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jungkoode · 4 months ago

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Strings Attached (to my heart)

→ PAIRING : Spider-Man!Jungkook x F!Reader

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: January 20, 2025.

→ GOAL FOR PART 2: 1000 notes. ✔️ NEXT

→ SUMMARY : You were a journalist at Yonsei University when you started noticing the strange coincidences between your favorite bumbling freshman and Seoul's newest superhero. The way Spider-Man's voice cracks on 'noona' exactly like Jungkook's does. The way they both bring you the same snacks, have the same nervous energy, the same tendency to ramble when flustered. You tell yourself it's just a coincidence, because the alternative means admitting something you're absolutely not ready to deal with.

→ TAGS : second person perspective used, female pronouns used, college au, spider-man au, noona kink, slight age gap (he’s 21, she’s 24ish), dry humping, virgin jungkook, first time, inexperienced jk, creaming his pants, sexual content, explicit content, library smut, clothed getting off, breast play, grinding, praise kink, crying during sex, crying after sex, embarrassment kink, humiliation kink, slight dom reader x sub jungkook, size difference, pining, jungkook has a big fat crush on you, secret identity, touch starved, protective jungkook, closet sexual activities, desperate jungkook, gentle domming, aftercare, emotional intimacy, fluff and smut, Korean setting, university setting.

→ PLAYLIST: set the vibes.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 11.8k

→ A/N: Hi everyone! Welcome to my first attempt at a Spidey!JK AU, where he somehow manages to be an even bigger mess than Peter Parker 😭. This story is very close to my heart because it dives into the dynamic between a confident noona and her adorably flustered freshman—who just so happens to be Seoul’s clumsy new superhero. To be honest, this Spiderkook oneshot was heavily inspired by Tangie, aka @rpwprpwprpwprw (love you bb!!!). I’d been lowkey daydreaming about Spiderkook for ages but thought, “Nah, that’s too silly.” Then I discovered there’s an entire community sharing the same brain cell as me??? Like, you’re welcome for my service, I guess?? Originally, this was supposed to be a short, smutty 5k romp. But do you think I can write smut without plot? I CAN’T. IT’S A MEDICAL CONDITION. Now it’s a 12k beast with feelings, webs, and chaos. Sorry (but not really). If you enjoy this, I might turn it into a mini-series because, let’s be honest, spider powers in… certain scenarios… sound very intriguing. Hihihi. Hope you enjoy this mess I’ve unleashed on the world! 🕸️

Edit: also, yeah. Tae is older than Jimin and Jungkook here because my sleep deprived brain slapped a ‘hyung’ on Jimin’s mouth and I’m not editing again. (≖͞_≖̥)

The thing about Spider-Man is that he reminds you too much of a certain freshman.

A freshman named Jeon Jungkook who keeps hovering around the journalism building with his messy hair and his wide eyes and his endless supply of convenience store snacks.

You've been telling yourself it's just a coincidence. The way Spider-Man's voice cracks on 'noona' exactly like Jungkook's does. The way they both bring you the same snacks, have the same nervous energy, the same tendency to ramble when they're flustered. It's just a coincidence, because the alternative means admitting something you're absolutely not ready to deal with.

Maybe that's why you're hiding in August Coffee, your usual spot tucked away in one of Sinchon's winding side streets.

The late autumn breeze carries the scent of roasted coffee beans through the open window, and your laptop screen glows with half-finished articles and interview transcripts. Your notebook lies open beside a rapidly cooling americano while the café's jazz playlist provides a gentle backdrop to your furious typing. You're on a deadline for tomorrow's paper, and the last thing you need is—

A flash of red and blue swings past the window.

You pretend not to notice. Maybe if you focus hard enough on your screen, he'll take the hint and—

"Noona!"

—of course he doesn't.

There he is, hanging upside down outside the second-floor window, the eyes of his mask wide and eager. A plastic convenience store bag dangles from his hand, swaying in the autumn wind. Several patrons are already pulling out their phones, and you can feel your carefully cultivated productivity slipping away.

"No," you say firmly, not looking up from your laptop.

"But noona—" His voice cracks on the honorific, and you absolutely refuse to find it endearing. "I haven't even said anything yet!"

