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dearmisshoney · 3 months ago

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blanket monster

synopsis. with your radiator broken, you either freeze to death or borrow a blanket from your roommate mattheo. what happens when a badly planned thievery causes you to be trapped with him under his blanket? beneath the covers, there are no rules: just heat, hunger, and a monster with your name on his tongue.

pairing. roommate! mattheo riddle x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, roommate!au, cocky!mattheo, pervert!mattheo, sleepy!mattheo, tit play, dry/wet-humping, clit stimulation, thigh-fucking, neck kissing, a lot of tension, teasing, praise, begging, dirty talk, name-calling (good girl, baby), messy, unprotected p in v (although matty preaches safe sèx), a lot of restraint, quite soft ngl, a ton of plot

word count. 3.8k

a/n. i am still not fully back, but i managed to write this! y’all already know i have strangely specific plots. hope you enjoy it tho! feedback and reblogs are extremely appreciated

after a weak push, the door creaked open with a high-pitched hum, slowly revealing mattheo’s room. surprisingly, it was drowned in silence — his pc was shut down, his phone locked and tucked away in his nightstand, only visible thanks to the shimmering white of the charger.

his window was closed, but his curtains were wide open, allowing the beautiful shine of the moon to spill into the chamber and gloss all over its constituents.

including mattheo’s sleeping form.

he was submerged under a fluffy blanket, sprawled across the bed on his side. only his curly tuff of hair was visible, the rest of his body completely covered by the thick covers.

“mattheo.”

you whisper-yelled his name as you inched closer and closer to him, trespassing into his room without his permission yet again.

in your defense, you first gave him a warning of your arrival on his phone, but he seems to have disregarded any sort of message from you to sleep.

“mattheo.”

you tried again, this time with a sharper tone, a bit annoyed that he was not stirring awake from your first call.

he was as unwavering as a log, maintaining his initial position under the covers. his breath was stilled and controlled, only small snores leaving his probably parted lips here and there.

mattheo could have been robbed in his sleep and he would have had no idea.

“matty, c’mon.”

you were bolder now, bending at your waist above the bed and urging him to wake up in a louder voice.

the new, proximal position allowed you to see his face clearly — peaceful, no crease or wrinkle on his sleeping expression. his lips were indeed open, but thankfully no drool slipped away between them. his beautiful chocolate eyes were covered by heavy lids and sealed away by his thick lashes. his curls were partly sticking to his forehead, skin heated from the warmth of his slumber, partly spread all across his pillow in a confusing mess.

“this fool is sweating while i am freezing to death.”

that's why you came to his room — you needed to borrow another blanket as yours did little to nothing to help with the low temperature in your room. your radiator broke during the day and, despite mattheo’s generous offer to sleep in his room, you stood your ground and decided to face the cold on your own.

big mistake.

not even your thickest pajamas and a mountain of blankets did the trick.

“mattyyyyy.”

elongating the vowel at the end of his nickname, you called out to him one last time. you even put on your sweetest voice, somehow sure this time you will succeed in waking him up. and to make odds be in your favour, you even scrunched up the long sleeves of your blouse and poke at his cheek with your bare finger.

once.

…

twice.

…

thrice.

…

“ugh.”

you puffed, annoyed beyond compare when mattheo did not budge. there was no point in pestering him further; you’d only get angrier at his lack of reaction.

promptly straightening your back, you turned around and took a step away from his bed.

maybe you should search for a blanket on your own.

it’s not like the room was in complete darkness, the moon shining brighter than ever through the window. plus, the only logical place for mattheo to store a spare blanket was his wardrobe.

it would be easy to find.

but you completely underestimated mattheo and his dirty pig attics.

his wardrobe was a total mess. his clothes were barely folded, thrown into any drawer — multiple drawers, even. and when you tried to pull something that looked like a blanket, all soft and fluffy, the entire mountain of clothes twitched.

“hell nah.”

you immediately abandoned the so-called blanket, shoving the material back in and rapidly closing the door. challenging the monstruous wardrobe was a bad move on your part; if that thing collapsed on you, you’d have been buried in mattheo’s mess until the end of time.

should i just take the blanket he has on him now?

a devious thought crossed your mind as you were staring at the mirror-like surface of the wardrobe, shamelessly eyeing the blanket covering mattheo.

a devious thought that sounded like a splendid idea.

it wasn’t like mattheo would wake up because of it. he would most likely sleep soundly until morning, and only then he would realize someone robbed him of his precious covers. moreover, that fucker is a walking radiator himself, generating heat and burning like a fire. you’d be more appreciative of his blanket than him.

so, after making up your mind, you drew closer to his bed again. your legs inched quicker and quicker with feather-like steps, and thanks to your long pants, catching underneath your feet, any sort of floor creaking was prevented.

all that commotion with the wardrobe did nothing to mattheo — he was still fast asleep, in the same position in which you’ve found him at the beginning of your intrusion. almost drowning in the covers, it was fortunate that the blanket seems to not be trapped under him.

assessing the position of the blanket and the strange entanglement of limbs that could be lying underneath, you decided that pulling from the very middle of the material would be the best choice. dipping your body downwards, you carefully grasp the edge of the blanket, securing a good chunk of it between your grabby fingers.

and you pulled it towards you. slow. calculated.

a cheeky smiled spread on your face when the blanket slowly began to budge from its place, gliding across mattheo without perturbing his deep slumber. you could already feel the way this very blanket will solve all your issues and give you the best sleep known to man.

you barely managed to peel the blanket halfway when movement halted abruptly. you tugged and tugged at the material, some sharper tugs, some gentle tugs, but nothing happened.

“it’s stuck?”

you whisper-yelled at the sudden realization, terribly infuriated by this stupid impediment. did the blanket catch onto one of mattheo’s pillows? or was it perhaps his leg or arm?

leaning over the bed to scout the area with your eyes, you momentarily lessen your grip on the covers. mattheo was surely too far gone into dreamland to notice your looming figure, so you could survey the area in peace and decide your next move.

yet, with your guard lowered down, a new, foreign arm joined in.

sneaking fastly around your torso and dragging you into the bed, underneath the blanket.

“fuck!” a mere curse word managed to escape from your lips before the strong pull stole your breath away. “you awake?” a half-muttered rhetorical question left your mouth immediately after, your entire body twitching and turning in mattheo’s lazy grasp, trying to escape and assess the new situation.

“shhh, too loud.”

a deep, rumbling voice broke your exasperated protests, snapping you out of your frenzy and bringing your entire attention back to the person next to you. and the proximity between you two.

he was awake. and really close.

“settle down.”

mattheo’s voice was heavy with sleep, his words half-murmured against your forehead. you could feel the warm breath fanning across your face, and if you tried hard enough you could feel his lips themselves brushing over your skin.

“no, let me–”

your little complaints began again, this time fueled by the dangerously short distance between your two bodies. to make matters worse, you were facing each other; mattheo’s face was resting a bit higher than yours, yet still too close to your liking.

you were burning with embarrassment, struggling to free yourself, while he was still as serene as ever.

“–go.”

despite his gentle expression and his half-lidded eyes, true signs of drowsiness, mattheo sharply disobeyed your commands and tightened his grasp around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“ah, wait.”

you had no time to react, your nose bumping into his hard chest in mere seconds. his warm body instantly ignited your cold one, and you subconsciously buried your face deeper, nuzzling against his skin.

skin?

skin.

bare, hot, unmistakable skin.

you abruptly stopped, face slowly backing away from his body to confirm that he was indeed shirtless — to confirm that your poor tired mind was not playing tricks on you.

“matty?”

you whispered his name, testing whether he has already succumbed to the heaviness of sleep. if he did, there was no point in confronting him. you’d just sneak away and back into your roo–

“hm?”

but he was still awake. his hum of approval was low, barely above a whisper, but thanks to your closeness, you felt the vibrations of his vocal cords shoot through his chest.

“you’re shirtless.”

you hoped a reminder of his bare torso would make him back off, instill some distance between you two. heck, maybe even make him let you go. but mattheo only smirked at your statement, a slight peek of his marble teeth shining together with the moonlight.

contrary to your expectations, mattheo dipped his head downwards, traversing from your forehead lower and lower and lower. his lips made a short stop right above your mouth, and that’s when panic surged inside you.

what is he thinking?

your arms, which were peacefully resting alongside your body, sprung upwards and landed right onto his chest. palms flat against his hot skin, you pushed mattheo with all your might, trying to regain some distance.

but he wouldn’t move.

“mattheo, what–”

he continued his journey, trailing lower, totally ignoring your baffled state. leaving your lips empty, he settled down right against your ear. and, with a low whisper, he corrected your previous sentence.

“i’m naked.”

oh.

your hands completely stilled on his chest. no. your entire body froze up, too stunned by the revelation. only your eyes widened in shock, eyebrows jumping upwards and curving into two crescent moons.

“no. nonononono. no.”

whether he was joking or not, you did not want to stay further and find out. mattheo was your roommate, for fuck’s sake, and even the fact that you were in bed with him was bad. but if he was indeed naked??

you had to get away fast.

pushing at his chest and twisting around, you managed to turn your back to mattheo and even sneak one of your legs outside the blanket.

mattheo might be strong, but he was still sleepy — if you act fast enough, you’d surely escape from his arm.

your plan was good, and with the way your second leg was flying away from the clutches of the blanket, you were sure it will succeed.

sadly, you did not take into consideration mattheo’s second arm.

his other arm dropped across your middle, gliding across your sides like a snake and securely gripping at your body. and slowly, any sort of progress you made dissipated, your body now dragged back in its initial place.

“why run, baby?”

he chuckled against your cheek, low and wrecked with sleep, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core.

“you wanted warmth, no?” his voice was full of arrogance, and you could feel the way his lips curled against your skin in a devious grin.

with both of his arms nicely wrapped around you, mattheo pulled you into him fully. your clothed back hit his chest, all warm and fuzzy, while your lower body made contact with his solid crotch.

something sheltered itself between your asscheeks, and by its twitchiness, it was definitely not his leg.

“i will make you warm all over.”

it was a mistake to tiptoe into his room. it was a mistake to steal his blanket.

it was a mistake to underestimate a sleeping mattheo.

now you were at his mercy.

“ah, matty…”

being engulfed by his warm body did make your hotter. suddenly, your long-sleeved pajamas were too much; the material was itchy and suffocating, making you pant and whine for your clothes to be discarded.

nonetheless, the raising in temperature was not solely due to the covers and mattheo’s body heat — it was also due to your own lustful desire stirring your insides, making you boil with need.

“yeah, baby?”

mattheo knew. he could feel your body quivering against him, he could feel your ass involuntarily pushing against his cock. he could feel the way your hands clutch at his, desperately guiding them underneath the hem of your blouse.

fuck, his sweet roommate needed him.

his hands slid upwards underneath your blouse, warm calloused palms gliding across your tummy all the way to your bare chest. his fingers touched around attentively, waiting for a positive cue from you.

and when a small needy whimper left your lips, he fully cupped your tits in his hands.

“shit, so soft.”

he groaned against your neck, voice all gravel yet honeyed, half-sweet, half-sinful. his lips peppered open-mouthed kisses across your skin, wetting every exposed patch in his wake. his digits, skillful and eager, pinched and pulled at your nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks.

your cute moans of pleasure only stirred him on, and with each and every squeeze of your tits came a snappy thrust of his shaft into your meaty ass.

“you getting warmer, baby?”

each word was punctuated by a short nibble of your skin, his teeth grazing at your neck, hard enough to pleasure, yet not enough to hurt.

he didn’t need an actual response, really; he could feel your body heat — now matching his own temperature — and he could also feel arousal bubbling inside you.

“y–yes.”

your answer was weak, drowned in breathy whines, too overwhelmed by mattheo and his restless attacks. his palms continued their ministration on your boobs, fondling them to his very whim, while his cock drilled faster and faster against your pajama pants, getting them all sticky and wet with precum.

the back of your pants were not the only ones drenched. your panties were long ruined, arousal pooling into them wave after wave from the moment mattheo pulled you underneath the covers.

at the beginning, you tried to resist temptation, but right now you were fully succumbing to lust, clenching your thighs together and pushing back into your roommate.

“m–more.”

you needed more. you needed to feel his hands touch all over your body, to ignite every inch of your skin.

to make you burn raw with desire.

your plea, oh so tiny and broken, made mattheo’s hips jut upwards into your ass faster. a plethora of curses escaped his wet lips as he slowly but surely realized how you had him wrapped around your finger.

your wandering hands reached his own underneath your shirt and, with delicate moves, you now guided them downwards to the hem of your pants.

and, to seal the deal and make mattheo complete putty, you threw the prettiest blown-out eyes at him, silently asking for him to go further.

“f–fuck, baby, i can’t resist you.” his voice cracked against your skin, as even saying the words cost him restraint.

his fingers fumbled at your waist, clumsily pushing the waistband of your pajamas down to your knees. when the pads of his digits encountered your panties, they were immediately hooked and dragged lower too, joining your pants.

“oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, babyyy.”

he started chanting the pet name like a mantra the moment his eyes got a hold of your glistering pussy, all warm and sticky, and so so inviting. and he gladly took the invitation, glossing his fingers between your folds and gathering your arousal, only to stick up his hand and admire the web-like formation of precum.

“so fucking wet, d–damn.”

he breathed it like a prayer, forehead dropping against your shoulder for a moment, so aroused by the reactions of your body. but he had no time to soak into the feeling as he felt your plush, naked ass press against his own bare cock, so impatient and needy.

“mattyyy.”

your mind was foggy, clouded with the thought of immediate release. your hips shifting back into mattheo so deliciously was a clear bodily reaction, and he could see that as well.

as much as he wanted to thrust right into your sloppy hole and fuck you senseless, he couldn’t.

“c–can’t, baby. i don’t have a condom.”

it was difficult to hold back, it really was. to have his gorgeous roommate in his arms, half-naked and begging for dick — that was his ultimate fantasy. yet here he was, cock heavy and throbbing against your ass, refusing to fuck you without a condom.

“but matty–”

“safe sex is ah–… important, baby.”

fuck safe sex, you wanted to scream at him, the achiness between your legs growing stronger and stronger. but mattheo took you by surprise once again, repositioning his wandering hand back on your cunt and slowly circling his digits over your pulsing clit.

“but i will take care of you.”

the sensation was so powerful that your head was thrown back against his chest, a sharp moan elicited from your previously pouting lips. no longer pursed in dissatisfaction, your mouth hanged open, overflowing with whines and moans.

“it feels good, baby, hm?”

“yes, yes, yes, ahhh…”

your voice was high and ruined, hips rutting mindlessly against mattheo’s hand as he played with your swollen bud. his pace was sloppy and wavering, his concentration deterring because of his own needs. his cock, leaking with precum, was still chasing relief between your asscheeks.

but he too wanted more.

“got you all messy and wet…” he mumbled, ragged breath fanning on your skin. “yet i can’t even fuck you properly.”

the arm around your torso tightened, dragging you closer to his crotch. his ministration on your clit got rougher, now matching the desperate ruttings of his own hips.

he wanted so bad to move your leg to the side and just plunge in. he wanted so bad to twist you around and have you spread open across his bed, legs dangling off his shoulders as he restlessly pounds into you.

his cock continued to bully the fat of your behind, leaving a sticky shimmery trail all over it, as he keeps imagining the many ways he could have you if only he had a condom on him.

if only there was an alternative to–

there was.

“baby, let me fuck your pretty thighs.”

he rasped quickly, short of breath, proud of his genius idea. his fidgety hand immediately jumped on your thigh, fingers digging into the plush fat and making it jiggle slightly.

“they’re warm and soft… i will rub your clit, make you cum together with me.”

his other hand resumed its movement on your cunt, poking and prodding at your clit in an attempt to convince you to accept his offer.

“o–okay.”

you hiccupped, voce hazy and dripping with need. you slightly parted your thighs, inviting mattheo to insert his cock. and he wasted no time, thanking you for your cooperation and sliding between your thighs swiftly.

and when you closed them around his cock, squishing it nicely, he though his body ascended to heaven.

“my gooood girl.”

mattheo groaned low at the friction your soft skin provided, hugging his shaft tight and warm. then he moaned louder, his cock grazing past your drenched folds and your quivering hole. he almost gave up and changed the angle, pushing into your cunt, but he stilled himself and completed his thrust, his tip peeking out, red and dripping, on the other side.

“you’re amazing, fuck.”

and with that, mattheo started a stable rhythm of his hips, pulling and pushing against your thighs and using them like a cunt. he also kept his promise, rubbing your pretty little clit and giving you that well-deserved pleasure.

“mattyyy.”

his urgent and sharp thrust affected you as well. you were sobbing now, teetering on the edge, your whole body trembling from the pressure on your clit and the constant bullying of mattheo’s cock against your folds.

“i know, baby, me too.”

he only cooed at you, speeding up his thrusts between your thighs, fingers rubbing with more vigour against your clit.

but it wasn’t sufficient.

you needed more.

you needed him inside.

“matty– inside–… i need you inside.” you babbled between sobs, twisting your neck to gaze at him and enchant him a second time that night.

“r–raw, please, raw.”

his entire body shuddered at your plea, arms stiffening tightly against you. he resisted you the first time, but now? with his own release so close?

fuck.

he cursed viciously under his breath, his self-control on the verge of snapping completely.

“y–you sure? i w–won’t be able to stop.”

if you agree, he will conform. and he hoped you–

“please, matty. i need you.”

with a feral growl, mattheo shifted, guiding the fat head of his cock to your soaking entrance. and he pushed in without a second thought, the tip stretching you out deliciously, warmly welcomed by your hungry cunt.

both of you moaned — loud, primal, shameless.

he bottomed out in one long, shaking thrust, his hips drawn to yours like a magnet. your gummy walls latched onto him like a vice, sucking his cock and hardly letting it go.

“so fucking good, baby. fuckfuckfuckk.”

he pulled out only halfway before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace that had your thighs shaking. your hands were clawing at the sheets, hanging onto them for dear life.

you were close.

you were both so close.

he only had a few more thrusts in him — he could feel it building up in his gut, tightening unbearably.

“gonna fill you up, baby.”

mattheo groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking faster, harder. his fingers were also frantic against your clit, wishing to push you off the edge at the same time.

“please, want you in me.” you whimpered, arching into him, voice broken yet sweet.

his body trembled — a half-muttered call of your name managed to get out before his sturdy hands grabbed your hips, digging his fingers hard into your skin to keep you still.

you gasped together as he buried himself deep, cock splitting you open one last time before spurts of cum spilled inside you. your pussy fluttered around him like it wanted to seal in every last drop, joining his orgasm.

for a few moments, the world was just panting, sweaty skin, tangled limbs, and the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out of you.

mattheo didn’t pull out. he couldn’t.

he just wrapped himself around you tighter, peppering you with lazy kisses.

"warm enough now, baby?" he murmured against your skin, cocky even in his exhaustion.

you could only giggle weakly, shortly glancing at the blanket that started all this, half-hanging off the bed, forgotten.

"yeah, matty," you whispered, settling back into his embrace. "more than enough."

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @downbad4reid, @cafechichay, @lov3notts

#~ 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘢𝘳 #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #roommmate!mattheo #pervert!mattheo #sleepy!mattheo #x reader #smut #slytherin boys smut #slytherin smut #slytherin boys

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harrysfolklore · 4 months ago

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but daddy i love him. part two - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc:13.5k. READ PART ONE

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!!! THE OTHER PART OF THEIR STORY !!! first of all i want to thank you all for the incredible support on part one, it was so nice to read all of your feedback ! please make sure to leave some feedback on this part as well. let me know ALL of your thoughts, and most importantly, ENJOY!

Monaco, 2021

The two weeks after Abu Dhabi are the longest of your life. Your phone remains silent - no late-night calls, no secret messages, no pictures of the cats that Max knows always make you smile. The space where he used to be feels enormous.

Your father is still dealing with the aftermath, appeals and media statements consuming his days. You watch him move through the house like a storm cloud, muttering about Masi and the FIA, and think about Max's words: "perfect Mercedes daughter."

You've never felt less perfect.

It's late one night when the doorbell rings. You're alone in the apartment - the one that's technically yours but has become a sanctuary for both of you over the past year. When you open the door, Max is standing there, looking as exhausted as you feel.

"Hi," he says softly.

You stand aside to let him in, heart pounding.

"I'm sorry," he says before you can speak. "I was cruel that night. You didn't deserve that."

"No, I didn't."

He runs a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "I was high on winning, angry you weren't there, and I took it out on you. But that's not an excuse."

"I'm sorry too," you move closer. "You were right about some things. I should have been there for your celebration. It was your moment."

"It wasn't just my moment though, was it?" He sits on the couch, looking up at you. "It was your father's worst nightmare. Lewis' heartbreak. The most controversial end to a season ever." He laughs quietly. "Not exactly the best timing to announce we're in love."

You sit beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying… you were right. Telling them now, with everything so raw… it would be like throwing fuel on a fire." He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. "I was so focused on finally being able to tell everyone, I didn't think about what that would mean for you. For your relationship with your dad."

"Max…"

"No, let me finish." His thumb traces patterns on your palm - another familiar gesture that makes tears prick at your eyes. "I've spent six years loving you. I can wait a bit longer for the timing to be right. For the wounds to heal a bit."

"What about what you said? About not being my dirty little secret anymore?"

"You're not keeping me a secret because you're ashamed," he says quietly. "You're protecting your family. And mine too, probably. Can you imagine Jos' reaction if we told him now?"

You both wince at the thought.

"So what do we do?" you ask.

He tugs you closer until you're against his chest, where you can hear his heartbeat - steady and strong and familiar. "We love each other. We wait for the right moment. And this time…" he kisses your head, "this time we decide together when that moment is. No ultimatums, no pressure."

"I missed you," you whisper into his shirt.

"I missed you too. These two weeks…" he shudders slightly. "Never again, okay? No matter how angry we get, no silence. We talk it out."

You lift your head to look at him properly. "Promise?"

Instead of answering, he kisses you - soft and sweet and apologetic. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he says. "Mercedes daughter and all."

You laugh through sudden tears. "I love you too. Even when you're being an insufferable World Champion."

"Speaking of…" he grins, that boyish smile you fell in love with all those years ago, "I believe this is the first time I'm kissing you as a World Champion."

"Technically you've already kissed me as a World Champion."

"Ah, but that was angry championship kissing. This is making up championship kissing. Completely different."

You roll your eyes but let him pull you closer. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm. Much better. Want me to demonstrate the difference?"

Later, curled up in bed together, you talk about the future - not just when to tell everyone, but what comes after. Houses and holidays and maybe someday kids who'll have Wolff determination and Verstappen speed.

"Your dad might actually kill me when we tell him," Max muses, playing with your hair.

"Probably. But at least by then he might have calmed down about Abu Dhabi."

"That's optimistic of you."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. "Are you okay with waiting? Really okay?"

He considers this, serious now. "Yeah, I am. Because this time it feels different. This time we're deciding together." He touches your face gently. "And because this time I know you're not running away."

"Never again," you promise. "No more running."

As you fall asleep in his arms, you think about timing and choices and love that survives silence. Maybe it's not perfect - sneaking around, hiding from families, loving in the shadows.

But it's yours. And for now, that's enough.

2022

After Abu Dhabi last year, you and Max spent a quiet Christmas apart with your respective families, but managed to escape for New Year's. Away from the media frenzy and family tensions, you found peace in the simple moments - cooking together, watching movies, Max trying (and failing) to teach you sim racing.

On New Year's Eve, standing on your balcony watching fireworks illuminate the harbor, Max held you from behind. "This is how I want every year to start," he murmured against your neck.

"Just us?"

"Just us. No drama, no hiding, no championships on the line."

You turned in his arms. "Well, about that last part…"

"Okay, maybe some championships," he grinned. "But the rest… we'll figure it out, right?"

"We will," you promised, sealing it with a kiss as the clock struck midnight.

The first weeks of 2022 brought exciting changes. Susie announced her plans for the F1 Academy, a project aimed at supporting young female drivers, and immediately asked you to join her team.

