It’s just the beginning, love. I’m not gonna stop until I see a band wrapped around your finger. I feel too lonely being the only one there.”

You playfully smack him on the chest, a giggle slipping free. With a tired shake of your head you admit, “This is overwhelming”

“What is?” he asks,

“All of this,” you keep your gaze on him, sniffing as you continue,“Your little acts of service, your love, your presence and now this gift. I feel like I’m taking too much not giving enough”

Your throat feels too tight, as if someone is just cutting off your air supply when you should be feeling free in his arms.

Jungkook’s eyebrows tense as he reaches for you. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear he tries to reassure you, “Don’t say that. I hate when you question your worth,” he pecks the back of your hands, “These hands feed me, hold me when I need them to, give me warmth, gentle touches”,

His lips find both of your eyes next as you close them, feeling his soft lips on them,

“These eyes tear up with happiness every time you listen to me in the studio”,

Your ears follow next, “These ears tolerate my snoring”,

Then your lips, “And this mouth, my favourite, whispers ‘i love you’ to me every morning, leaves kisses on my skin, screams my name and most importantly, forms the loveliest smile when I make you happy.” His eyes are oh so gentle as he says this.

You’re about to respond when his phone buzzes on the counter next to you. Your heart stops. Fuck is it Dr. Ana?

To your surprise, it’s Jimin’s number on the screen.

“Pick it up, honey. It might be important.”

His thumb presses on the red button as he declines the call, “I’ll talk to him later. My girlfriend comes first.”

Neither of you say a word as the room gets filled with a comfortable silence. The cookies are long forgotten, your eyes doing all the talking. Even if you try your hardest you’re not sure you can say anything which is remotely justifiable of what he just said to you.

Jungkook is so much more than meets the eye, he’s vulnerable, he’s empathetic, he’s loving. His eyes shine the brightest when he’s happy about something and you’re so full of contempt about the fact that eventually you will be the one to snatch away that shine. This hornet’s nest is going to ruin me, ruin him.

“I wanna kiss you so bad” He whispers, leaning closer but you stop him with your palms on his chest.

“Wait, I-I want to talk about something”

His voice is downright pleading when he says, “Later baby. I’m fucking gonna die if I don’t take that mouth right now. Please?” his breath touches your bare lips.

Feeling a flutter in your chest you nod and he leans towards you, hand cupping your lower jaw as he touches his lips to yours. Softly at first, then his pace quickens. Your hands grab his sweater as you pull him even closer, deepening the kiss. His moan echoes followed by your own as you both lose yourselves in each other. You let go of every menacing thought and just focus on the taste of his lips.

He pulls back slightly, taking a deep breath as he fills his chest with air. Those beautiful lips are pink and swollen from the heated kiss you just shared with him. Getting rid of the sweater, he tosses it aside as his eyes sparkle with amusement.

Without wasting any time he begins nibbling at your neck, slightly biting onto it as your hands run over his back. He’s so beautiful it takes your breath away. Not to toot your own horn but you have the most gorgeous boyfriend and you’re not ashamed to show him off.

His lips ghost over your nipples from over your high neck top and you groan.

“Jungkook, please”

He pulls back with a smug look on his face, “Please what ____?”

“Please fuck me. I need your cock so bad.”

“Yeah? Is that what my girl wants?”

At this point your body is thrumming with anticipation and desire as you watch him move his hands closer to the waistband of your pants. His hands pause when they meet the lace material, his pupils dilate.

He smiles, “It’s the one I gifted you. Were you hoping for this huh?”

Your lips stretch into a smile. You hadn’t particularly hoped for this, no, because your relationship with him is not just based on physical pleasures. You guys have sex of course, but it’s not the prominent part of the bond you share. It’s more than that. The lace lingerie set was gifted to you by Jungkook on a random day. It was one of those quote unquote just because gifts.

“What do you think?” you ask, giving him a quick kiss.

He grabs you by the back of your neck and holds you there for a moment before leaning back and looking straight into your eyes. “I think you should lose it or else I’ll ruin it”

You gasp, swatting him on the bicep. “Don’t you dare. It’s my favourite pair”

Without preamble he picks you off the counter making you wrap your legs around his waist. You both are so close it takes your breath away. Chest to chest, groin to groin, face to face with lips inches away from each other’s as you share a breath.

He walks into your shared bedroom as you clash your lips against his, pulling his lower one between yours, earning a groan out of him. You both are downright feral, letting your hands run over every area of each other’s body. Jungkook’s hands grabbing your ass, yours pulling on his hair lightly before trailing down his chest, pausing on his pecs.

When you reach your bedroom, he sits himself down with you on top of his lap. Your hips move forward and you hiss as your still jean clad pussy brushes his cock. He’s so hard you wonder if he’s close to coming already.

Rough hands scrape over your back, hips, down your thigh before they finally settle on either side of your waist, gipping them tightly but also with a hint of gentleness. One thing you admire about your man is that he doesn’t treat you like a fragile woman, he knows you’re strong and you’ll not break if he’s rough with you.