"I'm working." You take a pointed sip of your americano, grimacing when you realize it's gone cold. Perfect. "Some of us have actual responsibilities, Spider-Boy."

"I brought you snacks!" He awkwardly maneuvers through the window—you're not sure if the owner keeps it open for him specifically or if he's just that persistent. "You know, the ones you like with the matcha filling? The new ones from that fancy Japanese brand?"

You pause, fingers hovering over your keyboard. "How do you know I like the ones with matcha filling?"

"Uh—" Even through the mask, you can tell he's flustered. His hands fidget with the plastic bag. "Lucky guess? Not that I know you, noona. Uh, I mean, you look like a noona. Not that I know for a fact you're a noona—"

"Stop talking." You pinch the bridge of your nose, painfully aware of the phones still recording this interaction. This will definitely end up on some university Instagram page later. Again. "You're making it worse."

He deflates slightly, shoulders hunching in that familiar way that reminds you too much of a certain someone who keeps "accidentally" running into you at the journalism building. The same one who somehow always knows your coffee order and brings you snacks you oh so casually mention fancying—

No. You're not going there. You're not connecting those dots, because connecting those dots leads to complications you absolutely don't need in your final year.

"I can leave if you want," he offers, but he's already approaching, placing the snacks on your table with careful precision. "But you've been here for four hours, and you always forget to eat when you're working on a big story."

You stare at him. "How do you know how long I've been here?"

"I, uh—" His mask's eyes widen comically. "Spider-sense?"

"That's not how spider-sense works."

"You don't know how my spider-sense works! Maybe it's... hungry-noona-sense?"

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, and you quickly cover it with a cough. "That's the worst excuse you've come up with yet."

"Yet!" He perks up. "So you're keeping track?"

"Go away." You open the snack bag anyway, pretending not to notice how he straightens up eagerly when you do. "Don't you have a city to protect or something?"

"Seoul can handle itself for ten minutes while I make sure my favorite n—while I make sure hardworking journalists eat properly."

You raise an eyebrow at the slip, and he fidgets under your gaze. "Your favorite what?"

"Nothing! No one! Just, you know, doing my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man duties. Very friendly. Very neighborly. Nothing specific or personal about it at all."

You bite into one of the matcha-filled snacks—they're fresh, which means he must have bought them recently. Specifically for you. Just like how a certain freshman keeps bringing you fresh triangle kimbap from the convenience store near your morning lecture hall...

No. Stop it. You're not doing this.

"Sit down," you sigh, pushing the chair across from you out with your foot. "And stay quiet, or I’ll kick you out."

He practically collapses into the chair, bag already placed on the table. You notice his hands shaking slightly, and something in your chest tightens.

You shouldn't find it endearing. You really, really shouldn't.

But then again, you probably shouldn't find anything about this situation endearing — a masked vigilante bringing you sweets in the middle of your favorite cafe, stammering through excuses that sound exactly like the ones Jungkook uses when you catch him "accidentally" walking the same way as you after class.

You really need to stop noticing these things.

You try to refocus on your notes after that, but it's hard—mostly because Spider-Man is still sitting there. Quietly. Staring.

And not in a "just glancing around the cafe" kind of way, either. No, he's full-on watching you, eyes darting between the scribbles in your notebook, the crumbs on your plate, and, worst of all, your face. Like you're the most fascinating thing in the world. Like he's never seen someone drink a mediocre americano and type furiously into Google Docs before.

It goes on for five minutes. Five full, agonizing minutes of silence, punctuated only by the occasional click of your keyboard and the muted sounds of espresso machines in the background.

Finally, you sigh, your fingers pausing mid-typing. "Don't you have better stuff to do?"

"No." The response is immediate. Too immediate. His tone is absurdly casual, like the very idea that Spider-Man—the literal defender of Seoul—could have anything more important than sitting in August Coffee and bothering you is completely ridiculous.

You raise a brow, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "No supervillains to fight? No cats stuck in trees? Nothing?"

"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' for emphasis. "Pretty quiet day."

You shake your head and turn your attention back to your laptop. "Must be nice."

There's a pause. You can feel him shifting in his seat, the chair creaking slightly under his weight, and when he speaks again, his voice is just shy of hesitant.

"How are the pastries? Do you like them?"

Your fingers freeze over your keyboard. Slowly, you turn to face him again, narrowing your eyes.