"I need someone I can trust completely," she said during one of your planning sessions. "Someone who understands both the technical and human side of racing."

"Are you sure? It's a huge responsibility."

"YN, you're perfect for this. You've grown up in this sport, you understand the challenges these girls will face." Susie squeezed your hand. "Plus, you're the only person besides Toto who can match my caffeine consumption during race weekends."

Working closely with Susie brought you closer than ever. She became more than just your father's wife - she was your confidante, mentor, and friend. You spent long hours together, planning programs, reviewing applications, discussing how to break down barriers in motorsport.

Which made the current breakfast situation even more uncomfortable.

"Andreas has an impressive background in aerodynamics," Toto was saying, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort. "Oxford educated, worked with Ferrari's junior program…"

"Dad," you interrupted, pushing your eggs around your plate. "Can we maybe not?"

"I'm just saying, YN, you should give him a chance. He's exactly the kind of person who would understand your world."

Lewis and George exchanged knowing looks while Susie watched you carefully.

"The new regulations are keeping me busy enough," you tried. "Between that and the Academy with Susie…"

"There's always time for personal life," Toto persisted. "You're young, successful, beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your time buried in work."

After breakfast, Susie found you in your office, surrounded by Academy paperwork.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked, closing the door.

"About Dad's sudden career as a matchmaker?"

"He means well," Susie sat across from you. "He just wants you to be happy."

"Can you maybe… talk to him? Get him to drop it?"

"Why? Andreas seems like a lovely young man. Smart, ambitious…"

You set down your pen, heart racing. This was it - the moment to trust someone else with your secret.

"I… I already have someone."

Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? How did I not know about this?"

"Because…" you took a deep breath. "Because it's complicated. Really complicated."

"YN," Susie leaned forward, "you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

"It's Max," you whispered. "Max Verstappen."

Susie's eyes widened, but she didn't immediately speak. She got up, locked your office door, and sat back down.

"How long?"

"Since 2015, on and off, you know that story. But seriously since I came back in 2020."

"Through everything? The championship battle?"

You nodded, tears forming. "It was… difficult. Especially Abu Dhabi."

"Oh, sweetheart," Susie moved to your side, pulling you into a hug. "That must have been awful for you."

"You're not… mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"Because he's Red Bull, because of everything with Dad…"

"Listen to me," Susie pulled back to look at you. "Love doesn't care about team colors. God knows this sport has enough rivalry without policing people's hearts too."

"I don't know what to do," you admitted. "We want to tell everyone, but after Abu Dhabi…"

"The timing's not great," Susie agreed. "But YN, you can't hide forever. It'll only get harder."

"I know. But Papa…"

"Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than Mercedes, more than championships." She squeezed your hands. "Will he be shocked? Absolutely. Probably throw something expensive. But he'll come around."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I've seen how he looks at you - like you're still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the garage. He might not like your choice, but he'll respect it. Eventually."

"He was furious back then, said Max was too young, too reckless, that it would end in disaster. He threatened to send me back to boarding school."

"That explains a lot," Susie said softly. "Why he's been so pushy about these 'suitable' men lately."

"He thinks he protected me back then. Maybe he did - we were young, and things got messy. But now…"

"Now you're both different people," Susie finished. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know what the real issue was back then?"

"That Max was the enemy?" you said dryly.

"No. That Toto couldn't control it. He's used to managing everything, planning ten steps ahead. But this…" she gestured vaguely, "this wasn't in his carefully constructed plan for you."

"I never wanted to disappoint him."

"Hey," Susie's voice was firm. "Loving someone isn't disappointing. It's probably the bravest thing we do."

"Thanks," you whisper, hugging Susie tightly. "For understanding. For not judging."

"Just... be careful, okay? And know that I'm here if you need to talk."

The conversation with Susie lifts a weight you didn't realize you were carrying. Having someone know, someone in your corner, makes everything feel more manageable.

Bahrain, 2022

The morning of the Bahrain Grand Prix buzzed with the familiar nervous energy of a season opener. You were in one of the back offices of the F1 Academy, triple-checking schedules and programs for the upcoming season, when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

"Shouldn't you be in pre-race prep?" you asked, trying to sound stern but failing to hide your smile.

"I have fifteen minutes," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck. "Wanted to wish you luck. Big day for you too."

You turned in his arms. "Nervous?"

"About the race? Nah." He grinned. "About you stealing the spotlight with the Academy launch? Terrified."

"Idiot," you laughed, playing with the collar of his race suit. "As if anything could overshadow the great Max Verstappen."

"Hey," his expression turned serious. "What you're doing here… it's important. You're going to change lives."

"Now who's being dramatic?"

"I mean it," he insisted. "You remember what it was like, being the only girl in karting? These kids won't have to feel that way because of you and Susie."

"Well... I quit karting after a year," you joke and Max rolls his eyes, "Oh come on, just kiss me before you have to go all defending world champion on track."

And he does, but before you can go any further the door opened.

"YN, have you seen the timing sheets from- OH SHIT!"

George Russell stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as saucers. You and Max jumped apart like teenagers caught by their parents.

"I… um… I should…" George stammered, pointing vaguely behind him.

"George, wait!" You rushed to close the door before he could escape. "Please…"

"This is literally my first day as a Mercedes driver and I'm already caught in..." he gestures wildly between you and Max.

"George," you step forward, "you CANNOT tell my dad."

"I... what... how long..." he stammers.

"Please," Max speaks up, "We'll explain everything, just... keep this between us?"

George looks between you and Max, then sighs dramatically. "Well, I guess this is one way to start my Mercedes career - harboring my team principal's daughter's secret relationship with our biggest rival."

"Welcome to Mercedes?" you offer weakly.

"Right," George shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile. "I'm going to leave, pretend I never saw this, and maybe drink enough tonight to forget it entirely."

As he turns to go, he pauses. "But for what it's worth? Your secret's safe with me."

The door closes behind him, and you collapse against Max, half laughing, half panicking.

"Well," Max says dryly, "that's one more person who knows. At this rate, the only person who won't know will be your father."

You looked up at him. "You should go. GP will be looking for you."

"Yeah," he sighed, but made no move to leave. "Good luck today. Show them what the Wolff women can do."

"Good luck to you too. Try not to make Dad throw anything at the TV?"

He laughed, kissing you quickly. "No promises. But hey," he paused at the door, "for what it's worth, George's reaction wasn't terrible. Maybe there's hope for the others too."

As you watched him leave, you couldn't help but smile. One more person in their corner, one more step toward not hiding. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was trying to tell you something.

Singapore, 2022

The humidity of Singapore still clung to the air as most of the paddock crowded into Marquee, celebrating another street circuit spectacle. The bass pulsed through the exclusive VIP section where drivers and key personnel gathered.

You were at the bar with Lewis when Andreas appeared, looking particularly polished.

"YN Wolff," he smiled, a bit too confidently. "I was hoping to find you here."

You caught Lewis' subtle eye roll as he conveniently spotted someone he "needed to talk to."

"Andreas, hi," you tried to sound polite but distant, very aware of Max watching from across the room where he sat with Lando and Charles.

"You looked beautiful today in the paddock," he moved closer. "That dress you wore to the team dinner…"

"Thanks," you cut him off, scanning for an escape route. You found none.

"Your father mentions you're still single," he continued, either oblivious to or ignoring your discomfort. "I find that hard to believe."

At the other end of the VIP section, Max's jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfold.

"Mate, you're going to break that glass," Lando noted, watching Max's white-knuckled grip on his drink.

"Who is that guy?" Charles asked, following Max's gaze.

"Some engineer Toto's trying to set YN up with," Lando explained, then froze, realizing what he'd revealed.

Charles' eyes widened. "Wait, why do you know that? And why does Max look like he's about to commit murder?"

Before Lando could deflect, Max stood abruptly as Andreas placed his hand on your lower back.

"Oh shit," Lando muttered.

"I don't understand," Charles said, watching Max stride across the room. "Why is he- oh. OH."

Back at the bar, you were trying to subtly remove Andreas hand when you felt a familiar presence behind you.

"Everything okay here?" Max's voice was controlled, but you could hear the edge in it.

Andreas looked annoyed at the interruption. "We're fine, thank you."

"I wasn't asking you," Max said coldly, then softer: "YN?"

You turned toward him gratefully. "Actually, Max, would you mind helping me with something?"

"Of course," he placed his hand where Andreas' had been, but this touch was different - protective, familiar, right.

Andreas looked between you two, confusion turning to understanding. "Wait, are you…"

"She's not interested," Max said simply. "Never was."

You let Max guide you away from the bar, very aware of the eyes following you. Lando and Charles weren't even trying to hide their interest now, and you noticed Carlos and Pierre joining them, speaking in hushed tones.

"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly.

"Yes, I did." Max's hand hadn't left your back. "I'm tired of watching guys hit on my girlfriend because they think she's available."

You reached the relative privacy of a corner booth. "Max…"

"I know, I know. We're being careful. But YN," he turned to face you, "half the paddock already suspects something. Charles and Carlos are literally taking bets right now."

You glanced over - sure enough, money was being exchanged. "Great."

"Would it be so terrible?" Max asked. "If people knew?"

"No," you admitted. "But Dad…"

"Will find out eventually. Wouldn't you rather he heard it from us than through paddock gossip?"

You were about to respond when George appeared, slightly out of breath.

"You two need to be more subtle," he hissed. "Lando just asked me if there was something going on between you."

"What did you say?" you asked anxiously.

"I'm a terrible liar! I just made a noise and ran away!"

Max couldn't help laughing. "Smooth, Russell."

"This isn't funny," George insisted. "Look!"

You followed his gesture. The other drivers were gathered together, all of them looking your way occasionally.

"Oh god," you groaned. "They all know, don't they?"

"If they didn't before, they do now," George confirmed. "Max's little knight-in-shining-armor act wasn't exactly subtle."

"He had his hands all over you," Max defended.

"His hand was on my back for two seconds!"

"Two seconds too long."

George looked between you, amused. "You two are ridiculous. Also, heads up - Lando is coming over."

Sure enough, Lando was making his way through the crowd. He slid into your booth without invitation, expression unreadable.

"So," he said calmly, "how long?"

You glanced at Max, who squeezed your hand under the table. "Since 2020."

"Through the championship battle?" When you nodded, Lando let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. That must have been…"

"Horrible," you finished. "But we managed."

Lando studied Max for a moment. "You better be sure about this. Because when Toto finds out…"

"I am," Max said firmly. "We both are."

"Good." Lando smiled finally. "Because I'm pretty sure Daniel just started a betting pool on how Toto's going to react, and I've got money on him throwing his headphones."

"Lando!" you exclaimed.

"What? Might as well profit from the drama." He stood up. "For what it's worth, I think it's kind of perfect. In a weird, Romeo and Juliet way."

"They both died in that story," George pointed out.

"Details," Lando waved him off. "Come on, George. Let's go see what odds Daniel's offering."

As they left, you buried your face in Max's shoulder. "This is a disaster."

"Is it?" he asked, running his hand up your arm. "Look around - no one seems shocked or angry. Well, except maybe Andreas."

You peaked up - he was right. The drivers were all still watching, but their expressions were mostly amused or knowing. Carlos gave you a thumbs up when he caught your eye.

"I guess the secret's out," you sighed. "At least in this room."

"Good." Max tilted your chin up. "Because I really want to kiss you right now."

"Max! Everyone's watching."

"Let them watch."

And before you could protest, he kissed you. When you pulled back, Max was grinning. "See? World didn't end."

"No," you said softly, "It really didn't."

The night continued, but differently now. No more hiding in corners or pretending not to know each other. Just you and Max, surrounded by friends who were apparently more supportive than you'd imagined.

Now you just had to figure out how to tell your father that his entire team - including his wife - had known about your relationship before him.

A late afternoon in Monaco, in Toto's office overlooking the harbor. What had started as a routine pre-race weekend meeting had quickly derailed when Andreas' name came up again.

"He asked about you again," Toto said, shuffling some papers on his desk. "He's a good man, YN. Smart, ambitious…"

"Dad," you cut in, "I've told you, I'm not interested in Andreas."

"You haven't even given him a chance," he insisted. "One dinner…"

"No."

Toto sighed, that familiar mix of frustration and concern crossing his face. "Liebling, I worry about you. Ever since that rebellious phase with Verstappen when you were eighteen…"

You tensed, feeling your heart rate spike. In the corner, you saw Lewis shift uncomfortably - he'd been quietly reviewing race strategies, but now he was fully alert.

"Dad…"

"You haven't been serious about anyone," Toto continued. "I know that boy hurt you, but you can't let one teenage romance…"

"You don't know anything about it," you said quietly, dangerously.

"I know enough. I know he was reckless, impulsive. I know ending it was the right decision."

Lewis cleared his throat. "Toto, maybe we should focus on qualifying…"

But Toto was on a roll now. "Andreas is different. He understands our world, he's stable…"

"He's boring," you snapped. "And you don't get to decide who I date."

"I'm trying to protect you!"

"From what?" You stood up. "From making my own choices? From being with someone who actually makes me happy?"

"Max Verstappen did not make you happy!" Toto's voice rose. "He was a distraction, a rebellion…"

"He was everything!" The words exploded out before you could stop them.

The office went deadly quiet. Lewis had his head in his hands.

"What?" Toto asked softly, dangerously.

You swallowed hard, years of secrets sitting heavy on your tongue. "You didn't protect me back then, Dad. You forced us apart. But you want to know something? He was never just a rebellion."

Toto stands slowly, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying, YN?"

You take a deep breath, catching Lewis' subtle head shake in your peripheral vision. The words are there, the whole truth ready to spill out, but... not like this. Not in anger.

"I'm saying I'm not eighteen anymore," you say finally, your voice steady. "I'm a grown woman who runs part of this team, who's helping build the F1 Academy with Susie. I make my own choices - about my career, about my life, about who I date."

"I only want what's best for you," Toto says, softer now.

"Then trust me to know what that is." You move toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "And please, stop trying to set me up with Andreas. Or anyone else."

Zandvoort, 2022

The Dutch air mingles with the lingering scent of champagne in Max's private motorhome. The celebrations outside are still going strong - Dutch fans painting Zandvoort orange in honor of their hero's home win - but here, in this quiet space, it's just the two of you.

"Happy birthday," Max says softly, pulling a small wrapped package from behind his back. You're curled up on his couch, still wearing his Red Bull team jacket that you'd snuck on after everyone else had left.

"You already said that this morning," you smile, but take the package. "And before the race. And after you won."

"Well, it's not every day you turn twenty-five. And it's not every day I win at home on your birthday."

The package reveals a delicate gold necklace with a tiny racing helmet charm. But when you look closer, you notice something engraved on the back of the helmet - 15.03.15.

"The day we met," you whisper, running your finger over the date.

"I thought about getting something more obvious, but since we're still keeping us quiet…" He takes the necklace, moving behind you to clasp it around your neck. "This way you can wear it without anyone asking questions."

You touch the charm resting against your collarbone. "It's perfect."

"Unlike the cake situation," he grins, glancing at the remains of what was supposed to be a homemade birthday cake on the counter. "I really did try."

You laugh, remembering walking in to find Max covered in flour, frustration etched on his face as he stared at the somewhat lopsided creation. "The thought counts. Though maybe stick to driving?"

"Hey, I won today! I deserve some respect."

"You always win here," you tease. "It's your home race."

"True." He pulls you closer, until you're practically in his lap. "But winning on your birthday makes it special. Even if I couldn't kiss you in parc ferme."

"Dad would have had a heart attack right there in the garage."

"Speaking of Toto…" Max's voice turns serious. "How was the birthday lunch with him?"

You think back to the awkward meal, where your father had once again tried to subtly mention Andreas. "Same as usual. He means well."

"Still pushing the Andreas agenda?"

"Mhmm. Though Susie shut it down pretty quickly this time." You play with the helmet charm. "Can we not talk about it tho?

Max kisses your temple. "Whatever you want. It's your birthday - you make the rules."

"In that case…" you turn to face him properly. "I want to dance."

He groans. "YN…"

"Birthday rules," you remind him, already standing and pulling out your phone. When the first notes of a slow song fill the motorhome, you hold out your hand. "Dance with your birthday girl, World Champion."

He takes your hand, pulling you close as you sway together. Outside, you can still hear the distant sounds of celebrating fans, but in here it's just the music, Max's heartbeat under your ear, and the weight of a tiny gold helmet against your skin.

"This is nice," Max murmurs into your hair. "Though if anyone sees the mighty Max Verstappen slow dancing…"

"Your reputation will survive." You lift your head to look at him. "Thank you for making my birthday special, even if we had to celebrate in secret."

"Next year," he promises, "we'll do it properly. Big party, everyone we love, no hiding."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He spins you gently. "But for now…" He dips you dramatically, making you laugh. "I kind of like having birthday girl all to myself."

You kiss him then, tasting chocolate and victory champagne and love that's grown from teenage rebellion into something unshakeable.

"Best birthday ever," you whisper against his lips.

Outside, Zandvoort celebrates its champion. Inside, in this quiet space that belongs just to you, you celebrate something else - another year of loving each other, of building a life in the spaces between public and private, of planning for a future where you won't have to choose between family and love.

For now, though, you're content to dance in a motorhome, wearing his team jacket and a gold helmet that carries your history, celebrating not just your birthday but everything you've built together.

Monaco, Summer 2023

The sleek car glides through Monaco's winding streets, but you can barely focus on the stunning views. Max's mysterious smile has you intrigued and slightly nervous - he's been unusually secretive all day.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" you ask for probably the tenth time, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sundress.

"Patience," he says, taking one hand off the wheel to squeeze yours. "We're almost there."

"You know I hate surprises."

He laughs. "No, you love surprises. You just hate not being in control."

He turns onto a quiet street lined with elegant villas, each one more beautiful than the last. The Mediterranean stretches out below, a perfect azure canvas. Your heart starts racing when he pulls into a driveway. The house is stunning - modern yet classic, with large windows and a terrace overlooking the sea.

"Max…" you start, but he's already out of the car and opening your door.

"Come on," he says, taking your hand. His excitement is palpable as he leads you to the front door. "Close your eyes."

"Really?"

"Trust me."

You do as he asks, letting him guide you forward. You hear keys jingling, a door opening, then his soft "Okay, open them."

The interior takes your breath away - open and airy, with natural light streaming in from every angle. But it's not just the architecture that catches your attention - there are small touches that feel incredibly personal. Racing memorabilia tastefully displayed, a few framed photos you recognize from your own collection.

"I bought it," Max says softly, watching your reaction. "For us."

You turn to face him, eyes wide. "What?"

"I want this to be our home," he continues, his voice full of emotion. He takes both your hands in his. "Where we can grow old together, maybe raise a family someday. No more sneaking around, no more hiding. Just us."

"But… when? How?"

"I've been working with a realtor for months. Remember all those 'simulator sessions' I had to do?" He grins sheepishly. "I was actually house hunting."

"You sneaky…" You trail off, speechless.

"Want to see the rest?" He's practically bouncing with excitement now. "There's a home gym downstairs, and the kitchen is amazing - I know how much you love to cook. And wait until you see the master bedroom…"

Tears start falling before you can stop them. Max reaches up to wipe them away, but you catch his hand.

"You bought us a house," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "You planned this whole future for us, and I can't even tell my dad about us."

"Hey," he pulls you close, one hand cradling the back of your head. "It's okay. We'll figure it out together, like we always do."

"No, it's not okay." You pull back to look at him. "You've been so patient, Max. For years. And I've been such a coward."

"You're not a coward," he says firmly. "Our relationship is complicated. I understand that."

"Still." You shake your head, suddenly determined. "I'm telling him tomorrow."

"YN, you don't have to—"

"I want to." You look around at this beautiful space he's created for your future. "You've given us a home. The least I can do is be brave enough to fight for us."

"Are you sure?" His eyes search yours. "Because if you're not ready…"

"I'm sure." You walk to the windows, taking in the view. "Besides, can you imagine trying to explain why I'm suddenly moving to a new house without telling him why?"

Max comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "We could tell him you've developed a sudden passion for real estate investment."

You laugh despite your tears. "Yes, because that would totally explain why half my clothes are already in that closet I spotted upstairs."

"You noticed that, huh?"

"The Dior dress from the FIA gala was a bit of a giveaway." You turn in his arms. "How long have you been moving my things in?"

"A while," he admits. "Susie helped."

"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly. "Any other conspirators I should know about?"

"Well, Lewis might have helped coordinate the furniture delivery…"

"Lewis?!" You pull back to stare at him. "Lewis Hamilton helped you furnish our secret love nest?"

Max winces. "Please never call it that again. And yes - turns out he has great taste in interior design."

You laugh, really laugh, and it feels like releasing years of tension. "This is insane. We're insane."

"Maybe," he agrees, pulling you close again. "But it's a good kind of insane, right?"

You look around at this beautiful house - your house - taking in all the thoughtful details. The photos telling your story, the mix of both your tastes in the décor, the way the space already feels like home.

"The best kind," you whisper, and kiss him.

Max kisses you back, soft and sweet, and you can feel his smile against your lips. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours.

"So," he says, "want to see our bedroom?"

"Our bedroom," you repeat, testing the words. "I like how that sounds."

"Me too." He takes your hand, leading you toward the stairs. "Though fair warning - I let Lando help with the media room setup, so that might need some adjustments."

"Oh god."

"Yeah, there may be more gaming consoles than strictly necessary…"

In this moment, in your new home, tomorrow's confrontation feels less daunting. After all, you've built something real and lasting here - something worth fighting for. And as Max leads you through your future together, room by room, you can't help but think that maybe it's time for everyone to know.

You've been standing outside your father's office at Mercedes for what feels like hours, but the watch on your wrist says it's only been ten minutes. Taking a deep breath, you finally knock.

"Come in," his familiar voice calls out.

Toto looks up from his desk, his face brightening when he sees you. "Schatz! What a lovely surprise." He stands to greet you, but pauses when he notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Papa, I need to tell you something." Your voice trembles slightly. "And I need you to listen. Really listen."

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, concern etching his features. "Of course. You can tell me anything."

You sit, hands clasped tightly in your lap. "I'm in love."

His face relaxes into a smile. "Is that all? Liebling, you had me worried. Who's the lucky—"

"It's Max." The words come out in a rush. "It's always been Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch as confusion crosses his face, followed by understanding, and then something darker.

"Max… Verstappen?" He says the name like it tastes bitter. "This is a joke."

"No, it's not." You straighten your spine. "We've been together for two years. Actually, we never really stopped loving each other after… after what happened when we were eighteen."

Toto stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "This is impossible. You can't be serious."

"I am. And there's more." You take another deep breath. "We're moving in together. He bough a house for us, because he wants us to build a future together."

"No." His voice is sharp. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"I'm not asking for permission, Papa. I'm telling you."

He turns to face you, and the hurt in his eyes makes your heart ache. "How long have you been lying to me?"

"Since 2020," you admit quietly. "When I came back… we tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn't."

"So what, you've been sneaking around behind my back all these years?" His accent grows thicker with emotion. "Meeting in secret like teenagers?"

"We didn't have a choice."

He's quiet after that, and you can almost see the storm inside his head.

"Who knows?" The question is sharp, hurt evident in his tone.

"I told Susie last year. Lewis has known almost from the beginning. George found out in Bahrain. Some of the other drivers..."

"So everyone but me?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My own wife, my drivers, half the paddock knew my daughter was in a relationship with Max Verstappen, and no one thought to tell me?"

"They were respecting our privacy. Our choice."

"Our choice?" He stands again, agitated. "He's Red Bull, YN! Our biggest rival! The same team that's been fighting us for years, the same driver who—"

"Who makes me happier than I've ever been," you interrupt. "Who loves me for who I am, not whose daughter I am. Who's supported my career, my dreams, everything I want to do."

"And the team rivalry? The competition?"

"We've managed it for years, Dad. We know how to separate personal and professional."