Jungkook pulls back from your lips.“Fuck honey, you’re such a goddess. Look at this body. I still can’t believe I get to call you mine”

You shake your head, totally under his spell. “I’m the lucky one here, baby. You have no idea how lucky I am.”

His hand brushes over your ass before he dips it inside your pants, reaching your already soaked pussy as he pushes a finger inside you. This earns a whimper from you as you tip your head back.

“That’s where you’re wrong, ____. Want me to show you how lucky I am?” He takes the finger out before pumping it back again. You moan as his other hand gips the nape of your neck and he brings his mouth to your neck, biting on it.

“Oh my god” you cry, seeing him suck the finger clean and face forming an expression filled with the deepest level of satisfaction as he closes his eyes.

Setting his eyes back on you, he sighs, “This isn’t my first time tasting you, honey. But it gets better every fucking time and I find myself craving you an unhealthy amount, you know that? Do you know how crazy I am for you? Could eat you out everyday and wouldn’t need anything else to feel full.” His words send a shiver down your spine. “You’re my favorite meal.”

He pushes three fingers back inside with a slight force and you let out a scream, arching your back. He takes one nipple into his mouth and gives it a long suck, letting it go with a loud pop.

“Oh yes, just like that. Suck it again, baby” You beg and he does exactly that as he takes the other sensitive bud into his mouth.

You’re not sure if you have been this vocal about your needs with anyone before him. Not that you dated a lot, for a person who’s a hopeless romantic to the core you’ve always found yourself waiting for the right one. Additionally, you believed your body to be as sacred as a temple. Surely there had to be a guy somewhere who would treat it as such.

Then, enters Jungkook who not only was out of your league metaphorically but literally. He lived miles away from your place so there was not a chance you could have let anything take place between the both of you. But as they always say, the heart wants what it wants. To put it briefly, there was chemistry, a connection you didn’t want to lose.

Strong fingers pump into you. In and out, in and out. “You’re so wet. What do you say? Should I lick you clean?”

“Yes, ah oh my goodness that’s sooo good” you toss your head back, slowly grinding against his hands.

He wraps an arm around your waist, lifts you off his lap and tosses you back on the bed. Keeping his eyes still locked with yours he gets rid of his jogger, letting his cock spring free.

It bobs and you lick your lips, already wanting to take it into your mouth but you know for a fact that he wouldn’t let you do that, not because he doesn’t want you to but because he wants to give you the highest amount of pleasure first. As he always does.

Jungkook lets out a shaky sigh as gives his cock a pull, his eyes running over your whole body. Up and down then back at your face again. You’re still not fully bare in front of him while he’s standing there, all in his glory.

“Lose the pants” he commands.

You immediately slide out of them and toss them on the floor somewhere. He grabs you by the hips, jerking you to the edge of the bed as he sinks down on his knees. Spreading your legs wider he releases a breath. Warmth touches your wet pussy and you prop yourself up by the elbows to look at him.

You need to look at him if you want to stay sane, have to feel him with you here. Shivers run through you even by the thought of not being able to feel him and this ever again. This might as well be your last day on this god awful planet from the way the ache in your chest keeps on increasing. It makes a home there, not letting you entirely forget about the eventualities.

“God you’re dripping, honey”

“For you” you admit.

Hot and wet kisses are left to the inside of your thigh and your hands find the back of his head as you grip it lightly.

His head lifts up, his eyes finding yours, “Don’t hold back,____. Grip it as tightly as you want to. I don’t want any hesitations because when I fuck you, I’m not going to be holding back. You hear me?”

A desperate moan leaves you, and he rewards you by kissing your pussy. Keeping his eyes on you, he doesn’t give you a chance to whine out your needs before his tongue is licking a single line up your clit.

He moans and gently tugs on your clit. “Such a perfect cunt”

You push his head against your pussy and rock forward, chasing your orgasm.

“Feels so good, feels so perfect, baby” you murmur.

Just when you’re starting to feel the climax incoming, when Jungkook suddenly grabs you by the waist and flips you, so he’s lying down and you’re on top. Then, he grabs you by the back of your neck, pulling you for a heated kiss.

He pulls back, “Sit on my face, my queen”

Your eyes widen and you hesitate, but you don’t want to. You wanna let go, knowing you’re lucky enough to get something like this in this lifetime, so you give in. He hoists you up by the hips, positions you over his face and pulls you down. His warm breath feels like a soft whisper against your pussy.

You cry out in pleasure as soon as his tongue dives deep inside you, squeezing your tits in your hands. Grinding against his face, you close your eyes and just… feel. Feel the heat, feel the emotions, feel the intimacy, feel the ache in your chest.

A thought crosses your head and you wonder if you’re doing something wrong, something selfish. Touching him like this and getting consumed by him feels like you’re doing nothing but ruining him.

He sucks on your clit with sheer eagerness and desire, pulling you further down so you’re putting your weight on his face. Concern perks up and you look down, trying not to crush him but it seems like he couldn’t care less.