"You didn't spit in them, did you?"

"Wha—no!" he sputters, his whole posture stiffening in obvious horror. "Why—why would I—noona, I would never spit in your pastries!"

You let him sweat for a second longer, just to amuse yourself, before breaking into a small, satisfied smirk.

"Relax, Spider-Boy. I'm kidding." You reach for the bag of snacks he brought. "Yeah, they're good. Wanna try?"

His eyes widen a little—well, as much as they can through that mask—and he seems to hesitate, like he's not sure if you're serious or trying to bait him again. You wave one of the pastries in his direction. He glances at it, then back at you, before finally nodding.

"Okay. Yeah, sure."

You watch as he carefully rolls his mask up just to his nose, revealing his mouth for the first time. You don't know what you expected, but… it's a good mouth. Maybe annoyingly good, given how little you want to admit that very obvious fact to yourself. Full lips, slightly pink, with just the faintest hint of nervousness as he bites at his bottom lip before leaning forward.

He takes a bite of the pastry you're holding out to him, and the pleased groan he lets out immediately makes you regret offering him anything at all.

"God, that's delicious," he mumbles around his mouthful, crumbs falling onto his suit. He barely finishes chewing before continuing. "Now I know why you like them so much. I mean—why people say they're so good. Not you specifically. Just, you know, people."

You snort, shaking your head as you turn back to your laptop. "You're a terrible liar."

"And you're a terrible bossy noona," he mutters, mostly to himself, stuffing the rest of the pastry into his mouth before leaning back in his chair.

You're about to toss another sarcastic remark his way when something catches your eye. Or, more specifically, half of something. A small smudge of green—matcha filling, you realize—lingering on the corner of his mouth.

It's instinctive, the way your hand moves—completely unthinking, like muscle memory kicking in before your brain has a chance to catch up. One moment, you're perfectly stationary in your seat; the next, your thumb is brushing against his lip, swiping the smudge away with a gentle, practiced motion.

He startles at the touch, his whole body jerking slightly as his eyes snap to yours. And then, just like that, reality crashes back in.

Your hand freezes midair.

His mouth parts for half a second, like he's about to say something, but then his tongue darts out—slow, deliberate—to lick the exact spot your thumb had just brushed.

You snatch your hand back like you've been burned, your face heating despite yourself.

The silence that follows is awful. Deafening. Inescapable.

He shifts in his chair, his eyes flickering to the table, then back to you, then down again. He clears his throat—once, then twice—before adjusting the edge of his suit with what you can only describe as frantic energy.

"So… uh…" His voice is tight. Way tighter than usual, cracking slightly on the first syllable. "Thanks for that. The, uh. The whole… lip thing. That was. Uh. Cool."

You blink at him, deadpan. "Cool?"

"Yeah. Cool. Totally normal and cool. Happens all the time. Super casual."

If you weren't so flustered yourself, you'd have laughed at the way he's fidgeting in his seat, his hands gripping his thighs under the table like he's trying not to explode.

"Right," you say slowly, leaning back in your chair. "Casual."

"Exactly."

He nods a little too enthusiastically, and you notice his knees bumping against each other under the table before he quickly crosses his legs. His hands drop to his lap almost immediately after, like he's trying to adjust the spandex near his thighs.

Your gaze is momentarily drawn there before—

"Anyway!" The word comes out nearly an octave higher than it should. He's already standing—or, more accurately, bolting to his feet—his hands still awkwardly hovering in front of him. "I should, uh, get going! Supervillains don't wait, you know? Gotta, uh… save the people of Seoul. Yeah. Big hero stuff."

You stare at him, unblinking, as he starts inching toward the door. "Uh-huh."

"Thanks for the pastries, noona! Great talk, as always!" He clears his throat again, audibly struggling to keep his voice steady. "Okay! Bye!"

And then he's gone, practically sprinting out of the cafe before he can embarrass himself any further.

You sit there for a long moment, still frozen, your brain catching up to what just happened. Then, slowly, you reach for another pastry.

Whatever just happened? Definitely not your problem.

"I'm such a fucking idiot."

Jungkook's voice is muffled by his hands, currently covering his face in what can only be described as unrelenting shame. He's lying on Jimin's couch, legs splayed out haphazardly, the picture of a man defeated by his own existence.