"All those times I tried to set you up with other people..."

"I know you meant well."

"And Susie?" His voice catches. "She knew and didn't tell me?"

"She said it wasn't her story to tell. That I needed to be the one to tell you when I was ready."

Toto runs a hand over his face. "And now you're ready because...?"

"Because I'm tired of hiding. Because Max and I have built something real and beautiful, and I want you to be part of it." You stand, moving around his desk to touch his arm. "Because you're my father, and despite everything, I want you to know me. All of me."

"And if I can't accept it?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. You feel tears threatening but force them back.

"Then that's your choice. But I won't give him up. Not again. Not for anyone."

Toto is quiet for a long moment, staring out at the factory below. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. "You really love him?"

"More than anything."

He turns to look at you, really look at you, maybe for the first time seeing not his little girl but the woman you've become. "And he makes you happy?"

"Yes." Your voice is firm, certain.

Another long pause. "I need time."

It's not acceptance, but it's not rejection either. You nod, wiping away a stray tear. "Okay."

"Does he…" Toto clears his throat. "Does he treat you well?"

"Better than I deserve sometimes."

He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No one could ever deserve better than you, Schatz."

You close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him. After a moment, his arms come around you too, holding you like he did when you were small.

"I'm still angry," he murmurs into your hair.

"I know."

"And hurt."

"I know that too."

He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands. "But you are my daughter. My precious girl. Nothing will ever change that."

Fresh tears spill over. "Papa…"

"I can't promise to like this. Or him. But…" He sighs deeply. "I will try. For you."

It's more than you dared hope for. "Thank you."

As you leave his office later, you know this isn't the end of it. There will be more conversations, more tensions to navigate. But for the first time in years, you feel truly free.

The Monaco sunset paints the dining room in warm hues as you clear the plates from dinner, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. Lewis lounges in his chair, gesturing with his glass as he speaks.

"Still can't believe Toto didn't notice for two years, honestly," he chuckles. "I mean, you two weren't exactly subtle at the Saudi GP last year."

Max groans. "That was YN's fault. She's the one who kissed me in the paddock."

"After you won! Away from everyone," you defend yourself from across the table. "Besides, Papa was too busy arguing with Christian to notice."

"Lucky for us," Max mutters, but he's smiling.

"How is he taking it now?" Lewis asks, his expression growing serious. "It's been what, two weeks?"

You exchange a look with Max. "Better, I think. He's… processing."

"He called me yesterday," Max adds quietly. "First time ever."

Both you and Lewis straighten up. "What? You didn't tell me that!" you exclaim.

Max shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you can see the tension in his shoulders. "It was brief. He just said that if I ever hurt you, they'll never find my body."

Lewis nearly chokes on his wine. "Classic Toto."

"I'll get the dessert," you announce, standing. "And Max, we're talking about that phone call later."

As you head to the kitchen, you can hear their voices carrying through the open-plan space.

"Seriously though," Lewis' voice drops lower, but not low enough. "You need to be prepared. Toto might try to…"

"Separate us again?" Max's voice is steel wrapped in silk. "I'd like to see him try."

"I'm just saying, be ready. He did it once before."

"We were kids then. It's different now." A pause. "I'm different now."

"I know you are, mate. That's why I helped with the house. But Toto… he can be protective."

"Lewis." Max's voice is deadly serious now. "I would rather end my career tomorrow than lose her again. She's… she's everything."

You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, tiramisu forgotten in your hands.

"I know what it did to her last time," Max continues, unaware of your presence. "What it did to both of us. But I'm not that scared teenager anymore, and she's not that girl who was afraid to stand up to her father. We fought too hard to get here."

"Good." Lewis' voice is warm with approval. "Because if you hurt her, Toto won't have to hide your body. I'll do it myself."

Max laughs. "Get in line. Susie already called dibs."

"Speaking of Susie, how's she handling being in the middle?"

"Better than any of us deserve," Max sighs. "She's been amazing. Especially with YN. When Toto first found out…"

"That bad?"

"YN cried for hours after telling him. I've never felt so helpless." Max's voice cracks slightly. "All I could do was hold her."

"Sometimes that's enough," Lewis says softly. "Sometimes that's everything."

You wipe away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. The tiramisu trembles slightly in your hands.

"I'm going to marry her someday," Max says suddenly. "I already have the ring."

The tiramisu nearly slips from your grasp.

"Does she know?" Lewis asks.

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until things settled with Toto. She deserves a proper proposal, not one overshadowed by family drama."

"Smart man." Lewis pauses. "You really have grown up, haven't you?"

"Had to. She deserves the best version of me."

You can't take it anymore. You walk back in, pretending you haven't heard a word. "Who wants dessert?"

Both men straighten up, but you catch the knowing look Lewis gives Max. As you serve the tiramisu, Max's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

"Everything okay, liefje?" he asks softly.

You look at him - this man who's grown and changed and loved you through everything - and feel your heart swell. "Perfect," you whisper, and mean it.

Lewis watches you both with a soft smile. "You know," he says, "I think Toto will come around eventually. He may be stubborn, but he's not blind. Anyone can see what you two have is real."

"Real enough to redecorate my gaming room?" Max asks hopefully.

You laugh, the emotional moment breaking. "Nice try. But Lando's RGB setup stays."

"It gives me a headache!"

"Should have thought of that before letting him design it," Lewis points out.

As they fall into friendly bickering about proper gaming room aesthetics, you sit back and take it all in - this beautiful home, these people you love, this life you've built. It hasn't been easy, but everything has been worth it.

Your phone rings just as you're finishing up some work in your home office. Seeing your father's name on the screen makes your heart skip.

"Papa?"

"Schatz." His voice is carefully neutral. "Are you free tonight?"

"I… yes?"

"Good. You and Max will come to dinner. Eight o'clock."

It's not a question. You glance at the clock - it's already 4 PM. "Tonight?"

"Unless you have other plans?"

"No, no plans." You swallow hard. "We'll be there."

"Good." A pause. "And YN?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Max to breathe. It's just dinner."

The line goes dead before you can respond. You sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, before rushing downstairs to find Max.

He's in the gym, finishing up his workout. One look at your face and he's pulling off his headphones.

"What's wrong?"

"Papa called. He wants us for dinner. Tonight."

Max freezes mid-stretch. "Tonight? As in… tonight tonight?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Fuck." He starts pacing. "Fuck fuck fuck. This is it. He's going to murder me. He's probably got a plan to make it look like an accident. Lewis will help him hide the body—"

"Max."

"—probably already has an alibi arranged. Susie will vouch for him, of course—"

"Max!"

He stops pacing. "What?"

"He actually said to tell you to breathe. His exact words were 'it's just dinner.'"

Max stares at you. "That's worse. That's so much worse. He's lulling me into a false sense of security."

You can't help but laugh, even as anxiety churns in your own stomach. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "The last time I was in the same room as your father, he looked at me like he was calculating how many pieces he could cut me into."

"That was three weeks ago, right after he found out. Things are… better now."

"Are they? Because that phone call he made last week about hiding my body didn't feel like 'better.'"

You cross the room to him, placing your hands on his chest. "Hey. Look at me."

His eyes meet yours, and you can see the genuine worry there.

"Whatever happens tonight, we face it together. Okay?"

He takes a deep breath, covering your hands with his. "Okay."

"Good. Now go shower, because you stink."

"Charming," he mutters, but he's smiling now. "What should I wear?"

"Something bulletproof?" you suggest innocently.

"Not helping!"

The drive to your parents' house is tense. Susie opens the door, her warm smile immediately putting you both at ease. "Come in, come in. Toto's just opening the wine."

"We brought some too," you say, holding up the bottle you'd carefully selected.

"Ah, his favorite." Susie winks. "Good choice."

The dining room is set beautifully, candles flickering on the table. Your father stands as you enter, and for a moment, everyone freezes.

Then Toto steps forward, kissing your cheek. "You look beautiful, Schatz."

He turns to Max, who looks like he's trying very hard not to bolt. They regard each other for a long moment before Toto extends his hand.

Max shakes it, and you breathe again.

Dinner starts surprisingly well. The conversation stays safe - racing, weather, Susie's latest projects. Max gradually relaxes enough to actually eat, though you notice he keeps looking at your father like he's expecting an ambush.

It comes after the plates are cleared.

"So," Toto says, setting down his wine glass. "We need to talk."

Max's hand finds yours under the table.

"Max." Your father's voice is measured. "I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say."

"Yes, sir."

"When YN was born, I made a promise to protect her from anything that could hurt her. When she was eighteen, I thought I was doing that by keeping her away from you."

You feel Max tense beside you.

"I was wrong."

The admission hangs in the air. Even Susie looks surprised.

"You were angry then. Volatile. Too much like your father." Toto continues. "But you've grown. Changed. I see that now."

He leans forward, eyes intense. "But understand this: that girl sitting next to you? She is my world. My greatest joy, my greatest pride. And if you ever - ever - give me reason to think you don't deserve her…"

"I don't," Max interrupts quietly. "Deserve her, I mean. I know that. I try every day to be worthy of her love, and I'll keep trying for the rest of my life."

Something shifts in Toto's expression.

"And you," he turns to you. "My strong, stubborn daughter. You've grown too. Standing up to me… it showed me you're not my little girl anymore. You're a woman who knows her own mind, her own heart."

Tears prick at your eyes. "Papa…"

"I trust your judgment," he says softly. "Even when it differs from mine."

Susie reaches over to squeeze his hand, pride shining in her eyes.

"Now," Toto straightens, his expression growing serious again. "We need to discuss the media situation. Your relationship will be public knowledge soon, if it isn't already."

"We've been careful," you start, but he holds up a hand.

"Careful isn't enough. The press will be relentless. They'll try to create drama, stir up controversy. Everything you do, every interaction, will be scrutinized."

"We know," Max says. "We've talked about it."

"Good. But you need to be prepared. They'll drag up the past, try to create tension between the teams. Your relationship will become clickbait."

"We can handle it," you say firmly.

"Perhaps. But you'll need support." Toto looks between you both. "Which is why… which is why I'm offering mine."

Max's grip on your hand tightens.

"When the story breaks, there will be questions. Speculation. I will make it clear that you have my blessing." The words seem to cost him something, but his voice is steady. "It won't stop the circus, but it might help control the narrative."

You're crying openly now. Max looks shellshocked.

"Thank you," he manages finally. "That… that means everything."

Toto nods once, then reaches for his wine. "Now, who wants dessert? Susie made Sachertorte."

As Susie bustles off to the kitchen, you catch your father's eye. The love there, the acceptance, makes your heart full.

Max leans over to whisper in your ear. "I think I just aged ten years."

You squeeze his hand. "Worth it?"

He looks at you, then at your father who's pretending not to watch you both, then back to you.

"Every second," he says, and kisses your temple.

And just like that, your worlds align.

Saint-Tropez, 2024

The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of your villa, casting warm patterns across the rumpled sheets. Max's fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder as you lie there, both reluctant to acknowledge that real life awaits.

"Do we have to go back?" you mumble into his chest.

"Mmm, eventually." He drops a kiss on your head. "Though I could get used to this."

"What, me using you as a human pillow?"

"You do that at home too, liefje."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the way his hair is sticking up wildly. "True, but here you're not constantly checking the time for sim racing with Lando."

"That was one time!"

"It was three times last week alone."

He tugs you back down, rolling so you're trapped beneath him. "You're just jealous because I'm better at it than you."

"Excuse me?" You poke his ribs. "Who won last time?"

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"You distracted me!"

"Not my fault you can't focus when I kiss your neck."

His eyes darken. "Want to test that theory?"

"We'll be late for our flight," you warn, but you're already tilting your head as his lips find that spot behind your ear.

"Worth it," he murmurs against your skin.

Later, tangled in sheets again, you check your phone while Max dozes beside you. A frown crosses your face.

"That's weird."

"Hmm?" Max doesn't open his eyes.

"Lewis still hasn't answered my texts from yesterday. Or the day before."

You feel him tense slightly. "Maybe he's busy."

"During holidays? And he always answers eventually." You sit up, noticing how Max suddenly seems very interested in the ceiling. "Max…"

"What?"

"You know something."

"I don't."

"You're doing that thing with your jaw."

His hand flies to his face. "What thing?"

"That clenching thing you do when you're hiding something." You narrow your eyes. "Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill." He sits up too quickly. "We should start packing."

"Max Emilian Verstappen."

"YN Wolff," he mimics, but there's an edge of nervousness to his teasing.

"Is Lewis okay?"

"He's fine! Totally fine. Completely fine. Never been better."

You stare at him. "You are the worst liar ever."

"I'm not—" He cuts himself off with a groan. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look, it's nothing bad. Just… something that's not public yet."

Your stomach drops. "Is he sick?"

"What? No! No, nothing like that." He catches your hands. "I promise, he's okay. It's just… complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"The kind of complicated I really can't tell you about yet." His eyes are pleading. "Please don't ask me to. I promised."

You study his face, seeing the genuine conflict there. "But he's okay?"

"Yes."

"And it's not bad news?"

He hesitates. "That… depends on how you look at it."

"Max!"

"I've already said too much." He kisses your forehead. "You'll know soon enough."

You flop back onto the pillows with a huff. "I hate secrets."

"Says the woman who kept our relationship secret for two years."

"That was different!"

"Sure it was." He stretches out beside you, pulling you close. "Can we go back to the part where we were enjoying our last morning in paradise?"

You want to protest, to push for more information, but his hand is sliding up your thigh and his lips are at your neck again and suddenly Lewis' mysterious silence seems less important.

"Fine," you concede, already breathless. "But this isn't over."

"Never is with you," he murmurs fondly. "It's why I love you."

"Because I'm stubborn?"

"Because you never give up on the people you care about."

Something in his voice makes you pause. "Max…"

"Let me love you," he whispers. "Just for now, let that be enough."

The world and its complications can wait. For now, there's just this - the sun on your skin, Max's heartbeat under your palm, and the knowledge that whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

Even if he is terrible at keeping secrets.

The gentle hum of your computer fills your office at Mercedes HQ as you review the latest F1 Academy reports. A notification pops up on your phone - Instagram, probably another post from Max complaining about his training session.

Your coffee cup freezes halfway to your mouth.

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton to join Ferrari in 2025

The cup clatters onto your desk, coffee spilling across papers you can't bring yourself to care about. Your hands shake as you scroll through post after post confirming it.

Lewis is leaving.

Lewis is going to Ferrari.

Lewis didn't tell you.

Max knew and didn't tell you.

Your father…

You're on your feet before you realize it, striding through the corridors. People step out of your way, perhaps recognizing the storm in your expression. You barely register Susie calling your name as you pass her office.

The door to your father's office bangs open. He looks up, unsurprised.

"What is going on?" Your voice trembles.

"YN—"

"No." You hold up your phone, the Ferrari announcement glaring at you. "What is this?"

Toto sighs, removing his glasses. "Come in and close the door."

"You knew." It's not a question. "You all knew. That's why Lewis wasn't answering my messages. That's why Max was acting strange in Saint-Tropez."

"We couldn't tell you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" The words come out sharp, hurt. "I'm not just your daughter anymore, Papa. I'm co-director of F1 Academy. I work here. This affects me professionally as well as personally."

"Which is exactly why we couldn't tell you." He stands, coming around his desk. "The announcement had to be handled carefully. Any leak could have—"

"Leak?" You step back when he reaches for you. "Is that what I am to you? A potential leak?"

"Schatz, no—"

"Lewis is family!" Your voice cracks. "He's been here my entire life. He watched me grow up. He helped Max and me when…" You swallow hard. "I had to find out from Instagram. Instagram, Papa!"

"I know."

"Did everyone know except me? Was there some big meeting where you all decided poor YN can't be trusted?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Tears spill over. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like nobody trusted me enough to tell me that one of the most important people in my life is leaving."

Toto moves forward again, and this time you let him pull you into a hug. "Lewis wanted to tell you himself," he says softly. "He was going to come see you today, after the announcement. He didn't want you to have to carry the secret."

"I could have handled it."

"I know you could have." His hand smooths over your hair like when you were small. "But he didn't want to put you in that position. Neither did Max."

You stiffen. "Max knew for how long?"

"YN…"

"How long?"

"Since before New Year's."

The betrayal hits fresh. "That's why he was so weird about Lewis not texting back. He let me worry instead of just telling me."

"He was protecting you."

"I don't need protection!" You pull away. "I need honesty. I need the people I love to trust me. I need—" Your voice breaks. "I need to not feel like an outsider in my own family."

"Oh, Schatz." Toto's face crumples. "You have never been an outsider. Lewis insisted on keeping it quiet precisely because he cares so much. He knew how hard it would be for you."

"It's harder finding out like this."

A soft knock interrupts. You turn to see Lewis in the doorway, still in his Mercedes gear - for one of the last times, you realize with a pang.

"Little Wolff," he starts, but you hold up a hand.

"Don't." You brush past him, ignoring his attempt to catch your arm. "I have work to do."

"Please—"

"Congratulations on Ferrari," you say stiffly, not looking back. "I'm sure you'll do great things there."

You make it back to your office before the tears really start. Your phone buzzes - Max calling. Then Lewis. Then Susie.

You silence it, staring out your window at the Mercedes logo shining in the winter sun. It looks different now, knowing Lewis won't be racing under it anymore soon.

Everything looks different.

Your phone lights up again - a text from Max.

"I'm sorry. I hated keeping this from you. I love you"

You turn the phone face down.

Later. You'll deal with all of it later.

By the time you make it home that evening, your eyes are red and puffy from crying. Max is already there - of course he is - waiting in the kitchen with that worried look you've come to know so well.

"Baby…" he starts, but you brush past him, dropping your bag on the counter with trembling hands.

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Just… don't."

But Max has never been good at leaving you alone when you're hurting. His arms wrap around you from behind, and despite your anger, you find yourself leaning back into his warmth.

"I wanted to tell you," he whispers against your hair. "Every day, I wanted to tell you."

The dam breaks. You turn in his arms, burying your face in his chest as sobs wrack your body. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs soothing circles on your back.

"He's leaving," you choke out. "Lewis is actually leaving. How can he leave? He's… he's my brother, Max. He's been there my whole life. The garage won't be the same without him. The team won't be the same."

"I know, baby. I know."

"He didn't tell me. None of you told me." You pull back enough to look up at him, tears still streaming. "You all just decided I couldn't handle it."

Max wipes your tears with his thumbs, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Lewis wanted to protect you. We all did. You've been working so hard with F1 Academy, with the team… he didn't want you carrying this weight."

"But I could have handled it! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting anymore."

"No," Max agrees softly, "you're the strongest person I know. But Lewis loves you like a sister. He wanted to tell you himself, properly. Not through some leaked rumor or whispered secret."

You collapse against him again, letting out a shuddering breath. "I can't imagine Mercedes without him. Every memory I have there, he's part of it. Even when we were hiding us, he was there, watching out for us, covering for us…"

Max leads you to the couch, pulling you into his lap. You curl into him, feeling drained.

"Talk to him," he murmurs. "Not today, not tomorrow if you're not ready. But don't let this distance grow. You'll regret it."

"When did you get so wise?" you ask weakly.

"Around the same time I realized that sometimes loving someone means letting them be angry at you for trying to protect them." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Even if you'd do it again."

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in Max's arms as the sun sets outside. Your phone buzzes occasionally - more messages from Lewis, probably - but you ignore it. Tomorrow you'll deal with it all. Tomorrow you'll be strong again.

But tonight, you let yourself be held and comforted, mourning the end of an era while knowing, deep down, that family is family - even when they're wearing red instead of silver.

Bahrain, 2024

The Bahrain paddock buzzes with its usual first-race energy, but everything feels off-kilter. You've been masterfully avoiding proper conversations with Lewis all weekend, keeping interactions professional and brief. The pit wall feels different already, knowing it's his last season here.

You're reviewing data sheets in the garage when his shadow falls across your tablet.

"Little Wolff," Lewis says softly, using the nickname that usually makes you smile but now just makes your chest ache. "Can we talk?"

"I'm quite busy," you reply, not looking up. "Qualifying strategy needs finalizing."

"YN." His voice is gentle but firm. "Please."

You finally meet his eyes, seeing the concern there, the sadness. He looks older somehow, or maybe that's just your perception shifting with everything else.

"What's left to say?" You keep your voice low, mindful of the mechanics nearby. "You made your decision. You kept it from me. We move forward."

"That's not fair and you know it." Lewis steps closer. "I've tried calling, texting…"

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me." He sighs. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Well, you did." The words come out sharper than intended. "Did you think finding out from social media wouldn't hurt? That watching Max and Papa dance around it for weeks wouldn't hurt?"

"I wanted to protect you—"

"Stop saying that!" You catch yourself, lowering your voice again. "Everyone keeps saying they were protecting me. I'm not a child anymore, Lewis. I run part of this team. I handle confidential information every day. I've kept secrets bigger than this."

Understanding crosses his face. "Like Max."

"Yes, like Max." You swallow hard. "You trusted me then. You helped us. Why couldn't you trust me with this?"

"Because this wasn't just my secret to keep." Lewis runs a hand over his face. "There were contracts, negotiations, timing issues. And yes, I wanted to tell you myself, properly. Not have you carry it around for weeks knowing you couldn't talk to anyone about it."

"So instead you let me worry when you weren't responding to messages? Let me think something was wrong? Let Max lie to me?"

"I asked him not to tell you." Lewis reaches for your hand but you pull back. "He wanted to. He hated keeping it from you."

"But he did anyway."

"Because he understands sometimes protecting the people we love means letting them be angry with us." Lewis's voice softens. "You're my family, YN. You're the little sister I never had. Leaving Mercedes… leaving you… it's one of the hardest decisions I've ever made."

You blink back tears, refusing to cry in the garage. "Then why are you?"

"Because sometimes we need to chase new dreams, even when it means leaving safe harbors." He smiles sadly. "You taught me that, actually. When you chose Max despite everything, despite what it could cost you. You taught me that sometimes the scariest choices are the right ones."

"That's different."

"Is it?" Lewis raises an eyebrow. "You took a risk for love. For growth. For what you believed was right for you, even knowing it would hurt people you care about."

You look away, his words hitting too close to home.

"I'm not asking you not to be hurt," he continues. "I'm just asking you not to let that hurt break us. I'm still your Lewis. That doesn't change just because I'm wearing red."

"It feels like everything's changing," you whisper.

"Some things never will." He opens his arms. "Come here, Little Wolff."

This time you don't resist, letting him pull you into a hug. The familiar smell of his cologne brings fresh tears to your eyes.

"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his chest.

"I know."

"And you better not beat us too badly in that Ferrari."

You feel his laugh rumble. "I'll do my best."

"Lewis?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to miss you so much."

His arms tighten. "I'm not gone yet. We've got a whole season ahead of us. And after… I'm still your big brother. That doesn't change with the color of my race suit."

Over his shoulder, you catch Max watching from the Red Bull garage, a soft smile on his face. He gives you a small nod before turning back to his engineers.

Some things change. Some things stay the same. And sometimes, you realize, holding onto anger hurts more than letting it go.

Miami, 2024

The sun beats down mercilessly as you pace your hotel room, phone clutched in your hand. The notifications won't stop - Instagram, Twitter, all exploding with the same photos. You and Max on his boat in Monaco last weekend, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, both of you clearly lost in each other.

You'd been so careful for so long. One moment of letting your guard down, and now…

The door opens and Max rushes in, still in his Red Bull gear from practice. "Baby?" His voice is soft with concern.

"Have you seen them?" You hold up your phone, hands trembling. "They're everywhere. Everyone knows. Papa is going to have to address it in the press conference and—"

Max crosses the room in three long strides, taking your face in his hands - just like in the photos, you realize with a jolt. "Breathe," he murmurs. "Just breathe with me."

"But—"

"Breathe first." His thumbs stroke your cheeks. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me."

You follow his lead, matching your breathing to his until the panic starts to recede. Only then does he lead you to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping one arm around you.

"Now," he says, "tell me what you're really afraid of."