“Let go, honey. Just focus on my mouth.”

Let go. God, how bad you hate those words. They feel like acid in your ears.

“Keep going, Jungkook. Don’t you dare stop” you cry out.

Soon enough you’re aching your back, cunt pulsing against his lips as you come. He swallows every single drop as if he’d die if he doesn’t and leaves you in awe. You slump, letting your body relax.

Much to your amusement, he doesn’t give you enough time to relax before he’s turning you over until you’re on your knees. Hot passionate kisses are placed on your sweaty back, pulling a gasp from you.

“What a fucking sight. I wish you could see how stunning you look right now and it’s all because of me, isn’t it? This glistening back, this wet cunt,” he strokes a finger down your pussy, “It’s all because of me and you dare to call yourself lucky?”

You catch a sight of him stroking himself over your shoulders and your breath quickens.

His abs are glistening with sweat and his chin still has your cum on it.

He smirks, “Like what you see, honey”

“You’re beautiful”

His eyes soften, letting his hands drop from his angry and already leaking with precum cock, he grabs either side of your hips and lines himself against your needy pussy. You let your head drop on the mattress and clench your fist, preparing yourself for him. He gives your cunt a slight slap with his cock before filling you in, groaning as he goes deeper.

You moan, “Fuck baby. That’s so deep.”

“You’re so warm, honey. You feel like home” he thrusts again.

His hands grip yours, and he covers your body with his own, still thrusting inside with rough movements. His chest feels warm and safe against your back as it fills you with a deep sense of safety, protection and love.

You match every thrust of his with your own, moving your hips backwards. Your tits are getting equal attention from him as he pinches the two sensitive buds between his fingers.

You both chase your high with you screaming out his name and him whispering yours like a prayer. He gives in one last thrust before he’s coming inside you, his teeth biting on your shoulder. You’re following him soon as you grip the bed sheet tighter in your fist, moaning as you come.

Before you collapse, he pulls you upright and lets his cock slide out of you. His fingers push his cum inside your throbbing cunt, making your stomach twist in pain.

You murmur. “I love you”

His lips stretch into one of those lazy smiles you love so much. “I love you too, my precious girl. Now, do you wanna sleep or go make those cookies?” a sloppy kiss is pressed on your forehead.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders you pull him on top of you, “Should we save those for later? I really wanna cuddle”

He presses a soft kiss on the tip of your button nose, “Sure. Let me clean you up first. You don’t have to move an inch, just relax.”

Minutes later he’s coming back with a bottle of water and a bowl of marshmallows. You bite back a chuckle when you look at his face. There’s such a deep crease between his eyebrows you’d think he’s trying to win a game of uno or something.

But it’s short lived when he places the items on the nightstand and gazes at you, his eyes having the same funny look they had earlier in the kitchen.You try to summon your most unbothered and good natured grin but it doesn’t do shit to stop the electricity from running through your blood.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, biting your lip.

An uncertain laugh slips out of him, “I don’t know. I’m- God, I really don’t know but I have this weird feeling that something is not right.” He begins cleaning you up but you can’t shake the feeling of nervousness and anxiety away.

You know for a fact that he’s right. Something is not right, in fact nothing is right.

He peeks at you from between your legs, “Hey, what is it that you wanted to talk about?”

The air whooshes out of your lungs. Should you come clean? Is it the right time?

You huff a tight laugh. “It’s nothing actually. Can we talk about it later?”

When he’s done cleaning you up he places a small kiss on both your knees and stands up. Offering you a nod, he says, “Whenever you feel like it. I’m not going anywhere”

Yet. He’s not going anywhere yet.

You grin, “I wouldn’t let you”

He lets a laugh slip out as he walks inside the bathroom. Then, he comes back, settles himself beside you and brings you closer by wrapping his arm around your waist. His feet find yours as he touches the anklet with them.

“Let’s sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up” he promises.

Morning comes quickly as the sun casts its glow on your sleepy yet excited eyes. Holding out a hand, you try searching for your boyfriend next to you, but a slight sting arises in your heart when he’s not there. You open your eyes, adjusting to the sunlight.

Although, you hoped you did not wake up, you hoped death consumed you in your sleep because the person across from you is a total stranger. A stranger whose eyes are misty and mouth is pulled down in deep frown, a sunflower bouquet in one hand and the other one holding a blue file so tightly you can see his knuckles turning white.

Jungkook holds out the file to you, “How long were you planning to hide this from me,____?”

For the first time in your life, you hate your name. You hate how bitter it sounds coming from his mouth like this.It has always been “____, you’re my everything,” “I love you,____”, “_____, you mean the world to me”.

Acid bubbles in your stomach at his words, and you can’t help but sob. You wonder if the butterfly was preparing you for this day. If she could talk, what would she have said to you?

The words that leave him next might as well be daggers in your chest, "Tell me, honey. Is it the important thing you wanted to talk about but held back just to get a good fuck out of me?"

@fluttershy-vanilla @theyysam37 love you pookies. enjoy <3

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