Across the room, Jimin raises an eyebrow, lazily popping another chip into his mouth. The bag crinkles loudly, much to Jungkook's dismay. "It's not that bad, Kooks. She probably didn't even notice."

Jungkook groans, dragging his hands down his face until his eyes peek out dramatically between his fingers. "She 100% noticed. It was—like—a five-minute interaction. FIVE minutes, and I made it weird. Now she's gonna think I'm a fucking weirdo and a creep."

Jimin doesn't even try to hide the snort that escapes him, his expression somewhere between entertained and unimpressed. "Yeah, because stalking her as Spider-Man didn't have her thinking that already."

Jungkook bolts upright on the couch, eyes wide with panic. "She told you that?!"

Jimin chokes on his chip, wheezing as he waves his hand for Jungkook to calm down. "No! Shit, man, calm down. I'm just saying. Like, I guess? I mean, you do kind of… hover. A lot."

"I don't hover," Jungkook protests, indignant. But even as the words leave his mouth, he hesitates. "Do I hover?"

Jimin gives him a look.

Jungkook groans again, flopping back onto the couch like his limbs have given up on life. "Oh my god, you're right. I hover. I'm that guy. And now it's worse because who the fuck pops a boner from someone—" He pauses, embarrassingly aware of the words about to leave his mouth. "—touching their lip? What is wrong with me? I must be insane. She must think I'm insane."

Jimin, now thoroughly entertained, leans back in his chair with his bag of chips, one leg crossed over the other. "I mean... it's not great," he says unhelpfully, though there's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jungkook lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a whimper, and buries his face back into his hands. "She's never gonna look at me the same. I probably freaked her out. GOD, she's gonna think I'm some kind of pervert. Or—worse—she's gonna avoid me completely now. And then I'll never see her again. And then—"

"Okay, okay," Jimin interrupts, holding up a hand to stop whatever spiral Jungkook's about to drag them into. "First of all, she offered to share her snack with you, so I don't think she's avoiding you anytime soon."

"But that was BEFORE—"

"Second of all," Jimin continues loudly, ignoring Jungkook's interjection, "maybe just... stop calling her 'noona' every chance you get? It's not helping your case."

Jungkook frowns, peeking out from behind his fingers again. "What's wrong with calling her noona? That's respectful!"

"Yeah, but it's also kinda... you know," Jimin winces, waving a hand vaguely. "Weird, coming from you. Like, you're already bumbling around her like a lost golden retriever. Adding 'noona' into the mix just makes you look—what's the word?"

"Adorable?" Jungkook tries hopefully.

"Pathetic," Jimin finishes, deadpan.

Jungkook groans for what feels like the millionth time, throwing his head against the couch cushion. "Why do I even talk to you? You're supposed to make me feel better, hyung. Not worse."

"Hey, I'm here for the truth," Jimin says, pointing at him with a chip in hand. "You want a cheerleader, go call Taehyung."

"Taehyung's just gonna laugh at me," Jungkook mutters into the cushion.

"And yet, you're shocked I'm doing it too."

Jungkook mumbles something unintelligible, his face half-smashed into the cushion now as he replays every excruciating detail of his interaction with you earlier. The way your thumb had brushed his lip. The way he'd immediately been unable to control the—well, reaction. The way he'd panicked like an idiot, stammered something incomprehensible, and practically bolted out of the cafe without even finishing his sentence.

"Kill me," he says dramatically, still face-down in the cushion. "Just end me. I can't show my face again."

Jimin laughs, leaning forward to pat Jungkook's shoulder in a way that's more mocking than comforting. "Relax, man. You'll survive. Just... maybe keep your hormones in check next time, yeah?"

Jungkook flips him off blindly, his hand waving somewhere above his head.

"Love you too, Spider-Menace," Jimin quips, taking another chip like this is the best entertainment he's had all week.

The crunching sound of Jimin biting into another chip is loud enough to make Jungkook groan into the couch again. "Do you ever stop eating?" Jungkook mutters, his voice muffled by the cushion.

Jimin raises an eyebrow, unbothered, and is about to throw a smartass reply back when his phone buzzes on the coffee table. He glances at the screen, sees Taehyung's name, and shrugs, casually placing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he picks up without pausing his snacking.