"Everything!" You gesture wildly with your free hand. "The media circus, the speculation, the questions about favoritism in the sport, Papa having to defend us publicly, the board's reaction…"

"YN." Max turns you to face him fully. "We knew this would happen eventually. We talked about it."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." His blue eyes are intense, earnest. "We're not doing anything wrong. We're two adults who love each other. Yes, there will be talk. Yes, there will be questions. But we can handle it." His lips quirk. "We've handled worse."

You lean into him, letting his steady presence ground you. "Papa's press conference is in twenty minutes."

"And he'll handle it like he handles everything - with that terrifying Wolff composure." Max's hand runs soothingly up and down your back. "He loves you, baby. He's not going to let anyone suggest anything improper about us."

"I should be there," you whisper. "I should face it with him."

"No." Max's voice is firm. "Let him handle this part. That's what fathers do - they protect their children, even when their children are grown up and running F1 programs."

Your phone buzzes again - another news alert. Max gently takes it from your hand and sets it aside.

"Remember what you told me?" he asks softly. "That night in Monaco when I was worried about how people would react to us being together again?"

You smile slightly. "I told you that what other people think doesn't matter."

"Exactly." He presses his forehead to yours. "You said that we've earned the right to be happy, that we're not teenagers anymore trying to sneak around. You said we're stronger together than apart."

"Using my own words against me?"

"Always." He kisses you softly. "Because you were right then, and you're still right now. Let them talk. Let them speculate. We know the truth."

Your phone lights up with a livestream notification - the press conference is starting. Max reaches for the remote, turning on the hotel room's TV where it's already being broadcast.

"We can turn it off," he offers, but you shake your head.

"No. I need to see."

You curl into Max's side as the questions start. Your father sits there, calm and collected as ever, fielding questions about strategy and performance. Then:

"Toto, there are photos circulating of your daughter YN with Max Verstappen. Given the rivalry between Mercedes and Red Bull, and Max's history with both Mercedes and your family, do you have any comment?"

The room goes silent. You hold your breath, feeling Max tense beside you.

Your father adjusts his glasses, that familiar gesture that usually precedes something important. "Yes, I do have a comment." His voice is measured but firm. "My daughter is a highly respected professional in this sport, running our F1 Academy program and working tirelessly to create opportunities for young women in motorsport. Her personal life is her own, and she has my full support in all her choices."

"But given the competitive nature of F1—"

"Let me be very clear," Toto interrupts, and you recognize that steel in his voice. "YN has proven herself time and time again. She has earned her position through hard work and dedication. Max Verstappen is one of the most talented drivers of his generation. They are both adults who conduct themselves with integrity and professionalism. Any suggestion otherwise is not only disrespectful but reveals more about the person asking than about them."

Tears blur your vision. Max's arm tightens around you.

"See?" he whispers. "Terrifying Wolff composure."

On screen, your father continues: "My daughter and Max have my blessing and my respect. They have shown wisdom and maturity in handling their relationship alongside their professional responsibilities. Now, unless there are questions about this weekend's race…"

You bury your face in Max's chest, overwhelmed. His hands stroke your hair as he murmurs soft Dutch endearments.

"He defended us," you say wonderingly. "He really defended us."

"Of course he did." Max kisses the top of your head. "He's your father. And…" he hesitates, "I think maybe he's starting to like, a little bit."

You look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "You know he likes you."

"Yeah." Max smiles softly. "He called me yesterday, you know. Said if any reporters gave me trouble about the photos, to refer them to him. Said he'd handle it."

Fresh tears spill over. "He did?"

"Mmhmm." Max wipes your tears with his thumb."Does this mean I can finally kiss you in the paddock?"

You laugh through your tears. "Maybe let's ease them into it?"

"Fine." He sighs dramatically. "But I'm holding your hand in public. No negotiation on that."

"Deal." You curl back into him, feeling the panic from earlier dissolve into something warmer, more certain. "Thank you for being here. For being you."

"Always, baby." Max kisses you again, soft and sweet. "Now, what do you say we give them something else to talk about and go absolutely dominate this race weekend?"

You smile against his lips. "Now that sounds like a plan."

Las Vegas, 2024

The neon lights blur through your tears as you watch the podium ceremony. George and Lewis stand there together, silver suits gleaming under the artificial lights, Mercedes' last 1-2 with this particular lineup.

Your heart feels like it might burst - pride, joy, and melancholy all tangled together. Max clinched his fourth title today, and you couldn't be prouder.

"Look at them," Susie whispers, squeezing your hand. "Our boys."

You can barely speak around the lump in your throat. George looks radiant, his second win of the season perhaps the sweetest. And Lewis… Lewis is beaming with genuine joy for his teammate, even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears. His last podium in Vegas as a Mercedes driver.

Your father stands tall beside you, his usual stoic expression softened by emotion. As the champagne starts flowing, you catch sight of Max making his way toward the Red Bull garage, where you know the championship celebrations are about to begin.

"Go," your father says suddenly.

You turn to him, surprised. "What?"

"Go celebrate with Max." His voice is gentle. "It's his fourth championship. You should be there."

"But…" you glance at the podium, at your Mercedes family celebrating.

"We've shared every celebration with you," Susie says softly. "Let him have this one."

"Are you sure?" You look at your father. "Papa?"

Toto's eyes are warm as he cups your face in his hands. "For three years, you couldn't celebrate with him. Couldn't share his victories. Couldn't be by his side when he achieved his dreams." He kisses your forehead. "Go make up for lost time, Schatz."

"But Lewis and George…"

"Will understand." Toto smiles. "Besides, I think Lewis would be disappointed if you didn't go congratulate your boyfriend on his championship."

As if on cue, Lewis catches your eye from the podium and nods toward the Red Bull garage, mouthing "Go!"

Tears spill over as you hug your parents. "I love you both so much."

"We know," Susie strokes your hair. "Now go. Make your man's celebration complete."

You run through the paddock, your heart pounding. The Red Bull garage is already in full celebration mode when you arrive. Christian sees you first, and instead of any awkwardness, he just smiles and points toward the back room.

You find Max there, surrounded by his team but somehow looking like he's waiting for something - or someone. When he sees you, his entire face lights up.

"Baby," he breathes, and then you're in his arms, his race suit damp with champagne, his heart beating fast against yours.

"Congratulations, four-time world champion," you whisper against his neck.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. "You came."

"Of course I came." You touch his face, memorizing this moment. "Papa and Susie practically pushed me out the door."

Max's eyes widen slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You smile through your tears. "Papa said we had three years of celebrations to make up for."

Something vulnerable crosses Max's face. "I used to dream about this," he admits quietly, despite the noise around you. "Every championship, every win… I'd imagine you here, celebrating with me. But I never thought…"

"That my father would be the one sending me to you?"

"Yeah." Max laughs softly. "Things really have changed, haven't they?"

"For the better." You kiss him softly, not caring who sees. "I'm so proud of you, Max. So incredibly proud."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Stay? Celebrate with us?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

"Good." His smile turns mischievous. "Because I have three years of championship celebrations to make up for, and I plan to make this one count."

From somewhere behind you, you hear Jos' voice: "Max! The championship photo!"

"Coming!" Max calls back, then looks at you. "Join us?"

You blink. "In the Red Bull championship photo?"

"Why not?" His eyes are bright with joy and love. "You're part of this story too. Always have been."

The photographer arranges everyone, and Max pulls you close to his side. Here, under the neon lights of Vegas, surrounded by celebrations both here and in the garage next door, you feel the weight of the moment. The past - three years of separation, of watching from afar. The present - standing proudly by his side as he achieves another dream. And the future - stretching out before you both, full of possibilities.

"Ready?" Max whispers in your ear.

You look up at him, this man who never stopped loving you even when the world tried to keep you apart, and smile. "Ready."

The camera flashes, capturing the moment forever - the four-time world champion and the girl who crossed rival lines to love him, surrounded by celebration and joy, making up for all the moments they missed and creating new ones all their own.

In the distance, you hear the Mercedes celebration continuing, George and Lewis' laughter carrying through the night. Two families, two celebrations, and you finally allowed to be part of both.

Melbourne, 2025

"YN, we need to check something at the track," Max says casually as you're getting ready for bed.

"At this hour? It's past midnight."

"Trust me?" He gives you that same boyish grin that still makes your heart skip, even after a decade.

You're both jet-lagged anyway, so you agree. But instead of heading to Albert Park, Max drives to a familiar hotel. Your breath catches when you realize where you are.

"Max…"

"Come on," he takes your hand, leading you through the quiet lobby to the coffee shop where it all began. The lights are dimmed, but it's clearly open - though completely empty.

"How did you…?"

"Being a four-time world champion has some perks," he grins. "Plus, the owner remembered us. Said she never forgot the night the youngest F1 driver and Toto Wolff's daughter had their secret meeting here."

The same table is there, the one where you shared your hot chocolate ten years ago. There's even a steaming mug waiting.

"You were so smug," Max laughs, pulling out your chair. "Letting me ramble about being a driver when you knew exactly who I was."

"You were cute when you were flustered," you tease. "Especially when I dropped my last name."

"I couldn't believe it. Here I was, trying to impress this beautiful girl, and she turned out to be my biggest rival's daughter."

You take a sip from the mug - hot chocolate, just like that night. "Papa wouldn't stop talking about you."

"And now he's my biggest defender," Max shakes his head in wonder. "Remember how scared we were to tell him about us?"

"Worth it though," you squeeze his hand. "Every secret meeting, every careful distance in the paddock, every time we had to pretend we were just friendly acquaintances."

Max's eyes go soft. "You know what I remember most about that first night? You were the first person who didn't treat me like I was either Jos's son or some record-breaking novelty. You just… saw me."

"I still do," you whisper.

He stands suddenly, pulling you up with him. "That night, I was terrified about my first race. Everyone had opinions about whether I deserved to be here. But then there was this girl, sharing her hot chocolate and making me feel like maybe I could actually do this."

"Max…"

He drops to one knee, and your heart stops. "Ten years ago, in this exact spot, I met the love of my life. I didn't know it then, but that girl who kept her name secret until the last possible moment would become my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home."

Through your tears, you see him pull out a ring. "You've been there through everything, YN. Every victory, every defeat. When the pressure got too much, when the critics were too loud - you were my safe place. Just like you were that first night."

"Remember what you told me then? That your intuition said I'd do great?" He laughs softly. "You believed in me before anyone else did. And I want to spend the rest of my life believing in you, supporting you, loving you."

"YN Wolff," his voice cracks slightly. "Will you marry me? Will you keep being my safe place, my biggest supporter, my best friend? Will you let me spend forever trying to make you as happy as you've made me?"

Through your tears, you see the same boy from that late-night coffee shop - still determined, still passionate, still looking at you like you're his whole world. But now he's also the man who's grown with you, fought for you, loved you through everything.

"Yes," you manage, pulling him up to kiss him. "Yes to everything."

As he slides the ring onto your finger, Max pulls you close, and you can smell the same coffee shop scent that surrounded you ten years ago. "Thank you for sharing your hot chocolate that night," he murmurs against your hair.

"Thank you for making me believe in intuition," you reply, feeling the weight of the ring - a promise of all the years to come.

Outside, Melbourne sleeps, just like it did that first night. But now, instead of two strangers sharing a drink and their fears, there's you and Max, sharing a future.

And it feels like coming home.

tags: @mimiteller712 @lydia-demarek, @rory-cakes, @swaggymadi, @chriskevinevans @p7-otterton, @cherrystars81, @whokilledmarlene @lilymaleshka @kodeelynn @formoola1fan @pausmoon @lalala28 @baby-alien11 @allthings-fandoms @downsideup1989 @urbaebarnes @ivegotparticulartaste @liethatyouloveme @codymthepenguin @finn-dot-com @rayaskoalaland @angelluv16 @pourmercymercy0nme @tweetledeedumb @osclerc @scientifichufflepuff @cometpiastri @hobiismyhopeu @monsterdesandia @amyelevenn @damonsalvatorelikessex @rmvb @virtualperfectioncat @emma-chiara @chelle1306 @idontknow0704 @lilypat @elieanana @nothaqks @1800-love-me

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gyuuberryy · 2 months ago

Text

professional-ish!

pairing: boss!jake x reader

synopsis: you’re just trying to survive your 9-to-5 without spontaneously combusting, but your painfully attractive boss seems to think you’re flirting. every awkward smile, accidental wink, and misfired message only makes it worse. now he’s looking at you like you’ve got some secret agenda. the truth? you just short-circuit around hot people. it’s not seduction—it’s social malfunction.

genre: workplace romance, crack, accidental flirting(?), some suggestive content

warnings: making out, some touching, jealous!jake, swearing, the writer has slapped all the office lingo known to her

note: sorry for the late post!! this is the last installment for the 2k event yayy! i feel like the ending is kinda rushed, i rewrote the last half so many times i kinda hate this. also i realised this is lowkey similar to the tutor!jungwon fic after writing haha. anyway i hope you enjoy reading!

word count: 4.4k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

2k event | previous

three days. that’s all it had been.

three days of nervously memorising names, of smiling too wide at people whose roles you hadn’t quite figured out yet, of laughing a little too loudly at jokes you only half understood. but you were getting there. you’d even found a few coworkers who didn’t seem to mind your presence—who invited you to lunch, who nodded at you in the hallway like you belonged. it was progress.

and then today happened.

you’d walked into the office that morning feeling oddly optimistic. the sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the coffee in your hand was still warm, and you’d actually managed to pick an outfit that didn’t make you look like you’d dressed in the dark. for once, you didn’t feel like an imposter.

that should’ve been your first warning.

your hr manager, ms. cho, had intercepted you before you could even reach your desk. “good, you’re here early,” she’d said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “let’s go introduce you to your boss now—he’s been out of town, but he’s back today, and he wants to meet you.”

your stomach had twisted. you’d known, logically, that you’d have to meet him eventually. but you’d hoped for at least another week to settle in, to maybe practise not sounding like a complete disaster in front of someone whose opinion could dictate your future here.

ms. cho led you down a hallway that felt too long, your heels clicking against the polished floors in a rhythm that matched your racing heartbeat. the air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and expensive cologne, the kind that lingered in elevators long after the person wearing it had stepped out. your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your blazer, your mouth dry as you mentally rehearsed your greeting. nice to meet you, sir. looking forward to working with you, sir. please don’t think i’m incompetent, sir.

then the door opened, and all those carefully prepared words dissolved into static.

because jake sim was—

well.

he wasn’t just your boss. he was a vision.

he stood near the window, the morning light catching the sharp lines of his profile, one hand tucked casually into his pocket like he’d been waiting for you without a single ounce of impatience. his suit was immaculate, the fabric draping over his shoulders in a way that made it clear it cost more than your rent. his hair was styled just so, not a strand out of place, and when he turned to look at you, his lips curled into a charming smile that showcased his quiet confidence.

your felt like you had been submerged into thick viscous honey, your brain too muddled to function.

“ah,” he said in an unfairly smooth and deep voice. “you must be the new hire.”

your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

this wasn’t happening. you were a professional. you’d practised this. you’d literally rehearsed in the mirror last night.

so why were your palms sweating? why was your pulse hammering in your throat like you’d just sprinted up a flight of stairs?

“nice to—nice, sir. i mean. meet. you.”

the second the words left your mouth, you wanted to claw them back. your voice had pitched up, cracking like you were fifteen and going through puberty all over again. your face burned, your ears hot with humiliation, and in a desperate attempt to play it off, you let out a laugh—or at least, the mangled, high pitched attempt at one.

it echoed in the silence.

ms. cho coughed politely. jake’s eyebrow lifted, slow and deliberate, his smirk deepening like he’d just discovered something fascinating.

you were going to die.

in your panic, you took a step back—only for your heel to catch on the edge of a decorative potted plant. your arms pinwheeled, your balance teetering dangerously, and for one horrifying second, you were certain you were about to crash directly into the very expensive looking side table beside you.

somehow, you didn’t. but the damage was done.

jake’s gaze flickered from your flailing limbs back to your face, his expression shifting into something dangerously close to amusement. like you were the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

oh god.

you wanted to vanish. you wanted to teleport directly into the nearest trash chute. you wanted to go back in time and never apply for this job.

you see, you had a problem.

a big, humiliating, soul crushing problem that no amount of deep breathing or positive affirmations could fix. it wasn't that you were incompetent—far from it. you'd graduated top of your class, aced every interview, and somehow landed this prestigious position through sheer skill and determination as your first job. no, your problem was far more specific, far more devastating in its simplicity:

you malfunctioned around attractive people.

and not just the casual, oh-they're-nice-looking kind of attractive. no, you short circuited around the kind of devastatingly gorgeous humans who moved through the world like they'd never once doubted their place in it. the kind who could reduce you to a stuttering, blushing mess with nothing more than a glance.

and jake sim?

jake sim was the human embodiment of your downfall.

when hr informed you that you'd been reassigned as his junior assistant, your first reaction had been to laugh—a high, slightly hysterical sound that made the hr manager eye you with concern.

"this is a great opportunity for you to learn," she'd said, her tone suggesting she didn't understand why you looked like you were about to pass out.

you'd nodded mechanically, your mind already racing through every possible disaster scenario. daily interactions. emails that required actual coherence. eye contact.

how were you supposed to maintain eye contact when looking at him for too long made your palms sweat and your thoughts scatter like startled birds?

the first week was a special kind of torture.

you arrived early every morning, rehearsing conversations in your head like an actor preparing for a role. you studied his schedule like it was a sacred text, memorising every meeting, every deadline, every detail that might give you even the slightest edge in appearing competent. you told yourself you could do this. you were a professional. you'd worked too hard to let something as trivial as a pretty face unravel you.

but then he'd walk into the room, all sharp suits and effortless confidence, and your carefully constructed composure would crumble like a sandcastle at high tide.

like today.

you'd been reviewing project updates at your desk, your notes meticulously organised, your thoughts clear and focused. you were prepared. you were ready. and then—

"did you get those figures from marketing?"

his voice, smooth and deep, came from directly behind you, closer than you'd expected. you could smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne—something warm and subtly spicy that made your stomach do a slow, treacherous flip. your fingers froze over the keyboard.

you'd meant to say, "i'll get you those files right away." but what came out was:

"i'll get you anything."

the second the words left your mouth, time seemed to slow. your brain, in its panic, replayed the sentence on a loop, each repetition more horrifying than the last. your pulse pounded in your ears, a frantic drumbeat of oh god oh god oh god.

you tried to laugh it off, but the sound that escaped was less a laugh and more a strangled wheeze, the kind of noise that made people edge away slowly. the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

jake didn't move. when you finally dared to glance up, his expression was unreadable—just the slight tilt of his head, the faintest arch of one eyebrow. then, slowly, his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"that's a dangerous thing to offer," he said, his voice low and far too amused.

before you could even attempt to salvage the wreckage of your dignity, he was walking away, leaving you sitting there with your face burning, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

you wanted to disappear. you wanted to rewind the last thirty seconds and try again. you wanted to march into hr and demand a transfer to a department where you'd never have to speak to another human being again—preferably one located in a remote, soundproof bunker.

but instead, you took a shaky breath, straightened your shoulders, and opened the marketing files with exaggerated focus. you could do this. you would do this.

even if it killed you.

the office whispers started innocently enough. a stifled chuckle when you dropped your pen for the third time during the monday meeting. knowing glances exchanged over cubicle walls when you developed a sudden, intense interest in your shoes every time jake entered a room. at first you thought nothing of it—until you overheard lisa from accounting whisper "someone's got a crush" loud enough for half the floor to hear.

today had been particularly catastrophic.

early in the morning, jake had leaned over your desk to point out a formula error, his crisp white sleeve brushing against your forearm.

"the pivot table in this spreadsheet needs adjusting," he'd said, his voice dipping into that low, measured tone that did something inexplicable to your breathing patterns.

and then—god help you—you'd giggled. not a polite professional chuckle, but a high- pitched, borderline hysterical sound that seemed to startle both of you. jake had frozen mid sentence, his pen hovering over the document like he wasn't sure whether to correct the numbers or call hr.

"i—sorry, sorry," you'd stammered, your face burning as you desperately tried to salvage the moment, "it's just—pivot tables are so—they're just really—"

you'd waved your hands vaguely, as if this explained anything. jake had simply blinked, slow and deliberate like a cat observing particularly baffling prey, before continuing his explanation as if nothing had happened. which was somehow worse.

later, you'd been printing reports when jake appeared beside you—silently, like some sort of corporate vampire—reaching across you to grab a stack of documents. his forearm brushed against yours, warm and solid through the fabric of his dress shirt, and your entire nervous system short-circuited. your breath hitched audibly, your fingers spasmed on the copier lid, and for one dizzying moment you were certain you were going to either pass out or vomit directly onto the machine's control panel.

from the way your coworkers suddenly found reasons to walk past the copier area, you weren't as subtle as you'd hoped.

"you know," maria from marketing had said later in the break room, stirring her coffee with exaggerated casualness, "if you wanted his attention, you're doing great." the grin she shot you was equal parts amused and merciless.

"that's not—i'm not—" you'd sputtered, your coffee cup trembling in your hands. "i have this thing where i just—when people are really—i mean my brain just—" your words dissolved into incoherence, which only made her smirk widen.

the worst, most embarrassing thing was the email disaster which happened at 3:17 pm on tuesday. you remembered the exact time because you'd stared at the timestamp in mute horror for a full minute after hitting send.

you'd meant to type "i need you to look at it" regarding the quarterly report draft. what you'd actually sent to jake's inbox read: "i need you to look at me."

your blood turned to ice. for thirty full seconds, you simply sat there, fingers hovering over the keyboard like you could somehow un-send the message through sheer force of will. your first instinct was to feign a sudden illness and flee the country. your second was to claim you'd been hacked.

in the end, you'd settled for sending a follow-up email with the subject line "CORRECTION" in all caps and the body simply reading "THE REPORT. I NEED YOU TO LOOK AT THE REPORT." you didn't explain further. you couldn't.

the afternoon meeting was where everything came to a head. you'd been doing remarkably well—keeping your gaze firmly on your notes, responding in complete sentences, even managing to contribute to the discussion without sounding like you'd suffered a recent head injury. then, as you reached for your water glass, your traitorous hand trembled just enough to send the glass tipping. water cascaded across the conference table in a shimmering wave, soaking documents, laptops, and—most horrifyingly—the front of jake's perfectly tailored trousers.

the room fell silent. your pulse roared in your ears. the water droplet sliding slowly down jake's thigh was the most obscene thing you'd ever witnessed.

"i—oh god—i'm so—" you shot to your feet, knocking your chair over in your haste. napkins appeared as if by magic from various coworkers, though none of them made a move to help, this was clearly too entertaining to interrupt.

"i'll just—bathroom and paper towels—" you managed to choke out before fleeing the scene, your heels clicking a frantic staccato against the polished floors.

as you rounded the corner, you could have sworn you heard jake murmur something under his breath. later, you'd learn from multiple "helpful" coworkers that what he'd actually said was "she's something else," in a tone that could have been exasperated or amused or—most terrifyingly—intrigued.

the office gossip mill had already spun this into at least three different romantic subplots by the time you returned with a wad of paper towels and the shattered remains of your dignity.

the worst part was that this was only tuesday. you had three more days of this to survive. as you sat at your desk later, staring blankly at your computer screen, you made a mental note to research whether it was possible to die from secondhand embarrassment—specifically, embarrassment generated by your own inability to function like a normal human being around your unfairly attractive boss.

things escalated in the worst possible way when jake started hovering more.

it began subtly—a coffee cup appearing on your desk when you hadn’t asked for one, the rich, bitter scent wafting up as you stared at it like it might be a trap. you’d glanced around, searching for the culprit, only to find jake already walking away, hands tucked into his pockets like he hadn’t just disrupted your entire morning with an act of kindness you weren’t equipped to handle.

then came the project updates. suddenly, he was asking for your input on things that weren’t even under your purview, leaning against the edge of your desk while you fumbled through explanations, your throat dry under the weight of his attention.

and then things somehow got worse when he started leaning down towards you. not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that you could smell the faint, expensive cedar of his cologne, enough that his voice dropped into a low, private timbre that sent your pulse skittering. it felt deliberate. it felt like a test you were failing spectacularly.

like today.

you’d been caught staring. again.

this time during a department meeting, your gaze drifting helplessly toward where jake sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled under his chin, the sharp line of his jaw illuminated by the too-bright conference room lights. you hadn’t meant to look. or maybe you had. maybe you were a glutton for punishment, for the way your stomach swooped when his eyes flicked up and caught you, his eyebrow lifting just slightly.