"What's up?" Jimin hums lazily, chips still in hand, completely ignoring Jungkook's existential crisis unfolding just feet away from him.

Jungkook's ears perk up despite himself—because why else would Taehyung be calling Jimin right now? He lifts his head just enough to peek over the cushion, his hair mussed and sticking up in odd directions.

Jimin's expression doesn't change at first, eyes still fixated on the bag of chips in his lap as he listens. "Yeah, he's with me," he says vaguely, gesturing aimlessly toward Jungkook, who frowns at being referred to like some stray dog Jimin found.

But then Jimin freezes. His chewing slows. His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline as Taehyung says something that causes him to do a violent double take at Jungkook.

"What?" Jimin coughs, choking on the chip he was mid-swallow. He pounds his chest a little before leaning forward sharply. "He—what? What, what, what—? Tae, calm down—!"

"What's going on?" Jungkook asks, sitting up now, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at Jimin's sudden change in tone.

Jimin waves him off with a quick flick of his hand, signaling for him to shut up. "No, yeah. Yeah, no, I know," Jimin mumbles into the phone, his tone getting increasingly more exasperated as he listens. "Tae—okay? Can you just—okay?"

"What's wrong??" Jungkook asks again, panic creeping into his voice. He hates not knowing what's going on, especially when Jimin looks... concerned? Flustered? Whatever it is, it's not good.

Jimin twists his head toward Jungkook, eyes narrowing as he motions aggressively with his entire head for Jungkook to shut the hell up.

"Okay, let me— what? You wanna talk to him?" Jimin repeats, his voice pitching higher in disbelief. "Oh, now you wanna talk to him? Fine! Okay, okay, okay, here."

Before Jungkook can process what's happening, Jimin is all but shoving his phone into Jungkook's hands, plunking the bag of chips onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Take it," Jimin mutters, irritation bleeding into his tone.

"Wait, why do I have to—"

"Take it," Jimin repeats, louder this time, his hand already retreating as he grabs another chip to munch on, clearly done with whatever chaos Taehyung just unloaded on him.

Jungkook swallows nervously, holding the phone to his ear as Taehyung's voice immediately fills it in a panicked rush.

"Jungkook! Oh my god, dude, you're not gonna believe this—" Taehyung starts, and Jungkook feels his entire stomach plummet before Taehyung can even finish his sentence.

"Believe what?" Jungkook half-yells into the phone, his voice cracking just slightly at the end, betraying the anxiety bubbling under his skin.

"Don't freak out," Taehyung begins, which, of course, makes Jungkook's blood pressure shoot straight through the roof. His knuckles grip Jimin's phone tightly, and he shares a panicked look with Jimin, who's now leaning against the coffee table with a chip halfway to his mouth, watching the scene unfold like it's prime-time drama.

"I'm already freaking out, hyung! Just tell me!" Jungkook demands, pacing the room like a caged animal.

"Okay, so," Taehyung starts again, and Jungkook can hear the smirk in his voice, which immediately makes him want to fling the phone out the window. "You know Y/N, yeah?"

"Do I—what do you mean, 'do I know Y/N'?! Of course I know—just get to the point!" Jungkook's frustration is mounting by the second. He's wound so tight he feels like a single flick might send him spiraling.

"Okay, Mr. Touchy," Taehyung says innocently, and Jungkook can practically see him holding back a laugh wherever he is. "So, uh… apparently, she's been asking questions."

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His heart lurches in a way that makes his hands clammy against the phone. "Questions?" he repeats, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Taehyung continues, tone far too blasé for Jungkook's liking. "You know, like... about Spider-Man."

Jungkook swears his brain short-circuits. For a second, all he hears is static, like every neuron in his head has collectively stopped firing.

"...What kind of questions?" he asks quietly, his voice taking on an edge that immediately grabs Jimin's attention.

"Oh, you know." Taehyung's voice is light, purposefully teasing. "Like, how he seems to always show up when she's around, or how he just happens to bring her favorite snacks, or—oh, this one's my favorite—how his voice cracks exactly like a certain freshman she knows at Yonsei."

Jungkook's knees buckle, and he collapses back onto the couch like his strings have been cut. Jimin is now openly laughing, clutching his stomach with one hand while pointing at Jungkook with the other.

"She—oh my god," Jungkook mutters into the phone, his free hand running through his hair in frantic tugs. "She knows. She knows, doesn't she? I'm so fucked."

"Hey, hey, calm down!" Taehyung says hurriedly, though his voice is still laced with amusement. "She doesn't know know. I mean, I don't think so. She's not like, accusing you or anything. Just... putting pieces together. Y'know, connecting dots."

"Connecting dots?!" Jungkook hisses, his chest tightening as his worst nightmare begins to unfold in real time. "Do you have any idea how many dots there ARE, hyung?! I'm like a walking... dot-factory!"

Jimin absolutely loses it, doubling over in laughter as crumbs from his chips scatter across the floor.

"Okay, Kook, you need to calm down," Taehyung says, though his tone suggests he's also suppressing a laugh. "She's just curious, that's all. You know how Y/N is. She's a journalist. She's always sniffing around for a good story, right?"

"She doesn't need THIS story!" Jungkook yells, his hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. "Oh my god, what if she writes about it? What if she—what if it ENDS UP IN THE SCHOOL PAPER?!"

"Relax, relax, relax," Taehyung says in quick succession, his voice almost soothing now. "She's not gonna write about it. I don't think she'd do that to you... unless, you know, you give her a reason to."

Jungkook groans, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands again. "I'm so dead. She's gonna out me. My life is over. My life is literally over."

"Hyung," Jimin finally pipes up, gasping for air as he wipes away a tear from laughing too hard. "Tell him to just confess already. At this rate, she'll figure it out before he ever grows the balls to tell her himself."

"Confess?" Jungkook sputters, jerking his head up to glare at Jimin. "Are you insane?! You want me to walk up to her and go, 'Hey, Y/N, funny thing—remember how you thought I was stalking you? Well, surprise! I was, but it's okay because I'm Spider-Man!' That's your plan?!"

Jimin shrugs, smirking as he tosses a chip into his mouth. "Worked for Andrew Garfield."

"THIS IS NOT A MOVIE!"

Taehyung's laugh echoes through the phone, loud and clear. "Oh man, I wish I was there to see this meltdown in person. Seriously, Kook, stop freaking out. Just... play it cool, okay? She doesn't know anything for sure. Yet."

"Yet?!" Jungkook exclaims, horror-struck.

"Gotta go!" Taehyung says way too quickly, the call disconnecting before Jungkook can yell at him further.

Jungkook stares at the phone in disbelief, his chest heaving as Jimin's smug laughter reverberates in the background.

"Cool," Jimin repeats mockingly, curving his lips. "Yeah, Kook, just play it cool. You're so good at that."

Jungkook groans, tossing the phone onto the couch and collapsing after it. "I need new friends."

"You love us," Jimin chirps, reaching for another chip.

Jungkook screams into the pillow.

You were expecting something, anything, really. A subtle slip-up. A sheepish confession. Hell, maybe even some stammering and nervous sweating.

But the moment you confronted Taehyung—cornered him, really, by the vending machine in the student lounge—and the words "Do you know if Jungkook's Spider-Man?" left your mouth, all he did was cackle. Loudly. Mockingly. Like a full-on villain in a Saturday morning cartoon.

"Spider-Man?" he wheezed, doubling over and clutching his stomach like you'd just told him the funniest joke in existence. "Jungkook? Jeon Jungkook? Noona, you're joking, right?"

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by how visceral his reaction was. "No. I'm not joking," you said stiffly, crossing your arms. "What's so funny about it?"

Taehyung straightened up, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye as he glanced at you with barely contained amusement. "Do you know Jungkook? Like, know him? Because that kid has two left feet. I've literally seen him trip over air. How would he even swing that gracefully?"

For a brief, fleeting moment, you felt the smallest hitch in your resolve. Because, well, the evidence did kind of contradict itself, didn't it? Jungkook is clumsy sometimes. That much is true. You've seen him knock over a whole stack of textbooks just trying to nod hello at you in the hallway. He once walked into a doorframe because he was too busy staring at his phone.

Spider-Man, by comparison, is supposed to be graceful. Quick. Precise. Not... whatever it is Jungkook embodies most of the time.