"you good?" his voice was quiet, just for you, the words curling around you like smoke.

your brain short circuited. you could feel the heat creeping up your neck, your fingers tightening around your pen like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. play it cool, you begged yourself. just say something normal.

"low blood sugar," you mumbled, the lie tumbling out before you could stop it. you weren’t even sure what that meant in this context—were you implying you were dizzy? hungry? medically compromised?—but jake didn’t call you on it. he just smirked, slow and knowing, like he could see right through you.

you should’ve known then that you’d made a mistake.

because after that, snacks from him started appearing. protein bars tucked into your desk drawer. a banana left beside your keyboard with no explanation. once, horrifyingly, a lollipop—bright red and obscenely shiny—placed directly on top of your morning report. you’d stared at it for a full minute, your face burning, before stuffing it into your bag like contraband.

you swore he watched you eat them. not obviously, not in a way you could call him out on, but in those fleeting moments when you glanced up from unwrapping a granola bar to find his gaze already on you, dark and unreadable.

it all came to a head when you thought he was out of the office.

you’d been ranting to yuna in the break room, your voice a hushed, frantic whisper as you paced in front of the microwave.

"he keeps looking at me like i’m trying to seduce him," you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. "i’m not. i just—i don’t know how to behave around him, it’s like i’m socially defective."

yuna had opened her mouth to respond—probably to laugh at you, the traitor—when a cough cut through the room.

your blood turned to ice.

jake stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his expression perfectly neutral. how long had he been there? how much had he heard? your stomach dropped straight through the floor as your brain replayed your own words in brutal, high definition clarity. socially defective. oh god.

for one endless second, no one moved. then jake tilted his head—just slightly, like he was considering something—and walked away without a word.

you died a thousand deaths in that moment.

you expected things to be awkward after that. unbearable, even. but the next day, jake was... different. he smiled more—slow, deliberate smiles that made your palms sweat. he stared longer, his gaze lingering even when you ducked your head, even when you pretended not to notice. and then, over lunch—a lunch he had invited you to, a lunch you’d agreed to out of some masochistic impulse.

he leaned back in his chair and asked, casual as anything, "what kind of guy do you like?"

you choked on your drink.

your mind raced through a dozen possible responses—professional, respectful, not my boss—before settling on the dumbest possible answer. "alive," you croaked.

jake snorted, his lips quirking in a way that made your chest ache. "good start," he said, and something in his voice that sounded warm and interested, sent your heart into freefall.

the office that night was too quiet, the silence pressing on your ears and making them ring.

you'd stayed late to finish some work, the blue light of your computer screen the only thing cutting through the dark. outside, the city hummed—car horns, distant sirens, the occasional burst of laughter from people who still had lives at this hour. your coffee had gone cold hours ago, but you kept sipping it anyway, the bitter taste matching your mood.

when the door creaked open, you didn't even look up. probably just the cleaning crew. but then you caught that scent—something expensive and faintly spicy, cutting through the stale office air. your fingers froze over the keyboard.

"still here?"

jake's voice was rougher than usual, tired around the edges. when you finally turned, he was leaning against your desk, two fresh coffees in hand. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing those stupidly perfect forearms. his tie hung loose around his neck like he'd been yanking at it all day. he looked rumpled in a way that made your stomach do something complicated.

"uh. yeah." you swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry your throat was. "report."

he set one of the coffees down in front of you. the good stuff, from that place around the corner that charged way too much. "drink that before you pass out."

you wanted to say something clever. instead, your fingers fumbled with the lid, the plastic making an embarrassingly loud crack in the quiet office.

jake didn't leave. just sank into the chair across from you with a quiet groan, stretching his long legs out until his shoe bumped yours. you jerked back like you'd been shocked.

for a while, the only sounds were your typing and the occasional sip of coffee. except you couldn't focus, not with him sitting there watching you. your fingers kept slipping, typing "jaje" instead of "jake" before you could stop yourself. you deleted it so fast your mouse clicked echoed.

"you're staring," he said suddenly.

you choked on your coffee. "i wasn't—"

"you were." he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "at my mouth, specifically."

your face burned. you had been. just for a second. because his lips were chapped from the cold outside, and he kept worrying at the bottom one with his teeth, and—

"am i distracting you?" his voice dropped, taking on that low, teasing quality that made your pulse jump.

"no," you lied, your voice cracking.

a beat passed and then a tiny, pathetic noise escaped you—something between a whimper and a hiccup. you wanted to die(again).

jake's eyes darkened, his smirk turning predatory. he leaned in closer, close enough that you could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, close enough that his knee pressed against yours under the desk and stayed there.

"if i didn't know better," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek, "i'd say you like me, sweetheart."

your brain paused all activities and all you could manage was a strangled "jake—" that sounded more like a plea than a protest.

he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his grin all sharp edges. "i'm kidding."

but the way his fingers brushed yours as he took your empty coffee cup said he absolutely wasn't.

over the past few days, something subtle had shifted between you and jake without either of you acknowledging it. the nervous stuttering that used to plague your conversations had faded into something smoother, something more natural.

the late night coffee incident had been weeks ago, but its ghost lingered in every interaction since. you'd noticed the shift—how your pulse no longer raced quite so violently when jake entered a room, how your hands remained steady when passing him files. you still noticed the way his dress shirts stretched across his shoulders when he reached for files, still caught yourself staring at his hands when he typed, but the panic those observations used to trigger had mellowed into a warm flutter low in your stomach. you could even hold his gaze for entire sentences now without feeling like your skin might catch fire. progress, you'd thought. until today.

the copy machine hummed its familiar tune as you leaned against it, listening to the new marketing associate—ethan? evan?—recount his disastrous first client meeting.

his animated storytelling had you laughing, the sound louder than intended in the quiet office. when his hand brushed your arm in emphasis, you didn't stiffen like you would have weeks ago. which made jake's sudden appearance and grip on your elbow all the more startling.

"conference room. now." his voice carried that particular edge you'd come to recognise—the one that brooked no argument.

you barely had time to mutter an apology to not-ethan before jake was steering you down the hall, his fingers burning through your blazer sleeve. the break room door clicked shut behind you with finality.

jake paced like a caged animal, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair until it stood in disarray.

"you and the new guy looked awfully friendly." the words came out clipped, his back turned as he pretended sudden fascination with the microwave's keypad.

you blinked. "we were just talking."

"talking." he scoffed, finally turning. the fluorescent lights caught the tension in his jaw. "is that what they're calling it now?"

the realisation dawned slowly, then all at once—the way jake's coffee deliveries always seemed to coincide with your conversations with others, how he'd suddenly taken interest in your lunch plans, the barely concealed irritation whenever someone lingered too long at your desk. your stomach swooped.

"wait." you stepped closer, watching his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "are you... jealous?"

jake's laugh was humourless. "don't flatter yourself."

but his eyes, dark and stormy, betrayed him. you saw it then: the insecurity beneath the polished exterior, the fear that your newfound ease around him wasn't comfort earned through shared late nights and inside jokes, but because your attention had wandered.

the elevator ride down that evening was thick with tension. jake stood unnaturally still, his reflection in the metal doors betraying clenched fists and a ticking jaw. you watched the floor numbers descend, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders.

"you think i'm playing some game," you said quietly, not quite a question.

jake's reflection met yours. "aren't you?"

the doors opened on the empty lobby. neither of you moved.

"all those blushes and stammers," he continued, voice rough. "the way you'd trip over yourself whenever i got too close. and now?" his hand shot out to stop the doors from closing. "nothing. like i've become... ordinary."

the raw vulnerability in his words stole your breath. you turned, really looking at him—the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his tie hung slightly crooked. the man beneath the polished veneer.

"jake," you breathed, stepping closer. "you could never be ordinary."

something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "prove it."

the first kiss was all collision—lips bruising, teeth clashing. you gasped as jake backed you into the wall, his hands finding your hips with a possessiveness that set your nerves alight.

"fuck," he growled against your mouth when your fingers tangled in his hair. "you have no idea how long i've—"

you cut him off with another kiss, revelling in the way his body shuddered against yours. his palms slid under your blouse, calloused fingers mapping your skin like he was committing you to memory.

"still think i was seducing you?" you managed between kisses, arching into his touch.

jake nipped at your bottom lip, drawing a whimper you'd deny later. "sweetheart," he murmured, breath hot against your skin, "you've been wrecking me since day one."

some distant part of your brain registered the security cameras, the professionalism you were shattering, the inevitable hr disaster. it was drowned out by the way jake's hands trembled as they traced your ribs, by the broken sound he made when you scraped your nails down his back.

when you finally broke apart—lips swollen, breathing ragged—jake rested his forehead against yours. his thumb traced your cheekbone with unexpected tenderness.

"we're going to get fired," you whispered, even as your fingers toyed with his belt loop.

jake's grin was all sinful promise as he stole one more kiss. "best damn termination notice i'll ever receive." (don't do this guys)

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

#ady 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀...👩🏻‍💻.ᐟ #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fics #enhypen x reader #kpop fics #jake #sim jake #jake x reader #jake imagines #jake fics #jake oneshots #sim jaeyun #jaeyun x reader #jake fluff #enhypen fluff #enhypen crack

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navybrat817 · 1 month ago

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Starting Over

Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.

Word Count: Over 3.7k

Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)

A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either.

This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.

Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy.

“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.

You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.

Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you.

Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.

“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.”

A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right.

Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-

“You lost?”

You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.

The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.

He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”

Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”

You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do.

“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand.

Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs.

Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?

“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?”

You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.

“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.

He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.

You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.

“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”

You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them.

“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”

You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.

But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.

“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”

Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?

It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.

His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”

Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.

“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”

Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right.

He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”

“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”

You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness.

“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”

You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”

“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”

You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”

His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”

The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”

He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.

You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?

“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”

He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”

“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.

When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”

“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled.

Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye.

What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you?

“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”

You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.

“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”

You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”

“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”

You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”

“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”

“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.

“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”

Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?

You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.

“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”

You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”

Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.

“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”

Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”

You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too.

Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”

“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said.

“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”

Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.

“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.

“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.

“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed.

You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.

“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”

“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”

“If you change your mind-”

“I’ll let you know.”

He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”

“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors.

He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”

“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult.

But it didn’t come.

Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”

You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked.

“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his.

“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him.

“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air.

“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened.

You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.

Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 See what happens next with Good as New. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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stillwatervoid · 4 months ago

Text

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k | a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

You're here | Part 2

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”)

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.”

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?”

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.”

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—”

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.”

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?”

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

#mark grayson x male reader #alternate mark grayson x male reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x male reader #x male reader #male reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible #alternate mark grayson x reader #invincible variants x male reader #gay #male!reader

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ggukivrse · 1 month ago

Text

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content (mdni), kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

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venelona · 1 month ago

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DELTARUNE TENNA DESKTOP GHOST/UKAGAKA

Put this TV man on your computer screen so you can talk and interact with him! ✨ (#ghost tenna) (last update 26.06.2025 - the launch!)

⚠!!SPOILERS for DELTARUNE chapter 3!!⚠

Made in one week for Ghost Jam 2025, hosted by @ukagakadreamteam, adopt an old television, watch shows and make him watch shows!!

Keep him on your screen! He's just happy to be around.

Watch things together! From videos to art, from listening to music to homework, he'll keep you company!

Watch television! Tenna comes bundled with 3 channels, because that's how TV's were once upon a time.

Tell him you love TV and boost his ego!

Rub your hand on his face!

Have him do small stuff like change your computer background or empty your recycle bin

INSTALL HIM TODAY!

⏩DOWNLOAD HIM HERE!⏪

The link above should bring you to a google drive with instructions on how you can install this guy on your PC!

⚠!!BE AWARE, THIS MIGHT SEEM OOC!!⚠

✨I have a question/encountered a bug/encountered a spelling mistake!✨

Message me away! If you think something is wonky, a weird expression or bad grammar, please @ me, send me an ask or dm me 🙏 This also goes for the suggestions you may have or the things you like about Tenna here and want to share with me, my ask box and suggestions are open!! It’s been done in a week and it was a LOT, so I appreciate all of the feedback you may have 💖

✨Thanks and inspirations✨

As usual, big thanks to @/zarla-s for a fantastic tutorial with a great template for Ghost creation, if you’re interested in learning more you should definitely check it out!

And thanks to @ukagakadreamteam for making the event! 💖 It’s been a doozy this year, and I'm excited to see what everyone made!

#tenna #deltarune #deltarune tenna #tenna deltarune #ant tenna #ukagaka #desktop ghost #desktop tenna #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune spoiler #deltarune spoilers #deltarune chapter 3 spoiler #deltarune chapter 3 spoilers

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dcxdpdabbles · 3 months ago

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Tim: Who and what are we interviewing today?

Tam: The What is a social media manager candidate who will be in charge of the new branch for the PR department. The Who is Daniel Fenton. He has a Master's in Communications, a bachelor's in marketing and is working on a associate in public relations.

Tim: I thought W.E. already had media accounts?

Tam: Unofficial ones, but they have generated enough positive feedback that impacted our sales greatly in a good way. The board is going to put everyone behind the different unofficial accounts into one big team, and the manager will oversee them. This will hopefully increase our presence in the younger generation.

Tim: Okay. Why wasn't I at that meeting?

Tam: From my understanding it was when you were quarantined due to that nasty head cold that almost killed you.

Tim: Oh yeah the one from Mars.

Tam: I hate that your missing spleen means you're more likely to say, "I got a cold from Mars, and it almost killed me"

Tim: You learn to live with it. What should I know about this Fenton, before I see him?

Tam: Well, Bruce made it clear he in no way wants you to hire Fenton. Apparently, the boy's parents and he were rivals in college, as the very few interested in the paranormal from a academic point of view. Bruce was a one-man team for Gotham U's paranormal club attempting to debunk thier research on the grounds that it was inhumane towards ghosts.

Tim: Okay. Throw the interview. Got it

Tam: Bruce also wanted me to pass along the message "Don't you dare attempt to kiss the enemy's spawn"

Tim: *sighs* How easy does that man think I am? Honestly.

Two hours later:

Danny: Hello, Im Danny Fenton. I'm here for the interview-

Tim: First question: Are you single?

Danny: Um...yes?

Tim: *Typing into his laptop* good, good. How would your leadership better Wayne Enterprise's image online?

Danny: Im glad you asked, I-

Tam opening the door: I got the email to begin the hiring process. Tim. Why are you're trying to prove Bruce, right?

Tim: Im a weak man. A simple weak man. The Romero in this cruel Shakespearian world.

Danny:.....How much was the pay again?

Tim: Fifty dollars a hour, eighty hours every payroll, plus overtime, all benefits included.

Danny: I'll gladly be the Juliet for conditions like that. My parents will just have to deal with it.

Tam rolling her eyes: Great. There is two of them now. I need a raise.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #from a fic i never wrote #Danny is hired at W.E #Bruce vs Jack Maddie and Vlad #Their parents dont want their kids mixing #Danny and Tim will date later on #Dead Tired

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cherrynpink · 2 months ago

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between neighbours

pairing: perv!joshua x f!reader

genre: neighbours to lovers, smut (with a bit of plot) MDNI!

warnings: joshua is a perverttt lol, panty sniffing, perv yet still gentleman joshua (it is a fine line to walk), making out, mentions on masturbating, joshua in tank top (yes it is a warning), switch!joshua, switch!oc, dom!joshua? later, fingering, spanking, joshua is a bit mean but its ok bcs so is oc, oral (m! receiving), unprotected sex (DON'T do this!), he's hitting it from the back, creampie, lmk if i missed anything!

w.c.: 4.6k

for more of my work, check out my masterlist!

note: joshua in black tank top save me... save me joshua in black tank top. i wrote this bcs i love joshua in tank top if u can't tell n i saw a huge lack of perv joshua rep in the community.

also posting after so long did u miss me hehe (i will cry if u say no) anywaysss my requests are open if u have something u wanna read or just talk. i am very very open to making friends here so u can message me if u want. feedback is highly appreciated hope u like this one hehehe :3

Joshua was a nice guy.

Probably the nicest guy you’ve ever come across. He had been the sweetest to you ever since you had moved into the apartment next to him. It was your first time living alone as an adult, and he had been nothing but helpful since the day you met him. Setting up all your furniture because “What are neighbours for?”, helping you sort out all your stuff from your boxes and arrange everything, convincing your landlord to install a new AC unit, making you homemade meals until your kitchen was set up; you name it and Joshua had probably done it for you. You were nervous to move to a new city where you knew no one, but he made the transition so much easier for you. You found out he was a graphic designer and often worked from home, so he was literally there at your beck and call at even the most insignificant sign of trouble. Not to forget, he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, in fact so pretty it ached your heart- the way his eyes would widen as he laughed or whenever he was confused, the way his arms would bulge out of the black tank top he wore when he was helping you set up your bed, sweat dripping down his face which made you want to take him on the very bed he was arranging right then and there. Yeah, Joshua was such a nice guy.

Or atleast that’s what you thought and what his actions said. Because yeah he’s nice, but he’s not this nice to anyone. He would never admit it, but he’s followed you around like a puppy and helped you out so much because he just wants you so fucking bad. He would stare as your ass whenever you bent down to pick up the boxes, completely unaware of Joshua ogling your ass hanging out of your shorts. It got worse for him when the AC stopped working and all you would wear were stupid low cut tank tops. His eyes would travel to your cleavage, neck wet with sweat. You had to know your tits were out, right? Still, he was somehow coping, dropping his sweatpants down and fisting his cock as soon as he got home, your Instagram post open on his phone in his other hand as he came all over his hand staring at your pictures.

He wanted to be a gentleman, he truly did; but then came that fateful Saturday. Your living room and bedroom were almost set up, and you had asked him to get the blankets and bedsheets from one of your boxes. Now, Joshua would say what happened next was through no fault of his own. Packing is stressful, and one might often put things in the wrong box or label them wrong. Sometimes things might just fall into a box and you might’ve not noticed. So it was really not his fault when he lifted one of the pink sheets and found a red material peak through the bottom. Not thinking much of it, he unfolded the sheets, only to find your delicate red lace panties fall on his feet.

A normal person who was unaffected by you would just pick them up and put them right back in the box or in your drawers, as if they hadn’t even noticed them. But, he can’t for his life explain or justify what he did next, as he picked up the lace in his hand and brought it up to his nose without a thought, sniffing the soft material as he immersed his nose in the faint vanilla scent. Make no doubt, Joshua was not usually a panty sniffing creep; in fact till this very moment the thought hadn’t even occurred to him but even though your panties were washed and clean, he could practically feel the fragrance of your cunt and the taste of your essence. Your voice calling him from the kitchen brough him back to reality and as if his rational part of the brain had stopped working, he quickly shoved them in his pockets. As soon as you both were done for the day, he rushed to his room- a very familiar scene on his bed with his boxers still on him, just barely pulled down to take his cock out as he stroked it up and down eagerly as he moaned out your name with the newest addition of his face buried in your stolen panties.

Joshua feels so so guilty. He feels so bad for stealing your panties and then wrapping the warm material around his dick and covering them in his cum, ruining them. What he feels worse about is even though he feels guilty he cannot stop because there’s something so sick in him that loves it. He loves marking them. Loves to think of marking you the same way, marking him as yours. And what he feels even worse about is that ever since that day, whenever he goes over to your apartment to help you, he ends up stealing another pair, and another, and another to the point you’ve gotten concerned over your lack of panties. He's heard you complain to your friend over the phone that maybe you forgot to pack them since so many of them were missing but poor you, unaware of the fact they’re right across your wall in your sweet neighbour’s bedside drawer.

“Joshua, I think there’s a problem with my stove.” You call out to him.

“Wait, let me check.” He says, walking towards you. “Step back a bit.”

He checks the gas valves and calls the gas company to get it checked, which results in you finding out that the pipes need to be changed.

“Y/n, this won’t be changed until tomorrow morning.” He says as calmly, booking an appointment on his phone for a handyman.

“Why can’t anything go right!” you groan out as you fall on the coach, your head in your hands. “Maybe I wasn’t ready to live alone yet.” You mumble. “Fuck! Should’ve gotten a roommate, my mom was right.”

“Hey, this happens to everyone.” He says as he sits down beside you. “When I first started living alone I literally set my house on fire the second day, not even kidding, you’re doing much better than I am.” You laugh as his words comfort you.

“I’ll make dinner at mine today, okay?”

“No way Josh, I’ll just order something. I’ve already troubled you so much I can’t-”

“C’mon it’s no fun eating alone.” He says with a pout. “I bet once you’re fully set you won’t even want to hang out with me, let me enjoy the last few days I have left cooking for you.” He teases you as you laugh.

"No way i'm leaving you alone shua, you're gonna be cooking for me all the time." You giggle.

Now Joshua had called you over for dinner so sweetly and nonchalantly, but between all this crisis management he had totally forgotten about the fact that your panties, that he stole, were littered all over his room because he wasn’t planning to bring you over tonight. But unaware Joshua just let you stroll into his apartment as you settled in there, talking to him as you “helped” him cook for the both of you. You weren’t really helping. Just letting him do all the work and whenever he did ask you to do something, you messed it up some way or the other so you just opted for sitting on the counter rocking your legs back and forth as you explained in detail the seven part Hailey Bieber stalker series from Youtube.

“Right? Okay so Selena has this ‘g’ tattoo behind her ear after her sister Gracie, and guess what! Hailey got the same-”

“You said that you would help me y/n.”

“I am helping! I’m entertaining you shua, if it wasn’t for me you’d just get bored.” You say as you shrug your arms. “Plus you don’t know about this triangle! It’s was all over my feed a few months ago, why are you such a boomer.” You whined, frustrated at the lack of his knowledge of pop culture.

“Okay, I’m sorry” he says as he adds seasonings to the pot. “Tell me what happens next, she copied her tattoo?”

“She DID copy her tattoo, but you’re so ungrateful I’m not telling you anymore.” You say, getting off the counter. Before he can protest, you say, “I’m going to the bathroom.” Heading towards his room.

As you enter the bathroom in his room, it is only natural for you to be curious as to what he has in there. You check all his cabinets and drawers. A cleanser? Tick. A shampoo that is not a 4 in 1 atrocity? A win for you. An actual moisturizer? You are very pleased. Once you get out, you examine his room. Books on his bed side table, laptop neatly shut on his work desk, a few clothes scattered on his bed but nothing too out of the ordinary. But as your eyes scan the bed, what do you see but something very familiar and very missing from your boxes under one of his shirts, before your hand is reaching down to grab it.

Now, it finally hits him. Joshua FINALLY remembers that he had left you alone his room, and if his memory serves him right, he had left a pair of your baby blue panties on his bed. Shit. Did you see it yet? Are you horrified at him? Do you hate him? Now it was time for him to panic as he turns the stove off and hurries towards his room hoping you weren’t out yet, only to find his worst fears come true as he opens the door, panties dangling from your hand as you stand in front of his bed, eyes wide and lips slightly apart, staring at him.

“Are these mine shua?” you ask innocently, even though you know the answer all too well.

“Y/n wait let me explain I-”

“How many more do you have?” not a single note of anger in your voice, but rather curiosity.

“I-” Joshua doesn’t have any words to explain his situation. How does he tell you he’s been stealing you panties and sniffing and cumming in them? He tries to find the words to not make you mad and think of him as a creep before he sees you walking towards him, standing so close to him that he can feel your breathe on his face as you reach up, your panties still bundled in your palm, and the next second you lips are on his, taking him by surprise as his eyes widen. He first stands there frozen, but is quick to keep up with you as he deepens the kiss, pushing you back with his hands on your waist. He can hear his heart beating in his ears and it’s insane how worked up you’ve gotten him over just a kiss. He feels your nails trance over his neck, making his shudder. You pull away, deliberately letting out a sensual sigh.

“Could’ve just asked me for them, why’d you steal, hmm?” you say as you lean in once again, this time slipping your tongue into his warm mouth, his hips pressing into you from under, making you gasp as you feel his hardened length against your lower abdomen.

“Not very gentleman like of you shua.” You say teasingly.

Eager to assert control over him, you push him towards the bed, your feet stumbling and stepping over his as the back of his knees meet the edge and he sits down, legs spread wide before you’re sitting in his lap, legs on either side of him. When you pull away from his lips the sight in front of you is one to see, Joshua under you in his stupid white tank top this time (another one of your favorites) that clings to him so tight you can see his chest bulging out, sweat droplets on his forehead, cheeks flushed and a fucked out look in his eyes. You get off of him as you kneel down beneath him, but not before handing him the very panties he had stolen from you. You pull his sweatpants down, watching his half hard length trapped in his boxers.

“Y/n, please.” He whimpers above you. It’s funny really, how you’re under him yet the one to hold all the control. Your lips ghost over his boxers, and he can practically feel himself burst when he opens his eyes only to see your big doe eyes in front of his trapped length, before you’re reaching down to wrap your lips around his clothed member, mouthing at it as a wet patch forms on his boxers.

“What do you do with them?” you ask with a small smile on your face as you tilt your neck slightly, eyes so innocent that if he himself wasn't there he would never believe the words coming out of your mouth.

“It’s embarrassing.” He whispers only loud enough for you to barely hear him.

“I won’t let you fuck me if you don’t tell me.” You say as you finally lower his boxers, his hips lifting to help you. “Do you sniff them?” your fingers rub his tip teasingly, spreading around the pre-cum.

“I- fuck, yes! I do.” He finally confesses.

“Mhm, what else?” you say, one hand still running along his hard length while the other reaches to play with his balls, making him moan out loud in surprise.

“Shit I- I wrap them around me and jerk off!” he says which apparently pleases you because you wrap your plush lips around his tip, sucking softly as your hand wraps around his base in a light grip and he sighs in relief; but that only lasts so long before you’re pulling away once again.

“Did you cum in them?” you ask, stopping all your ministrations and placing your hands in your lap.

“Y/n, please-”

“I won’t do anything if you don’t answer me.”

“I did, fuck please! Need your mouth.” He says and you decide not to torture him anymore, wrapping your lips completely around him as you take more than half of him in one go, and it was NOT as easy and effortless as you made it look because Joshua is bigger than you expected. You run your tongue all around, feeling the ridges and veins popping out and you might just cry out of happiness because you actually think his cock is the prettiest you’ve ever seen.

You just rest it against your tongue for a while, letting him feel the warmth before you’re pulling it out, only to deep throat him at once and oh, the sound he lets out is music to your ears. You continue to bob up and down on his dick, as it hits the back of your throat repeatedly whilst your hand pumps the part that you can’t fit, his head thrown back in pleasure and yours in a fucked-out state as his hand grab your hair a makeshift ponytail, manoeuvring your mouth on him as he pleases. His eyebrows are furrowed, eyes closed as the sounds of your gagging and his moaning fill the room. After a point, you give in to him, letting him use you as he pleases, like a doll- only for his pleasure, and you don’t mind it one bit.

“Fuck Y/n, you’re so much better when you shut up for once, doing so good for me.” He grunts out.

His other hand roams around the bed, finding the blue lace before he brings it up to his nose, taking in your scent. All you see when you blink up to him is his buff chest rising up and down, teeth biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood but that still isn’t enough to make control his moans. He’s shaking now, so so close to his high as his mind goes blank and he gives a particularly sharp tug at your hair, making you flood your panties beneath your denim shorts, your slick travelling down and escaping the fabric as you rub your thighs.

“Thought about this so many times, fuck!” he groans as he feels your throat close up around him. his heavy cock stretches your lips out completely as you struggle to keep him in, your jaw aching accommodating his cock. Tears begin to form in your eyes as his hips increase his face, his moans signalling how close he is to his release. His breathe turns erratic and his grip in your hair tightens, as his voice breaks and his warm cum fills your mouth with no warning. He rocks your head back and forth amidst it slowly as he’s still cumming in your mouth, his seed travelling down your throat as you gag on it further, tears streaming down your face and eyes rolling back. When he’s finally spent, he pulls you off of him, a string a saliva still connects you to the head as dribbles down to your chest and you see him smirk, your panties still bunched in his palm and your tears dried on your cheeks.

“Open.” He demands with a light tap on your cheek as you open your mouth, tongue out to show him his cum smeared on his lips and tongue, and you can feel the dynamic shift already.

“Good girl, swallow.”

He pulls you up to give you a messy kiss, as if he didn’t just cum in your mouth and it kind of warms you from the inside and makes your chest flutter because even amidst this, he does act like a gentleman (as if he didn’t just literally fuck you throat seconds ago). You’re flipped onto your stomach in a second as you see him rid himself of his bottoms. One second you’re begging for him to come back to you, next he’s on top of you, pressed against you so close, hands travelling along the curve of your spine before coming down to rest against your hip, pulling you up as he forces you on your hands and knees. You hear him kneel behind, murmuring out “fuck” quietly to himself as his hands reach forward to unbutton your shorts, pulling them down just below the curve of your ass as they fall to your knees and he’s face to face with your soaked covered center.

His long fingers reach between your thighs, pushing them apart just slightly as to look at the mess you’ve made when he’s barely touched as they make contact with your slick covered soft skin. And before you know it,

smack!

his hand is pulled away from you as it comes down to hit your plush ass, your entire body stumbling forward with the impact as a loud cry erupts from your throat in surprise. He’s pulling the lace material above your cheeks, his hand rubbing it gently, soothing your skin.

“You good baby?” he asks from behind- one hand stabilizing your body with its tight grip on your hips while the other continues to caress your ass. There’s a change in his tone, voice turning raspier and deeper, much different than the Joshua you knew but not that you were complaining. And it’s embarrassing for you to explain how much wetter you felt yourself get at his actions as he brings up the hand resting on your hips up your back, grabbing your hair from behind and pulling you towards him.

“You want more, or should I stop?” he whispers, mouth resting just above your ear as he towers over you. When you turn your head to face him, you see his lust driven eyes as he looks down on you- hand still in your hair before he’s reaching down to press a kiss to your lips once again. This one much different than the way he’s kissed you before- full of impatience and hunger. You manage to moan out a “more” into the kiss as he’s pulling away and forcing your face into the pillow once again.

He's returned to slapping your behind, stopping occasionally to rub against your skin to ease the sting. Your loud cries and the sound of his hand hitting you fills the room, but what is harder for you than to bear the pain is controlling how turned on you are right now, as you feel your wetness dripping down your thighs and you’re pretty sure he sees it too, one of his hands coming down to run the tip of his finger along your slit.

“Joshua, mhm, please!” you whine out, but it seems he’s not stopped with the teasing as his fingers gently graze against your clit for second before pulling away again, continuing to play with your folds.

“Fuck, you’re dripping all over.” He murmurs to himself. “You like being spanked? That’s what got you so wet? Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen baby.” He laughs cruelly, looking at you only to see you hiding your face in the pillow out of the embarrassment.

“What? Not so bold anymore Y/n?” he teases you. “Don’t be shy baby, it’s only me.” he says, spreading out your folds with his fingers as you clench around nothing, feeling another glob of your slick leaking out, the cool air near your warmth making you shiver. A familiar warm and giddy feeling runs through your chest and makes its way down your stomach, making you flutter and moan out in surprise as you feel him spit right on your heat. Without a warning, he’s pushing 2 of his fingers in at one go- your back arching and hips pushing behind, begging for more out of his fingers. His thumb is navigating its way through your folds, making contact with your enlarged nub as you moan out his name, fingers scissoring inside you in a steady pace.

“Joshua, more!” you grunt, your arms losing strength every passing second and the band in your gut getting closer to snapping as he continues to edge you, slowing down just as he feels you getting closer to cumming every time. Your legs are probably shaking at this point, your pleads and cries filling the room every time you feel his knuckles make contact with your insides curling them just enough to make your entire body jerk at his touch. You’re breathless, gripping the sheets clenching around his fingers hard enough to crush them as your legs tremble beneath, a high-pitched loud moan leaving your throat, bucking into his hand right as you’re about-

And he stops. Fingers stopping all their movement as they’re still inside you, knuckles just resting at your opening, but that doesn’t last long either as he’s pulling them out in one go and that’s enough to break you as you feel tears wet the pillow under you, whining out and complaining to him as the loss of contact.

“Want you to cum around my cock pretty.” He justifies, voice dripping in honey as if he’s not done the filthiest things to you just seconds before. You gather the strength to lift your upper body, palms laying flat on the sheets as you turn your head to look at him teary eyed, hoping he’ll show you some mercy, only for him to lock his gaze right into yours and licking your essence off his fingers. It’s obscene really, you watch him swirl his tongue around his fingers, tasting all of you as he moans out.

“Gonna eat you next time baby.” He coos as he pulls your hips towards him by force, your back arching in reflex, pushing yourself onto him. He’s taking his length in his hand and tapping it’s head against your spent core, digits reaching to draw 8 figures on your clit, making you squeak as you hear a low deep throated chuckle from behind you. He keeps running his tip up and down your slit, teasing you till no return and all you can do is whine and beg him to give you more.

With no warning, he’s shoving his entire length inside you- giving you no time to adjust as you jerk forward, a loud cry erupting from you as he groans out due to the warm feeling. You can practically feel him throb inside you because of how deep in he is, and just as a tear is about to drop from your lashes you feel him pulling more than halfway out, only to slam right back into you until you hear his balls make contact with your cunt. Your fingers cramped from the way you’re holding onto the sheets as his hand travel up your spine and grab your hair once again.

Joshua loves your pussy. Now that he’s had it once he’s not sure he can go without it. Your tight walls are clenching around him so hard he might come right then and there. He musters up some strength in him, rocking his hips into you at a steady pace at first as to not overwhelm you with his length, but you’re apparently not satisfied, begging him “harder, more!” under him. And who was he to say no to you? he laughs with a particular strong thrust of his hips into yours, showing you no mercy. He fucks you hard, fucks you fast, fucks you like a man depraved. Because all this time he had been dreaming of your warm wet cunt wrapped around him, and now that he had you he wanted to savor every second of it.

His grip on you in tight, chants of “good girl” leaving him as you mutter out incoherent nonsense. Tears are streaming down your cheeks, overwhelmed with the pleasure that overpowers the pain of his hardness slamming inside you again and again. And he feels so close to his edge, so he chases it- skin slapping against yours as his hand on your clit speeds up, your hips rocking back to meet him instinctively. Your eyes roll back, the knot in your stomach tightening as you begin to tense up. Brows furrowed as he repeatedly hits the very spot that drives you over the edge.

“Fuck shua! Gonna- gonna cum!” you whine out. “Please baby, please- oh!” and with that you’re letting go, eyes going blank, limbs going numb as you crash head onto the pillow as you cum with a broken sob, squeezing him so hard that his hips too falter, as he paints your insides white, not a care in the world that he’s not wearing a condom. You’re probably on birth control, right? Even if you’re not, he would love to see you swell with his baby. But he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He pulls out of you, his cum leaking down your thighs as he falls besides your completely spent body. You turn onto your back, running your hands through his hair as he kisses you, much gentler than before this time.

“You did good.” He murmurs against your lips with a slight smile looking at your tear-stained cheeks.

“Fucking pervert.” You tease him.

“What? As if you didn’t stare at my chest whenever I helped you lift boxes.” He says, hands running against your back. “I felt objectified!”

“Hey! I didn’t steal underwear!”

“Want me to beg for them next time?”

He is a nice guy after all.

1K notes · View notes

youthguk · 3 months ago

Text

Vestiges | jjk (m)

He built a life without you — success, power, everything you once dreamed of. You spent six years pretending you didn't destroy him. One night is all it takes to tear the silence open again.

jungkook x reader | exes to lovers

warnings: second chance romance, heavy angst, explicit language and sexual content, emotional manipulation, slight depiction of addiction struggles, toxic relationships, trauma themes, mature emotional content.

wc: 15k

author’s note: I didn’t mean for this story to hurt as much as it does. But heartbreak feels a lot like mourning — and sometimes, writing is just another way to grieve what you lost. Feedback is always welcomed.

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed, longer than it should to run a comb through your hair, longer than it should to fasten the thin, trembling clasp of the necklace around your throat — because everything inside you feels reluctant, slow, half-stuck in a memory you wish you could forget but know you never will, no matter how many years or cities or mistakes you stack between yourself and that boy who once promised you the world with his trembling hands and reckless heart.

The mirror doesn’t help; it only shows you a stranger, one with hollows under her eyes and a dress that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to, an almost-pretty woman wearing borrowed pearls and borrowed courage, trying to pretend that she hadn’t spent the last hour sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing, wondering if the version of you he remembers — if he remembers at all — would even recognize what’s left.

The room smells faintly of turpentine and old paint, the corner where your canvases lean still cluttered with yesterday’s half-finished dreams, and when you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a message from Minho, simple and sweet and unbearably distant: Call me when you’re free. Love you.You don’t answer. You can’t. You wonder if that makes you cruel or simply too tired to pretend tonight.

Your fingers fumble with the cheap clasp at your wrist — a borrowed bracelet too — and in that one careless moment, memory slices through the present like a blade: Jungkook, twenty-one, grinning boyishly as he caught your hand outside the university library, threading a handmade beaded bracelet over your knuckles with such earnest pride that you had laughed, embarrassed, your cheeks warm, the world so soft around you it felt unreal.

"Now you have to marry me someday," he had teased, and you had rolled your eyes, but you hadn’t said no.

You blink hard, banishing him from the glass, watching the woman who stares back at you set her jaw a little harder, fix her earrings a little faster, breathe a little shallower — because you can’t afford to cry over ghosts, not tonight.

The group chat blinks awake: Sora: “Can’t wait to see everyone tonight 🖤 love you guys.”

The words should be comforting. Instead, they twist inside your chest like a dull knife, because you know her love is real, but you also know that weddings are for the blessed, and you — you are only here because Sora never chose sides when everyone else did.

You wonder if Taehyung will even look at you, wonder if the cold shoulder he gave you six years ago will stretch into tonight’s vows and toasts and forced smiles. You wonder if seeing him beside Sora will feel like a betrayal or just another quiet ache to add to the pile you stopped counting long ago.

But it’s not Taehyung who makes your palms sweat, your ribs tighten like a vise around your lungs. It’s him.

You haven’t seen him since the day everything broke, since the night your voice cracked on the phone and he didn’t pick up, since the day you stopped being someone’s future and became a cautionary tale instead.

Jungkook might have buried that reckless smile you once loved beneath all the sharp suits and colder women; or maybe success never touched the part of him that burned for you. Maybe hatred is all that’s left now, a slow, steady fire smoldering out of sight — or maybe you’re nothing more than a scar he learned to live around.

Either way, standing in front of him tonight will feel like pressing your hand against an old wound, desperate to prove it's healed when you already know it hasn't.

The taxi honks outside — a short, impatient sound that feels impossibly loud in the quiet dusk — and you stand because there’s nothing else to do, grabbing your small purse, slipping your trembling fingers into cheap heels, locking the door behind you with a finality that feels too heavy for such an ordinary sound.

The city beyond your window is a watercolor blur of neon and shadows. Each streetlight you pass feels like a countdown, leading you closer to the moment you'll have to face him again. Not the boy who promised you forever with handmade bracelets, but the man he's become – all sharp edges and success stories, probably with a model on his arm and victory in his smile.

The driver barely glances at you when you climb in, muttering the address with a voice that barely feels like your own, and as the car pulls into traffic, the low murmur of the radio fills the silence between your heartbeat and your fear, a love song from another decade humming like a ghost you can’t quite outrun.

Outside the window, the world blurs into a thousand small, careless lights — neon signs flickering above half-empty restaurants, the gold smudge of streetlamps bending against the slick black of the road — and you realize, distantly, that you don’t even remember when this city stopped feeling like home and started feeling like exile.

Your hands twist the strap of your purse tighter in your lap, knuckles aching from the pressure, and you wonder — not for the first time — if tonight will shatter you, or if you have already been living inside the ruins for so long that you won't even feel it when the final pieces fall.

The venue creeps into view before you’re ready, a soft, golden glow spilling out onto the cracked sidewalks like an invitation you should have never accepted, the kind of place built for promises and photographs and futures you don't belong to anymore.

The car stops with a jolt that rattles up your spine, and you pay the driver with fumbling fingers, stepping out into the cool night air that smells like jasmine and distant rain, clutching your purse to your chest like it might somehow shield you from what’s coming.

You hear the music first — faint, lilting strains of a string quartet filtering through the open doors — and then the laughter, bright and careless, the kind of laughter that used to be yours once, when the world was smaller, safer, sweeter.

Somewhere inside, Sora is probably floating down the aisle in a dress spun from dreams, her hands steady, her smile untouched by the kind of ghosts that still cling to your skin.

Taehyung must be standing there too, pride pressed into his spine, betrayal still thick in his chest like old smoke.

And Jungkook — though you can barely force yourself to think it — is breathing the same air as you for the first time in six years, close enough to touch and a thousand lifetimes away.

You press your hand harder against your ribs, feel the panic fluttering there like a trapped bird, and when you finally force your legs to move, to step toward the door, it feels like walking into the mouth of something hungry and merciless, something that has been waiting for you all this time.

"Please," you whisper to whatever god still listens to lost causes, "let me survive this night."

The lobby is bright and soft and aching with gold, and familiar faces blur past you — old friends you barely recognize, old friends who barely recognize you — and you keep your head down, keep moving, telling yourself it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine, until the lie thickens and clots somewhere at the back of your throat.

You are halfway to the main hall when you hear your name, soft and almost startled, and when you turn, Sora is there — radiant, trembling, beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes shining with something between relief and apology.

She rushes toward you before you can move, gathering you into a hug that knocks the breath from your lungs, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, let yourself believe in the warmth of her arms, the truth of her loyalty, the small, fragile spaces where you are still loved.

"You came," she breathes against your hair, pulling back to look at you with a smile that wobbles at the corners. "God, I was so scared you wouldn’t."

"I wouldn’t miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds almost real, almost steady.

Behind her, the world shifts �� guests milling about, waiters balancing trays, the glittering haze of champagne — and then, through the blur of light and sound, you feel it, before you even see him.

A weight against your skin. A gravity pulling your gaze without mercy. You lift your eyes — and there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing across the room, half-turned toward you, a glass in his hand, a black suit cut sharp against the broad frame of his shoulders, his hair dark and slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times.

He looks different now — older, harder around the edges, devastating in a way that feels less like beauty and more like a warning.

The noise around you dulls, falling away like heavy snow, until it’s just him and you and the space between your bodies that aches like a phantom limb.

His eyes — the ones you once memorized better than your own reflection — find you across the golden crowd, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing: no recognition, no anger, no tenderness, just a flicker of something vast and unreachable that knocks the air from your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away — leaving you suspended in the terrible silence where strangers live, where memories rot, where love once existed and now nothing remains.

The air inside the hall feels heavier now, thick with perfume and champagne and the kind of brittle laughter that stretches too wide over old wounds, and you realize as you stand there, clutching the small wrapped box to your chest, that your fingers have gone almost numb.

You try not to look for him again — you try, you swear you try — but your eyes betray you anyway, sliding across the glittering room until they find him near the bar, a dark figure half-turned away, laughing low at something someone says, and for a moment it stings more than it should, the way he looks — older, sharper, all clean lines and heavy shadows, the easy beauty of boyhood burned away into something colder, something harder, something you could cut yourself on if you dared get too close.

He doesn’t belong to you anymore — maybe he never really did — and yet some foolish, broken part of you aches anyway, aches in the marrow of your bones where even time cannot reach, where memory still reigns.

It hadn’t always been like this — hadn’t he once leaned against a chipped kitchen counter in the dead of night, grinning, offering you the last slice of cheap pizza like it was a crown, like you were something holy worth starving for? Hadn’t he once promised you — reckless, breathless — that he would fight every single battle for you, even the ones you didn’t see coming?

You had believed him. God, you had believed him so much it made you foolish.

Your throat tightens as you move forward, your heels silent on the polished floors, the soft music wrapping around you like a noose, and somewhere in the back of your mind the memories start to bleed — his parents’ disapproval, sharp and sterile in their polished dining room; the thin-lipped smiles, the cruel little glances they thought you wouldn’t notice; the way Jungkook had slammed down their checkbook one night and said he’d make it without them, because loving you mattered more than money, more than power, more than blood.

He meant every word — you never doubted that — but standing here six years later, wrapped in a borrowed dress and trembling under the weight of everything you lost, it’s hard not to wonder if they were right all along. You were the disaster they warned him about, the mistake they tried to tear from his hands, and maybe — if you’d loved him less selfishly — you would have let him go before you ruined everything he could have been.

You press the thought down, hard, like smothering a fire with bare hands, and you fix your eyes on the only safe thing left — Sora, radiant and teary-eyed in her wedding dress, laughing softly at something Taehyung mutters in her ear.

It should be enough to anchor you. It isn’t.

You force your feet to move, weaving carefully through the crowd, dodging the familiar faces, the flashes of recognition, the stares that linger a little too long.

You see him again — just for a second — Jungkook leaning casually against the far wall, speaking to someone in a low voice, his profile sharp under the warm golden lights. It hits you harder than it should, the way he holds himself now — heavier somehow, not in body but in gravity, in presence — the easy recklessness of boyhood hardened into something colder, something that doesn’t bow for anyone.

Sora had mentioned it once, in a hurried, breathless phone call you almost didn’t answer: how Jungkook had started a tech company straight out of university, how he had built it from nothing, refusing every offer of help from his family even when it would have made things easier, how now he stood at the helm of one of the fastest-rising startups in the country — a CEO at twenty-seven, sharp and brilliant and terrifyingly untouchable.

You never asked for the details — you didn’t need them. It was already clear enough: he had survived without you, built a life where you were nothing but a forgotten name.

The shame settles heavier against your ribs as you clutch the small wrapped gift tighter, pressing forward toward Sora and Taehyung where they stand near the main table, a little island of perfection in a sea of strangers.

You reach them just as they turn toward you, and for a brief, foolish moment you let yourself hope — just for tonight, just for Sora — that you can pretend the past is not clawing up the back of your throat.

Sora’s face brightens when she sees you, her hands fluttering excitedly to her mouth as if she might cry, and you feel the first crack in your armor when she pulls you into a hug so fierce it knocks the air from your lungs.

"You made it," she whispers, voice thick with emotion, and you smile — a broken thing, but a smile nonetheless — as you hand her the small gift wrapped in trembling paper.

"For you," you manage, your voice smaller than you remember it being.

Sora presses the box to her chest like it's precious, like you are precious, and for a moment the noise of the party dulls into something almost kind.

But then Taehyung steps forward, his expression carved from something colder than marble, and the weight of him — of everything you once trusted — hits you square in the ribs.

You brace for it instinctively, the way a body remembers impact even after the bruises have faded. He smiles — wide, charming, empty — and leans in slightly, his voice low and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

"I’m surprised," he says, his words like silk over a blade. "That you had the nerve to come, knowing he'd be here."

The sentence slices you cleanly down the middle, and for a moment all you can do is blink at him, your hands limp at your sides, your breath sticking somewhere between your heart and your throat.

Sora’s eyes widen in horror, but she says nothing, and Taehyung only straightens his jacket with an easy grace, as if he hadn't just peeled the skin from your chest in front of half the wedding party.

You don’t even flinch — not really. Maybe you expected it, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always believed he earned the right to hate you.