But then you think about the stupid coffee shop incident. The way Spider-Man stammered and fidgeted and tripped over his words like a nervous wreck. The way he dropped his entire cool superhero persona when he handed you those damn matcha pastries. He wasn't exactly graceful then, was he?

And okay, let's talk about those pastries for a second. Because the more you think about them, the more your brain starts spinning. You distinctly remember mentioning them once—to Eunjae, over lunch in the cafeteria, weeks ago. How the hell would Spider-Man know about them if he wasn't there to overhear?

You frown, chewing on the inside of your cheek as the pieces start stacking themselves again in your head. Jungkook might be clumsy, sure. But Spider-Man was clumsy too. At least, that day he was. And the matcha pastries aren't just a coincidence. They can't be.

Your inner spiral is abruptly interrupted by a bright, familiar voice calling out behind you.

"Noona!"

You whirl around at the sound like a guilty kid caught stealing candy, heart practically leaping into your throat because you know that voice anywhere. And there he is, the devil himself—Jeon Jungkook, all floppy hair and dumbly wide grin, bounding toward you like an overexcited golden retriever.

He sidesteps a couple of students in his path, his long legs moving with just a little too much energy. Honestly, it's a miracle he doesn't trip.

"I brought you these!" he announces, holding up a plastic bag like it's some kind of trophy. His grin stretches so wide it practically touches his ears, and you hate that your first thought is how stupidly adorable he looks.

Stupid, you think, swiping the bag from his hand. Not adorable. Definitely not adorable. You're sure of it.

Peeking inside, your brows furrow. "Hotteok?"

Jungkook presses his lips together, humming as he nods eagerly. "Yeah! You—" His smile falters just a touch. "You don't like it?"

The way his face drops shouldn't make you feel so guilty, but it does, and it's annoying. "No, uh, I mean…" You struggle for the right words, because… hotteok? Really? You'd been expecting the matcha pastries again. This feels almost purposeful—like he's playing dumb. Is he? Or is this proof that you've been completely off base this whole time?

You're overthinking again. Shaking your head, you wave off the thought entirely. "Yeah, thank you, Jungkook-ah," you mutter, tone softer than you mean it to be.

The banmal slips out without much thought, but the effect it has is immediate. His eyes go wide, and then his whole face lights up in the kind of beam that makes you want to smack yourself for fueling his enthusiasm.

"This is the first time you dropped honorifics with me," he says, looking downright gleeful.

You clench the bag a little tighter and wish you could hate him. Why is he so excited over something so small? Why does it make your chest feel weirdly tight? And why is it so hard to stay annoyed at him when he looks at you like that?

God, this kid.

"Don't get used to it," you mutter gruffly, turning away before the growing warmth in your cheeks betrays you completely.

"So," he begins, falling into step beside you as you start walking toward the journalism building. "What are your plans for today?"

You don't respond. Not out of spite or anything—you're just not in the mood to entertain whatever puppy-dog energy he's radiating right now.

"Writing notes?" he prompts, glancing sideways at you, his tone just a little too hopeful for your liking.

Still, you say nothing.

"Coffee?"

Nope.

"Gonna catch leads for Spider-Man's identity?"

That one makes you stop dead in your tracks. You whirl around so fast he nearly collides with you, blinking like a deer caught in headlights. "Huh?"

His eyes widen marginally, mouth opening and closing like he's trying to come up with a quick excuse. "Taehyung told me!" he blurts, the words tumbling out in a rush.

For a second, you just stare at him, blinking once, then twice. "Huh," you reply, eyebrows quirking upward.

"Yeah!" he adds, voice pitching slightly higher, probably in an effort to sound casual. "He said you were, uh, investigating? Like, Spider-Man and all that? You know, trying to figure out who he is?"

Your head tilts as you study him, arms crossing instinctively. "Did he now?"

"Uh-huh," he nods enthusiastically, though the way his hand rubs at the back of his neck gives him away almost immediately. "I mean, not that I think that's, like, bad or anything? It's cool! Totally cool! I mean, you're a journalist, so, like, it's your job, right? Investigating stuff and—"

"Jungkook."

He freezes, looking way too much like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

"Why," you ask, narrowing your eyes just slightly, "do you sound like you're trying to convince me not to?"