Taehyung hadn’t just been Jungkook’s best friend. He had carried Jungkook’s heartbreak like it was his own, had stitched the bleeding pieces of him back together when you weren’t there to do it. Of course he would still bear the wound like a badge of honor, would still sharpen it against your skin whenever you dared step back into their world.

You swallow down the rising sting of tears, swallow down the shame that floods your gut like dirty water, and somehow — somehow — you manage to stay standing.

You wonder if he’s right — if you should have stayed away, if you’ve become nothing more than the ghost they all wish they could finally forget.

The air outside is cooler than you expected, crisp against your overheated skin, and for a moment you just stand there on the terrace, clutching the banister with both hands like it might anchor you to something solid, something real. Inside, the wedding hums on — champagne glasses clinking, laughter blooming like overripe fruit — but out here, under the weak glow of fairy lights strung across the courtyard, it feels like another world entirely.

You press your fingers against your temples, willing your heart to slow, willing your body to forget how it trembles from the inside out.

Footsteps sound behind you — soft, lazy, unhurried — and you already know, without looking, who they belong to.

The air always shifts differently when he’s near.

Still, when you finally turn, the breath catches sharp in your throat, as if your body wasn't prepared for the sight of him after all.

Jungkook stands a few paces away, his black suit rumpled just enough to look careless rather than messy, the knot of his tie loosened at his throat. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass that tilts dangerously in his loose grip, and for a moment you can't decide if he looks more like a fallen prince or a soldier long after the war has ended.

He lifts the glass slightly, a mock-toast, his mouth curling into something that might have once been a smile if it hadn’t turned bitter somewhere along the way.

"Well," he says, voice low and rough like gravel. "If it isn’t the ghost herself."

You flinch before you can stop yourself, the words scraping raw against old wounds, but you force your spine straight, force your lips into something that might pass for calm.

"Hi, Jungkook," you manage, the name strange and sacred on your tongue after so many years of silence.

For a beat, he just looks at you — and it cuts deeper than anything he could have said.

Because for a second — just a second — you see it flicker there, the ghost of another boy entirely, the one who used to trace your skin like it was a prayer, who used to kiss you like it hurt him to stop. Gentleness pools in his dark eyes, unguarded and aching, and it guts you with how badly you want to reach for it.

But just as quickly as it came, he shutters it away, his mouth hardening into a line you barely recognize.

"So," he says, voice lighter now, mocking almost. "How’s life?"

You swallow, wishing the earth would swallow you first.

"It’s..." you fumble, your mind blanking under the weight of his gaze. "It’s good. Busy. Art shows, part-time jobs... the usual."

He nods once, a jerk of his chin, his glass tipping slightly in his grip. You notice the way his fingers tremble faintly around the glass stem, how his pupils are blown too wide for the soft light — little things that tighten the pit of your stomach before you can reason why.

"And you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "You’re... doing well?"

He huffs out a laugh — not cruel, not kind either — and sets the glass down on the stone ledge beside him, missing it slightly before correcting the movement with a small curse under his breath.

"You know everything already," he mutters, and there's something brittle under the words, something breaking. "CEO. Big company. Fancy suits. Bullshit meetings."

You flinch again — not at the words, but at the hollowness behind them.

And because some masochistic part of you can’t help it, you whisper, "Are you... okay?"

For a moment, he goes very still. Then his mouth twists, slow and sharp, and he laughs — a low, broken sound that makes the fairy lights above you seem suddenly, unbearably cruel.

"Am I okay?" he repeats, tasting the words like they’re poison. "God, you really don’t get it, do you?"

You open your mouth, close it again.

"You should have done me a mercy back then," he says, voice dropping lower, softer, deadlier. "You should have just confessed. You should have just told me you didn’t love me anymore."

"I—" You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. The guilt surges so thick it almost drowns you.

He chuckles again — the sound rougher, edged with something manic, and when he speaks next his voice is shaking slightly, like the words cost him more than he can afford to give.

"I thought," he says, looking past you into the night, "that I thought if I became enough — if I built something so big it touched the sky — you’d love me again or regret betraying me."

The weight of it hits you harder than any accusation.

"Jungkook," you whisper, stepping toward him without even realizing it, "please... don't."

But he moves faster. His hand closes around your arm — not painfully, but firm, desperate — and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleeve like wildfire.

"Don’t what?" he demands, voice rough. "Don’t say it? Don’t feel it?"

You stare up at him, heart beating so hard you think it might break through your ribs, and for a moment neither of you breathes.

Something in him falters; the fight drains from his body, and his grip loosens. You tear yourself free, stumbling backward as if the air itself turned against you. Without thinking, without looking back, you turn and flee — pushing the door open, slipping back into the too-bright, too-loud reception, the noise crashing over you in waves.

You don’t stop until you find the bathroom, collapsing against the cool tile, gasping for air that won’t come.

And when your shaking fingers brush against the marble counter — smooth and cold and smelling faintly of expensive soap — a memory surges up so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs:

Six years ago.

The walls of Jungkook’s tiny off-campus apartment seemed to shrink around you, the air too thick with the leftover taste of the night you couldn’t forget, no matter how tightly you crossed your arms or how fiercely you jutted out your chin to hide the hurt leaking through your bones.

You were pacing, barefoot on the worn carpet, your dress wrinkled from hours of sitting stiffly at a dinner table where every glance, every polite smile, every icy comment had felt like a slap delivered with a silver fork.

"You didn’t hear the way your mother said it," you muttered, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, your voice wobbling even as you tried to sound defiant, bratty, anything but the small, shaking thing you felt like inside. "The way she asked if I needed help... pronouncing the wine list."

Jungkook sighed heavily behind you, the sound rough, frustrated, loving all at once, and when you dared glance back at him, he was scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, his white dress shirt rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the very picture of someone who wanted to punch something but was too busy loving you to bother.

"I told them to back off," he said, stepping closer, voice low, tight. "I told them you’re it for me. What else do you want me to do, baby?"

The word burned into you — baby — the way it always did, softening your anger just enough to make room for the real thing: the sadness.

"It’s not just about you standing up for me," you said, your voice small now, your throat raw from holding too much back for too long. "It’s your family, Jungkook. They’re supposed to... I don’t know... accept me. If they don’t — if they think I’m just some poor girl you’ll grow out of — maybe I don’t belong there at all."

Your hands twisted together in front of you, trying to tie yourself into a knot too small for pain to find, and you hated how broken you sounded, how much you still cared even after everything.

For a heartbeat, Jungkook just stared at you — something fierce and wounded flashing through his eyes — and then he crossed the room in three strides, his hands gripping your arms, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

"If they can’t love you," he said, his voice a growl against your hair, "then they’re not my family anymore."

You froze — heart thudding painfully — but he only hugged you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck, like he could physically shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"I already have a family," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

And something inside you — some fragile, terrified thing — cracked wide open and poured itself into his arms, because even though the world outside these walls was sharp and cruel, even though you could feel the future trying to tear you apart already, in that moment, he was enough. He was everything.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his lips brushed your neck — a featherlight touch that sent shivers chasing down your spine — and then he was kissing lower, onto your shoulder, the strap of your dress slipping down your arm under the insistence of his mouth.

Your body betrayed you instantly, leaning back into him, your pulse pounding wild and helpless beneath your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, each word punctuated with a kiss that burned hotter, lower, softer."No one else matters.I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

His hands slid down your sides — warm, steady, reverent — and when you arched instinctively into him, you felt it: the hard, urgent line of his arousal pressing into the small of your back, undeniable, desperate.

"I love you too," you breathed, tilting your head to the side to give him more skin, more access, more of everything he wanted.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound vibrating against your neck, and his hands moved faster now, not rough, but hungrier, slipping under the hem of your dress, mapping the familiar landscape of your body like a man tracing the borders of a country he already owns but never tires of conquering.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice thick, broken, worshipful. "You’re everything."

And standing there — half undressed, half unraveled, completely loved — you believed him.

You believed that love could be enough.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere — frantic, reverent — as he lifts you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like you’re something sacred he’s afraid he’ll break if he isn’t careful, and when he lays you down, the mattress dipping under your back, his gaze devours you with a hunger so raw it leaves you trembling before he’s even touched you properly.

He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm, the other already tugging at the hem of your dress with impatient fingers, and you raise your arms without thinking, letting him peel it off you inch by inch, baring you to the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.His shirt follows quickly — buttons popping loose under his fumbling hands, sleeves yanked off — and then he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, flushed, beautiful, the muscles of his arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside and drops back over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals every thought you ever had.

You moan against his lips as he grinds down into you, the hard line of his cock pressing hot and heavy through the thin barrier of your underwear, his jeans rough against your bare thighs.The friction is maddening — too much and not enough — and you arch against him instinctively, your hands clutching at his back, dragging your nails down the ridges of muscle as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, swallowing the broken gasp you let out into his mouth.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips, grinding into you again, the air between you electric, desperate, filthy. "You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep moving like that, princess."

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy with the heat coiling low in your belly, and nip at his bottom lip, making him groan again, deeper, rougher, before he pulls back just enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones.

He takes his time there, kissing, licking, sucking soft bruises into your skin, before moving lower, capturing one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his hand kneads the other breast greedily.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked with devotion and hunger, and you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucks harder, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper, something almost frantic.

"You," you pant, grinding up into him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything. "Always you."

"Good girl," he rasps, the praise making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

And then he’s kissing down your stomach, dragging your panties down with his teeth, leaving them forgotten at the foot of the bed, and when he settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him, you think you might die from how much you want him.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself, before he licks a slow, devastating stripe up your center, making your hips jerk, your hands fly to his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he groans against you, like he’s the one losing control.

He works you with his mouth until you’re writhing, gasping, begging — filthy, broken sounds spilling from your lips as he sucks your clit between his lips, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right, making your vision white out at the edges.

"Jungkook— fuck — please," you sob, grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing the high building so fast it terrifies you.

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs, teasing you with his breath, his fingers still thrusting slow and deep inside you. "Tell me. Wanna hear you beg for it."

"You," you gasp, shameless, lost. "Need you inside me. Need you now."

He groans again, desperate, wrecked, and kisses your inner thigh before pulling away, climbing back over you, his jeans shoved down just far enough to free his cock, flushed and leaking at the tip.

"You drive me fucking insane," he mutters against your mouth, grinding into your soaked core, making you both moan.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel him, needing to be filled.

"Beg for it," he demands again, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock, just barely pushing inside before pulling back, making you whimper.

"Please, Jungkook," you cry, breathless, broken, desperate. "Need you — need you to fuck me — please —"

That’s all it takes.

With a growl torn from his chest, he pushes into you in one slow, devastating stroke, stretching you, filling you, making you gasp, making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand lifts your leg higher, changing the angle, pushing deeper, hitting places inside you that make you sob. "So tight, so good — always so good for me."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he starts to move, thrusting slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to live there.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, voice shaking. "Like you were made for me."

"Yours," you gasp, clenching around him, loving the way his eyes darken, loving the way he loses control when you say it. "Always yours."

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin obscene, beautiful, necessary.

But then — he flips you, rolling you easily until you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you start to move.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, head falling back against the pillows, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy. "Ride me, baby. Let me see you."

You move — slowly at first, grinding down, rolling your hips — and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper, making you move faster.

"You’re so beautiful," he says, voice wrecked, worshipful. "So fucking beautiful like this — my princess — my fucking queen."

You preen under the praise, loving the way he looks at you, loving the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan every time you clench around him just right, loving the way he can’t even think straight when you’re on top of him.

You ride him harder, faster, rolling your hips the way you know drives him crazy, loving the way his breath stutters in his chest every time you slam down onto him, loving the way his hands clutch your hips like he’s holding onto something sacred he doesn’t want to lose.

"Look at you," Jungkook groans, voice so low and rough it makes you clench around him without meaning to, "riding my cock like you were fucking made for it."

You whimper, heat flashing through your veins at his words, and grind down harder, faster, setting a brutal pace that makes the bed creak beneath you, the headboard thudding faintly against the wall with every desperate movement.

"You like this?" you gasp out, nails dragging down his chest, watching the way his abs tighten under your touch, watching the way his eyes darken impossibly. "You like me using you like this, Kook?"

"Fuck, baby," he curses, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts again, squeezing them greedily as he thrusts up into you, matching your rhythm. "I fucking love it — love watching you fuck yourself on my cock — love how messy you get for me — how wet you are, fuck, you're dripping all over me —"

You moan at his words, at the filth of them, at the way he says it like he worships you, and the pleasure inside you coils tighter, tighter, unbearable.

"You drive me insane," he pants, bucking up harder, dragging guttural sounds from deep inside your chest."You ride me so good, baby — fuck — gonna make me come just from watching you —"

"You’re so big," you whimper, losing yourself completely, grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own high with no shame now, loving the way he watches you like you’re something holy and obscene all at once. "Feel you so deep — filling me up — love it, Jungkook — love you —"

"Say it again," he begs, his voice wrecked, desperate, lost to you. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you gasp, nearly sobbing with it, pressing your palms flat against his heaving chest to steady yourself. "Love you, love your cock, love everything about you —"

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, hips pistoning up into you, chasing your pleasure with frantic, punishing thrusts. "Take it — take everything, baby — it’s all yours —"

You feel the orgasm building, spiraling out of control, and with a shaking hand you grab his wrist, dragging his fingers to your clit, needing more, needing him.

"Touch me," you gasp, voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, need you — need you to make me come —"

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease — just rubs tight, messy circles against your swollen clit with the rough pads of his fingers, fucking into you harder, faster, his mouth open on a gasp as he watches you fall apart above him.

"Come for me," he groans, wrecked, begging. "Show me how good I make you feel — want you to fall apart on my cock — fuck, baby, please —"

And you do — you shatter with a cry, back arching, nails raking down his chest as you come hard, clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so violently your vision goes white at the edges.

Before the last waves of your orgasm even finish crashing through you, Jungkook’s hands are gripping your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back, knocking the breath from your lungs with the sheer force of him, the sheer need — and then he’s pushing into you again, deep and hard and desperate, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside your trembling body.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, doesn’t give you a second to breathe — just fucks into you in long, dragging strokes, slow enough to make you feel every thick inch of him, deep enough to make you cry out again, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, holding him there, locking him to you like you’ll never let him go.

"You’re mine," he gasps against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged and tasting like desperation and devotion."Always fucking mine. No one else gets you — no one else ever fucking will —"

"Yours," you sob, clinging to his back, your nails raking down the slick muscles there, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow, proof that you were here, that you belonged to him in every filthy, holy way.

"You feel so good," he pants, thrusting harder now, the rhythm messy and beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene, perfect sound of your bodies coming together. "So fucking good around me — fuck, baby, you were made for this — made to take me — made to be mine —"

You whimper, lost to him, to the brutal tenderness of it, the way he looks at you like you’re breaking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

"Want you to come inside," you gasp, dragging your nails up his arms, feeling him shudder under your touch. "Want to feel you — want you to fill me up, Jungkook — please —"

He groans like the sound is being ripped from somewhere deep inside him, thrusting deeper, faster, his hips snapping against yours in wild, desperate movements that have you seeing stars.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out, voice wrecked, forehead slipping to your shoulder, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin."Gonna fucking come so deep you’ll feel me for days — fuck, baby, can’t hold it — can’t —"

You tighten your legs around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and he loses it — with a hoarse, broken cry of your name, he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you, his whole body shuddering violently against yours, cock pulsing as he fills you up just like he promised.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your soaking, fluttering walls, his body trembling from the force of it, from the emotion choking both of you.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate bursts against your throat, each exhale brushing hot and trembling over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can feel the way he’s still fighting for control even though it’s already shattered, the way his whole body trembles against you, the way his heart hammers so violently inside his chest you can feel it pounding against your own.

When he finally lifts his head — slow, heavy, reluctant — his hair falls into his eyes, messy and damp from sweat, and you barely recognize the expression on his face, so raw and wrecked and open that it feels like a sin to look at him and a greater sin to look away.

His eyes are glassy, undone, burning with a kind of desperate devotion that punches the air straight out of your lungs, and you realize too late that he’s not just holding your body — he’s holding everything he has left.

You barely manage to blink back the sting of tears before he’s reaching for you again, finding your hands where they lay limp and boneless against the mattress, threading his fingers through yours with a fierce, almost frantic tenderness, squeezing tightly, like if he lets go even for a second, you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.

He keeps your hands pinned above your head, locked against the pillow, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s not the desperate, sloppy thing you expect — it’s slow, reverent, aching, his mouth moving against yours like a promise he’s too afraid to say aloud.

The kiss deepens slowly, messily, lazy and languid, tongues tangling, teeth scraping, lips dragging — a thousand whispered apologies and confessions bleeding between the spaces where your mouths meet and part and meet again.

Every tiny shift of his hips still buried inside you makes you whimper into the kiss — makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his whole body — because even now, even after he’s given you everything, he’s still not satisfied, still not ready to be apart from you, still thrusting shallowly inside you, tiny desperate movements like he’s trying to fuse you together permanently.

His nose brushes yours, clumsy and sweet, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh against your mouth, pure emotion bleeding out of him in every ragged exhale.

"Can't... can't let you go," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking with the weight of it, with how much he means it."You're mine, baby. Always mine. Always, always —"

You squeeze his fingers tighter, pressing your forehead against his, your heart splitting wide open inside your chest, because you can feel it too — the way you still belong to each other, stitched together by something reckless and terrifying and beautiful that no amount of distance or time or heartbreak could ever fully tear apart.

And as he rocks into you again, slow and tender, just to stay connected, just to keep you in his arms a little longer, you kiss him back with everything you have, everything you are, everything you’ll never be able to say.

You don’t know when it happens — maybe in the soft press of his forehead against yours, maybe in the trembling way his hands refuse to let go of yours, maybe in the way your bodies are still joined so completely it feels like one breath between you — but something inside you shifts, something warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile blooming deep in your chest, and for a moment you think you might actually break from how much you love him.

You think about how unfair life has been in so many ways — how you weren’t born into a family with silver-lined houses and gilded bloodlines, how you’ve spent so much of your life feeling like you were always standing on the outside looking in — but none of it seems to matter anymore, not when fate, or luck, or some reckless, merciful god saw fit to gift you with the only treasure that ever really mattered.

Jungkook.

You think, with a fierceness that leaves you trembling, that maybe you weren’t born into riches, but you were still the luckiest person in the world, because somehow, against every odd, you were loved by someone like him — someone who fought the whole world just to keep holding your hand.

You think about the past three years — about finding your way to each other through crowded lecture halls and late-night coffee runs and countless small moments stitched together into something so much bigger than either of you could have imagined — and you realize you’ve never been as happy as you are right now, wrapped up in him, in his messy devotion, in the future you were stupid enough to believe was already written in your favor.

You had friends — good ones.Taehyung with his bright, mischievous smile; Sora with her endless, unconditional love; Sungwon and so many others who filled your days with laughter and reckless plans — but when it came down to it, when the world blurred at the edges, it was always only him.

You needed only Jungkook, and he needed only you.

Even when you fought — and God, you fought — you always knew it was temporary, just a storm passing between two people too stubborn and too desperate to ever really let go.It was never about the two of you. It was always about the others — about the judgment of his parents, about the sharp words whispered behind closed doors — and even then, Jungkook had made it clear where he stood.

He cut them off without hesitation — the gold, the promises, the blood-ties that once weighed him down like anchors.

He built a life with you instead, stubborn and scrappy and achingly beautiful, guided by nothing but your trembling hands and his reckless heart — and somehow, against everything, it had been enough.

You believed in it with a desperation that left no room for doubt: that love like this could survive the world outside your window, that he would catch you when you fell, fight for you when you bled, hold on even when everything else told him to let go.

You were the luckiest girl in the world — and lying there beneath him, your fingers locked together like a prayer you hadn't realized you'd been whispering for years, you truly believed that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Because back then, you still believed forever could be real. Back then, you still believed love like this was enough to save you both.

You believed that nights like this could hold back the tide of everything waiting to destroy you. And that Jungkook — your Jungkook — would be the one thing in this world that never broke.

The next morning, sunlight bleeds soft and golden through the thin curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and discarded clothes and the two of you, still wrapped together, still skin to skin, still smelling of sweat and sex and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like forever.

You wake first — blinking slowly, drowsily, your body aching in the most delicious ways — and for a long, perfect moment, you just lay there, staring at him, at the boy who somehow managed to crawl inside your chest and build a home there without you ever realizing it was happening.

Jungkook is sprawled on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head, his other hand still loosely tangled in the sheet that barely covers either of you, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — messy hair, flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised lips parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still dreaming about you even now.

You can’t help yourself.

Your fingers move without permission, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the muscles shifting slightly under your touch, warm and firm and familiar, and you take your time — outlining the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the sheet — memorizing him, hoarding him, because some part of you already knows you’ll never love anyone like this again.

He stirs under your touch, a low, sleepy groan rumbling deep in his chest, and before you can even think about pulling away, his hand is shooting out, grabbing your wrist and dragging you down for a kiss — lazy, messy, desperate in the way only mornings can make kisses desperate.

You giggle against his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to tease, "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, trouble," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open but his mouth already chasing yours again, already greedy for more.

You shift slightly — intending only to reposition yourself — but when you move, you can feel it: the hard, heavy press of his morning erection against your thigh, hot and insistent and utterly unignorable.

You smirk against his lips, pulling back just enough to glance down, and then back up at him with a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

"Someone’s awake," you whisper, sliding your hand slowly, wickedly, down his chest, your nails grazing lightly over his abs, watching with smug satisfaction as his whole body tenses under your touch.

"You’re evil," Jungkook groans, head tipping back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck flexing beautifully as he tries and fails to control himself."Pure fucking evil."

You laugh, delighted, and throw one leg over his hips, straddling him easily, feeling the thick, twitching heat of him pressing against your bare core through the thin layer of the sheet.

"Am I?" you ask, feigning innocence as you grind down ever so slightly, making him curse under his breath, making his hands fly to your hips like he can’t help it. "I thought you liked me like this."

"Like you?" he rasps, his voice cracking deliciously. "Baby, I fucking worship you."

The words burn through you, leaving you flushed and reckless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin — above his heart, across the slope of his pecs, down the tight ridges of his stomach — while he fists the sheets, his muscles trembling under your tongue.

"You’re killing me," he groans, head thrashing slightly against the pillow as you kiss lower, lower, lower still.

"Good," you whisper against his hipbone, laughing softly when he growls in frustration.

And then — slow, deliberate, teasing — you trace your lips along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock throbbing against your mouth, so big and thick and perfect you almost moan at the taste of him, the sheer heat of him.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses, his hands flying to your hair, not to force you down but to anchor himself, to keep from losing his mind completely.

You lick him lazily, dragging your tongue from base to tip, savoring the way he twitches against your mouth, savoring the broken sounds falling from his lips, savoring the way his thighs tremble under your palms.

"You’re so big, baby," you murmur against him, your voice sweet and filthy all at once. "So hard for me. You want me that bad?"

"Always," he gasps, his hands tightening in your hair. "Fuck, baby, you’re so good — driving me fucking insane —"

You giggle breathlessly and press teasing kisses all over his length along the thick vein pulsing along the underside, nipping playfully at the swollen head, loving the way his hips jerk up off the bed like he can’t help it, like he needs you too much to stay still.

"Please," he groans, utterly wrecked now, his voice shaking, desperate. "Please, baby, please suck me — need your mouth so bad — fuck, need to feel you —"

You finally take pity on him — finally wrap your lips around the flushed, leaking tip — and the sound he makes is nothing short of obscene, a strangled moan that punches straight into your core.

You suck slowly at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, hollowing your cheeks to create a suction that has him cursing, babbling, begging.

"God, you’re so fucking good," he pants, hips thrusting shallowly up into your mouth."Look at you — look so pretty with my cock in your mouth — fuck, baby, you’re made for this — made to suck me off —"

You moan around him, the vibrations making him curse even louder, and then you take him deeper, swallowing inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat, until he’s gasping your name like a prayer, until his hands are trembling in your hair.

You bob your head faster, working him with your mouth and your hand, feeling him grow even harder, even heavier against your tongue, until you know he’s close — until you feel his thighs tensing, his breath catching, his hands fisting desperately in your hair.

"Baby — fuck — gonna come —" he warns, his voice raw, frantic.

You suck harder, faster, moaning around him, and with a broken, hoarse cry, Jungkook falls apart, spilling hot and salty down your throat, his body jerking helplessly, his mouth falling open in a silent, beautiful scream.

You swallow everything, licking him clean, savoring the taste of him, savoring the way he collapses back against the bed like he’s been hollowed out, like you’ve stolen every thought he ever had except for you.

And when you finally lift your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Like you hung the fucking stars just for him.

You crawl back up his body slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of warm, trembling skin under your palms, and when you finally reach him, when you finally meet his mouth again, he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’ll never get enough, like he’s still drunk on everything you just gave him and desperate for more.

It’s a messy, perfect kiss — mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, gasps and laughter bleeding into each other until neither of you knows where you end and he begins — and when you finally break apart, panting against each other’s lips, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to savor the weight of you pressed so completely against him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks — just breathing each other in, suspended there, floating somewhere that isn’t entirely the world and isn’t entirely a dream either — and when he does finally find his voice, it’s rough, low, laced with something too big for either of you to name.

"I know," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, "that we live in a bubble."

You blink, lazy and drowsy and sated, but he just smiles — that soft, crooked smile he only ever gives you when it’s late and the world feels far away.

"I know," he says again, threading his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like something precious. "That out there—" He jerks his chin vaguely toward the window, toward the city waking up beyond the glass. "—the world is still waiting for us. Still expecting things from us. Still trying to pull us apart."

You frown at that, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten, pouting without meaning to, your voice soft and bratty and unbearably adorable when you mumble, "I don't want the world."

He chuckles, the sound low and full of something aching and infinite, and pulls you tighter against him, like he can shield you from everything with the sheer force of his body alone.

"You," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, each one softer than the last, "are my whole world."

And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, endless — you realize it’s true.

In this little bubble made of tangled sheets and whispered promises and reckless hope, there is no city, no parents, no expectations, no fear.

present time

The fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror buzz faintly, a cruel, ugly sound in the soft, gilded hush of the wedding venue, and for a long, dizzying moment, you just stand there — your palms flat against the cold marble counter, your chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon you didn’t realize you’d started until it was too late.

Your reflection stares back at you, wild-eyed and red-rimmed, mascara smudged in soft gray shadows beneath lashes that flutter helplessly against the tears you can’t seem to stop.

You try. God, you try. You dab at your eyes with trembling fingers, blotting the damage, smoothing your hair, painting a brittle, empty smile onto your mouth — the kind of smile that fools no one and saves nothing, but maybe buys you just enough time to get the hell out of here before the weight of the past buries you alive.

Your heart still races from the memory, from the aftershocks of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your mouth, his voice breathing love into the hollow places you hadn’t even realized existed until he filled them.

You stand there, willing yourself to move, whispering that the past can’t touch you anymore, that you’ve outgrown this kind of pain — that you have to be stronger than you feel.

But grief — true grief — has no sense of time, no mercy for logic or willpower; it doesn't politely fade into the background like an old scar — it waits, it sleeps under your skin, and then one careless thought, one familiar smell, one remembered kiss, and it awakens ravenous, dragging you back under as easily as if you had never crawled out at all.

You draw a shuddering breath, taste salt and bitterness on your tongue, and turn away from the mirror before you can shatter completely.

The wedding hall is a kaleidoscope of color and noise as you step back into it — laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking together like tiny, mocking bells — and for a moment the world tilts under your feet, the sheer vibrancy of it so at odds with the funeral you feel unfolding in your own chest.

Someone calls your name — a polite, curious lilt — and you manage a weak smile, nodding vaguely at a group of guests you barely recognize.

"Leaving so soon?" a woman asks, genuine surprise softening her features.

You mutter something about a headache, about early work tomorrow, about anything that isn’t I’m drowning and if I stay here another second I will die where I stand.

You make it halfway across the floor before you feel it — that unmistakable pull, that gravity that never stopped tying you to him even after everything tore apart.

You look up, helpless against the instinct, and there he is — Jungkook, across the room, frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he can feel you slipping through his fingers all over again.

For just a moment, it’s there — the worry, the confusion, the stunned, aching tenderness he still hasn’t managed to bury.

But beneath it, something harsher stirs — raw and unrecognizable, dark enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

It flickers at the edge of him — in the slight tremble of his hand as he sets his drink down too fast, in the faint glassiness in his gaze that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with exhaustion, with habits he can’t seem to outrun.

He looks... thinner, somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like the success sewn into the cut of his expensive suit is holding together a body that's burning itself out from the inside.

It twists inside you, sharp and familiar, because you recognize that look — the hollow stretch of someone slipping out of their own skin, the weight of a world too heavy to carry sober, the slow erosion of time when surviving becomes the only thing left. Even after everything — after the betrayal, after the years — your heart still aches for him without permission, as natural and inevitable as breathing.

The years sharpened him: the expensive suit, the calculated ease — but none of it masks the way he carries his grief like a splinter buried too deep to remove. And somehow, with a clarity that feels like a blade to your ribs, you understand: no matter how high he climbed, no matter how much he built, some part of him never moved forward either.

Something inside him still folded back to you. He takes a step forward, almost involuntary, like he doesn't realize he's doing it — but it’s enough. It’s too much. You break the gaze like it burns, shove your way through the crowd, nearly tripping in your haste to reach the door.

The evening air slaps your face, cool and sharp, as you stumble outside, waving frantically for the first taxi that slows down, ignoring the concerned calls of a few lingering guests.

You hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind you — faster now, urgent — and you don't have to turn around to know it's him.

You keep your eyes down, refusing to look and to hope. You dive into the taxi, slam the door, choke out your address to the driver with a voice you barely recognize as your own.

The car pulls away, and you catch a final, fleeting glimpse of him through the window — Jungkook standing alone on the curb, hands clenching uselessly at his sides, his face carved into an expression that looks far too much like grief to belong to someone who supposedly moved on.

A vicious thought flickers through you — wondering if he feels the same hollow ache, if the hatred ever faded, or if somewhere deep down he never stopped loving you.

The city blurs past — streetlights smearing into liquid gold, shop windows flashing by like tiny, glittering ghosts — and you press your forehead against the cool glass, your breath fogging a small circle into the world you can no longer reach.

The thing about loss is that everyone tells you it gets easier. That time smooths out the jagged edges, that grief dulls like an old knife, that someday you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt to remember. But the truth — the ugly, merciless truth — is that time doesn’t move forward at all.

It folds, bends you back into the shape of your own broken heart, trapping you inside memories you thought you had outlived, making you relive every kiss, every fight, every promise you failed to keep as if it’s happening right now, as if it will always be happening, as if you will never truly escape the moment you realized forever wasn't a promise after all — it was just another kind of lie.

The taxi carries you deeper into the night, but part of you never moves at all — still trapped six years ago, clinging to the boy who held you through every storm, still bleeding in the ruins of everything you couldn’t save — and maybe, you realize, some pieces of you always will be.

***

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and wet paint when you stumble through the door, still half-frozen from the chill outside, your thin jacket doing little to protect you from the colder, heavier things clinging to your skin.

Minho is slouched on the battered couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees, his pencil tapping absently against the paper in a restless rhythm, and he looks up at you with surprise when he hears the door click shut.

"Back so soon?" he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if you’re real or just a ghost wandering in from the street.

You shrug, forcing a small smile that feels brittle and wrong on your face. "It was boring without you," you lie, peeling off your shoes, your jacket, your skin, your heart.

He smiles — small, touched — and you hate yourself a little for the way you can’t feel anything when you look at him.

Because it isn’t the wedding you fled from.

It wasn’t the guests or the champagne or the polite conversations that drove you out like a storm looking for somewhere to crash.

Jungkook, standing across the room like a living wound you couldn't stop bleeding from, his eyes carving you open in places you thought had long since scarred over.

How predictably stupid it was to think that six years of silence — six years of precision avoidance, of carefully stepping around mutual friends and blocked numbers and old memories — could survive a single collision without splintering into a thousand sharp-edged regrets.

You told yourself — foolishly, naively — that you could be normal tonight, that you could smile and toast and laugh at old jokes without shattering, that you could pretend you hadn’t once built a whole life inside his arms only to lose it all in a breath.

You laugh under your breath — a dry, humorless thing — as you drift toward the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower before he can ask any more questions.

The hot water scalds your skin, but it does nothing to burn him out of you. You press your forehead to the cool tile, water pouring down your back like tears you refuse to shed where anyone might hear, and you find yourself whispering silent, stupid prayers to a world that stopped listening to you a long time ago.

You beg the water, the walls, the hollow silence — anything — to take it away, to stop the endless aching, to grant you even a moment’s relief. But grief doesn’t listen.

It isn’t a wound that scabs over, or a fever that breaks; it is a parasite, patient and merciless, sinking its teeth into your ribs, your spine, your lungs, gnawing through every part of you until you forget there was ever a time you were whole.

When you finally step out, you feel no cleaner than before, just wetter, colder, heavier.

You towel your hair half-heartedly, throw on a worn sweater and sweatpants, and emerge from the bathroom with the blank, practiced face of someone who knows how to act normal when the world expects it.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice the cracks you’re bleeding from. He tosses his pencil onto the coffee table and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair.

"Club canceled the gig again," he mutters, frustration curling under his words like smoke. "Said they’re cutting back on live performances."

You offer him a tired, sympathetic noise — something noncommittal — as you collapse into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into your bones like a second skeleton.

"I should probably find another part-time job," you say absently, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing down like a hand around your throat.

Minho hums, toeing off his sneakers with a grunt. "Maybe we’re just idiots," he says after a moment, not cruel, just tired. "Thinking we could survive as artists in a world like this."

A faint, broken smile tugs at your mouth — because isn’t that the cruelest joke of all? Not the falling apart, but the fact that, for one bright, reckless moment, you believed you could win.

"Maybe," you whisper, voice almost lost to the hum of the cheap refrigerator rattling in the kitchen.

He tilts his head, studying you with a quiet frown. "Since when did you stop believing?"

You only sit there, silent, because there’s nothing left inside you that knows how to answer. Because the truth is — you stopped believing the night Jungkook walked away.

Not because Minho isn’t good enough, not because you don’t love your art anymore — but because something inside you shattered that night, something vital, something sacred.

But because when Jungkook accused you, when he looked at you like you were something dirty, something cheap, something less — it broke more than your heart.

It shattered more than your heart — it stripped you of the faith you once had in yourself, the belief that you were someone capable of being loyal.

And no matter how many paintings you hung on cold gallery walls, no matter how many late shifts you survived or coffees you poured or exhibitions you faked your way through, you never really found her again — the girl who believed she deserved to be loved without shame.

You glance at Minho, who has already gone back to sketching, his pencil moving in soft, furious strokes across the page, and you feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles you over.

He is good, and he is kind — steady in ways that should have made you feel safe, in ways that deserve something better than the hollowed-out version of you still clawing through the wreckage.

Minho deserves someone whole. Not this — a girl still haunted by a boy she couldn't bury, still stitched together with threads too thin to hold under real weight.

You press your palms against your thighs, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, and the thought slips in, unwelcome but familiar — that maybe grief is not something you outlive, but something you learn to carry, heavier with every passing year.

If some loves do not die cleanly, if they rot instead — festering quietly inside you, hollowing out everything they once touched — then maybe that decay is the only thing you have left to claim as yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

Time doesn’t heal wounds so much as it teaches you how to live around them — teaches you how to carry them in the quiet spaces between conversations, how to fold them neatly into your chest where no one else can see, how to laugh and nod and keep moving even when the old pain still howls beneath your skin.

You learn that grief becomes a kind of muscle memory — a reflex, a twitch just beneath the surface — and eventually you stop noticing the way you flinch when the world presses too hard against the places you are still bleeding.

You learn to live with it, folding the weight into your bones until it feels almost natural. You master the art of pretending — smiling, nodding, breathing like you're whole — and you almost convince yourself it's enough, until something sharp and familiar tears the stitches open all over again.

It’s been a week since the wedding.

A week of avoiding every thought that bears his face, every memory that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. A week of moving through your days on autopilot, smiling when expected, speaking when required, dying quietly in the spaces between.

When Sora’s message pings onto your phone, you almost don’t answer.

Sora:"Hey love, can you meet me at Primrose Café today? Need help planning honeymoon stuff! 🤍"

You hesitate — thumb hovering over the screen — but guilt sinks its teeth into your ribs and drags you under.

You owe her — more than silence, more than your fear, more than the cowardice clawing up your throat. So you tell yourself it’s fine, that he won’t be there, that it’s just coffee, simple, harmless, easy — but the lie tastes bitter even before you swallow it.

The café bells chime softly as you push the door open, the warm smell of roasted beans and vanilla flooding your senses — and for a brief, stupid moment, you allow yourself to relax, to believe that maybe today will be easy.

And then you see him. Jungkook is already seated at a corner table, his hands folded stiffly around a coffee cup he isn’t drinking from, his eyes dark and unreadable under the soft light.

The world tilts. Your stomach drops through the floor.

You freeze, every muscle locking tight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, to run — but then you see Sora, waving you over with that bright, frantic smile she only uses when she knows she’s asking for forgiveness before the crime has even been committed.

You move because standing still feels worse — because running has never really saved you, only delayed the inevitable.

You slide into the seat across from him, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, feeling the air thicken around you, feeling the familiar prickle of his gaze skating over your skin like a brand you can’t scrub off.

Sora clears her throat awkwardly, twisting a napkin between her fingers.

"I know this is... a lot," she says, voice too loud, too brittle. "But I just— I love you both. And with me and Tae... with everything changing... I just want us to be able to be around each other without... without it being like this."

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on Sora, on the way her hands shake slightly while she bites her lip like she’s scared you’ll hate her for this.

You could never. She’s the only reason you still have anyone at all.

"I’m not asking you to be friends," she rushes on, voice cracking slightly. "Just— just civil. For me. For family events. Holidays. Birthdays. I don’t want to have to choose between the two people who mattered most to me for so long."

The weight of it all presses down harder.

You nod because it’s the only thing you can do without breaking apart in public.

Sora’s face softens, relief flooding her features, and she reaches across the table to squeeze your hand briefly before rising to her feet.

"I’m gonna give you two a moment," she says, and before you can protest — before you can even breathe — she’s gone, leaving you alone in the heavy, aching silence of too many unsaid things.

You feel his gaze on you — steady, sharp, unbearable — and for a long moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up.

But eventually, inevitably, you do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, the past hits you like a tidal wave — dragging you back to the night everything shattered, the night you learned that some betrayals don't bleed out cleanly but rot inside you for years.

The night everything you believed in burned to ash in his hands — the same night you lost him, and somewhere along the way, yourself too.

Six years ago

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind of suffocating stillness that clings to your skin, and you had been sitting alone in your small apartment, half-listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, your sketchpad abandoned at your feet, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and slow, like maybe — finally — you could start piecing yourself back together after the stupid little fight you had with him a week ago.

You weren’t expecting anything.

Which is why the furious, violent banging at your door made you jump so hard you nearly toppled off the couch, your heart slamming against your ribs as a thousand terrible possibilities flashed through your mind — none of them preparing you for the sight waiting on the other side.

Jungkook.

But not the Jungkook you knew — not the boy who used to kiss you until the world melted away, not the boy who used to call you his princess like it was a sacred word.

This Jungkook looked like something broken loose from a storm — wild eyes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his rage, with his grief.

"Who is he?" he choked out the moment you opened the door, his voice raw, splintered at the edges."Tell me who the fuck he is, Y/N."

You blinked at him, confused, terrified, stepping back instinctively as he stormed past you into the apartment, his presence filling the small space with something frantic and electric and wrong.

"Jungkook, what are you talking about?" you asked, your voice shaking, your hands reaching out to him without thinking — but he jerked away like your touch burned him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together."I saw it! I fucking saw it — you and him — you telling him you loved him like I meant nothing!"

The words didn't make sense.

They slammed against your brain but refused to stick, refused to arrange themselves into anything real, anything you could understand.

"I— I don't—" you stammered, tears already welling up because the look on his face — God, the look — was worse than anger, worse than hatred.

It was betrayal, heartbreak — and somehow, impossibly, you had been the one to put it there, even if you didn’t understand how.

"You're protecting him," he spat, eyes glinting wet under the cheap ceiling light. "You love him that much, huh? You love him so much you'd throw everything away?"

"No!" you cried, stepping closer, desperate, frantic. "Jungkook, I swear to you — I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

But whether he didn't listen or simply couldn't anymore, it made no difference — the part of him that once trusted you was already too broken to reach and had already shattered beyond repair.

He shook his head, laughing hollowly, wiping his mouth like he was trying to scrub the taste of you from his skin, and then he was gone — slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook, that your bones rattled inside you.

You stood there for a long time after, staring at the door, at the emptiness he left behind, feeling something inside you collapse so completely it left nothing but ashes in its wake.

You called, you texted, you sat up all night watching your phone flicker to life and die again, over and over, until even the light felt like a knife against your eyes — and still, he never answered.

And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you understood that this wasn’t a fight you could fix with an apology or a kiss or a whispered promise under the covers.

This was something bigger and fatal. Days passed — long, gray, aching.

When he finally agreed to meet, it wasn’t at your apartment. It was somewhere neutral, somewhere cold — a small, empty parking lot behind a coffee shop you used to visit when you were too broke for anything but each other's company.

You spotted him leaning against his car, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the tension vibrating through him even from yards away. You approached cautiously, heart hammering against your ribs, clutching your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from whatever was about to happen.

He didn’t speak at first — just unlocked his phone with shaking fingers and shoved it toward you, and you saw the images, the videos, spilling across the screen like a slow, relentless gutting.

You — in a too-short dress you didn’t remember wearing — laughing too loudly, leaning too close to a stranger, kissing someone whose face you couldn't place, slurring out words you didn't recognize as your own — "I don't care about anything. I love you. I love you."

You stared at the screen, horror blooming in your chest so fast and so hard you thought you might be sick.

"I—" you stammered, throat closing, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the phone."I don't— I didn't—"

But you couldn't say it with certainty. You remembered going out that night after your fight, remembered the sharp, desperate need to forget how much it hurt when he raised his voice, when he walked away. You remembered drinking too much, laughing too hard.

But after that, your memory dissolves — slipping into darkness, into empty spaces where something should have been, leaving you grasping at shadows that will never take shape.

"Say something," Jungkook rasped, his voice barely more than a breath now."Fucking say something, Y/N."

You lifted your eyes to him, saw the devastation there, saw the way he was barely holding himself upright — and you realized, with bone-deep certainty, that you had destroyed him.

You had destroyed everything beautiful you had built together — every late-night secret, every whispered promise, every desperate, trembling hope — crushed under the weight of one stupid, reckless night you could barely even remember.

"It’s not real," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue."It can’t be real."

But doubt had already sunk its teeth into you, gnawing at every fragile truth you thought you knew, until even the ground beneath your feet felt like it was crumbling away.

"I need you," you whispered again, broken, desperate, hating yourself for even daring to ask when you were the reason he was bleeding out in front of you."I need you, Jungkook. Please. Now more than never."

For a heartbeat, something soft and familiar cracked through his face — something that looked almost like the boy who once loved you without fear — but it withered too fast, collapsing into bitterness, into fury, into a sadness so sharp it barely looked human.

"You needed someone to pay your bills," he snarled, stepping back like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "You needed someone to lift you out of your shit life, and I was dumb enough to think you actually loved me."

The words sliced clean through you, sharper than any knife.

"I never—" you tried to say, but your voice cracked, the tears spilling over now, unstoppable, humiliating.

He laughed — a hollow, broken sound — and wiped his mouth again like he could still taste your betrayal.

"You played me," he said. "You played me, and I fucking let you."

And then he was gone again — turning away, walking off into the night — leaving you standing there under the flickering streetlights, broken, abandoned, a ghost of the girl you used to be.

Present time

The silence between you stretches so taut it feels like it might snap and slice both of you open, and when you finally blink, the café shifts back into focus — cold coffee on the table, the faint scratch of chairs against wood, the distant hum of conversations you can't quite catch.

Jungkook is still sitting there, watching you with an expression that isn’t hatred, not exactly, but something worse — something exhausted, something hollowed-out, something like a man still bleeding from wounds that never truly closed.

You straighten in your seat, fingers tangling awkwardly in the hem of your sweater, your mouth dry, your heart thudding against your ribs like a battered bird desperate to escape.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first.

"You still painting?" he asks, voice low and rough, like it scrapes his throat just to speak to you.

You nod, barely, afraid if you use your voice it might crack apart.

"And still working those shitty jobs?" he adds, the corner of his mouth curling into something bitter, something that was never his real smile.

"Yeah," you whisper, and it sounds so small you almost hate yourself for it.

He doesn’t respond at first — just looks at you, and for a moment you think he might say something else, something sharp or cruel — but his gaze drops to his hands instead, to the way they tremble slightly as he grips the paper cup, knuckles whitening.

Your throat tightens.

You notice it then — the way the shadows cling too tightly under his eyes, the way his skin looks drawn and dry, the way his body seems almost too light in the chair like he's been losing something important slowly and no one cared enough to notice.

Without thinking, without weighing the danger, you lean in slightly, voice breaking through the shield you’ve built around yourself.

"Are you okay?"

The words are soft, tentative — a whisper stretched thin with guilt and fear — and for a second, just a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something startled and hurt and unbearably familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Jungkook huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing not with malice but with a tired kind of disbelief.

"You don’t get to ask me that anymore," he says, and the way he says it — low and tired and irrevocably sad — stings worse than any shout could have.

You drop your gaze, staring at the table between you, counting the little scratches and coffee stains like maybe if you focus hard enough they’ll tell you what to say, how to breathe, how to survive this.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, struggling under the weight of everything that’s never been said. And then — so low you almost don’t catch it — he murmurs:

"It’s funny, isn’t it?"

You look up, and there’s something broken and almost wistful in the curve of his mouth, something too raw to be a smile.

"So many years," he says, voice rough, thick with the kind of grief that doesn’t dull, "and it still fucking hurts."

You swallow hard, your throat burning, your hands curling into fists in your lap just to keep from reaching for him.

"Me too," you whisper, the truth of it carving fresh wounds into your lungs.

He turns his gaze on you then, sharp and cutting, and the tenderness in his features vanishes like smoke.

"Then why don’t you just confess it already?" he snaps, and for once it doesn’t sound cruel — just desperate, like he’s begging you to make sense of the senseless wreckage you both live inside.

Your chest caves inward.

"I didn’t cheat," you say, the words trembling between your lips, and you hate the way your voice shakes, hate the way the tears well up without permission, blurring the world around you.

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid.

"Don’t," he says, voice low and strict, the command so familiar it punches straight through your ribs. "Don't you dare cry. You don’t get to cry. You did this to me."

And maybe you would have obeyed and swallowed the tears like broken glass and let them shred you from the inside. But the truth rises before you can stop it, ugly and shaking and alive.

"I was pregnant."

The words tear themselves from your mouth, leaving you gasping, weightless in their aftermath, as the world around you collapses into a silence so complete it hums inside your skull — your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your eyes locking helplessly onto Jungkook as he goes rigid across from you, his body stiffening, his face freezing, until he looks less like a man and more like something carved from stone.

You stay frozen too, trapped in the wreckage of the moment, breathless, unmoored — suspended in that terrible space where time folds in on itself, where every grief you thought you had buried, every memory you thought you had survived, comes roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Across the table, Jungkook stares — not with anger, not even with disbelief, but with the hollow, shell-shocked emptiness of someone standing at the edge of their own undoing, with no ground left to stand on.

part 2

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