"I-I'm not! I'm not," he stammers, waving his hands frantically. "I was just, you know, saying! Like, uh, if anyone were trying to find his identity, it'd definitely be you because, uh… you're smart? And observant? And not at all easy to fool?"

Your brow arches higher, his stream of nervous compliments only fueling the suspicion building in your chest.

"Right," you say slowly, dragging out the word as you step closer, watching the way his Adam's apple bobs nervously when your gaze meets his. "So hypothetically…"

"H-Hypothetically," he squeaks, leaning back like he's mentally bracing himself for whatever's coming next.

"If I was trying to find out who Spider-Man is," you continue, voice calm and steady, "you wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that, now would you?"

The way he freezes, body rigid and eyes darting everywhere but at you, would be funny if it weren't so telling. The sheer panic written all over his face is practically criminal.

"I—uh—no? N-No. Definitely not," he stammers, the pitch of his voice betraying him entirely. "W-Why would I have anything to do with that? I'm just a freshman! I don't even know Spider-Man! I mean, who even is Spider-Man? Could be anyone, right? Crazy world we live in, haha…"

You take a moment to just stare at him, fighting the urge to roll your eyes so hard they might actually get stuck. "Right," you deadpan, turning on your heel to start walking again.

Jungkook exhales audibly behind you, feet scrambling to catch up. "Y-Yeah, right! That's what I thought too!" he says quickly, clearly desperate to steer the conversation in another direction. "Anyway, uh, where were we? Oh! Notes! Are you writing notes today, noona?"

You don't respond. Again. Mostly because you're too busy replaying his very suspicious reaction over and over in your head like a mental highlight reel.

Yeah… no way this kid isn't up to something.

You keep walking, your steps steady, purposeful. Jungkook, as always, trots along beside you like he's afraid you might disappear if he doesn't keep up. And unlike you, who values peace and quiet, Jungkook doesn't seem to understand the concept of shutting up.

"So, like, I was thinking," he starts, voice bright and eager. "If Spider-Man's around all the time, do you think he lives nearby? Like, maybe he's a uni student? Or—or maybe he's secretly a professor? Oh my god, imagine Professor Kim as Spider-Man—he'd probably web someone for being late to class, right? Oh, oh, or he'd use his powers to booby-trap the lecture hall if we don't submit our midterms on time! Haha—what do you think, noona?"

You don't answer.

"And have you noticed he wears, like, the same colors as Yonsei's? Like, blue and red? Do you think that's on purpose? Maybe he's trying to rep the school spirit! Or maybe he's trying to throw us off! Who knows, right? I mean, what's your theory? You must have a theory—you're always so smart about these things—"

"Jungkook," you interject, your voice flat as you stop abruptly in your tracks. He almost trips trying to halt beside you, blinking wide-eyed like he didn't expect you to actually respond.

"Yeah?"

"Don't you have class?" You ask, turning your head just enough for him to see the pointed look you're giving him.

He licks his lips, and you know he's about to lie before the words even leave his mouth. "No?"

"Liar," you deadpan, already turning back to face forward.

"You know my schedule?" he shoots back, voice teasing as he trails after you again.

You roll your eyes but don't give him the satisfaction of a retort. If you respond, he'll just milk it—probably tease you further, or worse, distract you with another string of nonsense questions about Spider-Man. No, you're better off ignoring him.

So, you keep walking. He keeps rambling.

And then—

The sound of a bus engine roaring down the street takes you off guard. You don't even register the rush of movement until it's too late.

Suddenly, there's a firm pressure against your shoulders, and you're stumbling—but not forward, no—backward. Stumbling directly into Jungkook's chest, his arms bracketing your body like they're the only thing stopping you from tumbling straight into the pavement.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding against your ribs. You freeze, blinking up at him in shock. "What the—"

He's close. Too close. His face hovers just inches from yours, his expression wide-eyed and… strained.

"Are you okay?" he blurts, his voice laced with breathless concern like he's just sprinted a marathon.

You don't answer. You can't answer. Because all you can think about is how the hell he even managed to grab you like that.

He was five meters away. Five meters away, Jungkook. There's no way he could've—

"What the fuck," you murmur under your breath, your mind racing a mile a minute as you shove yourself upright, still staring at him like he's grown a second head. "How—when—how the fuck did you just—"

"It was nothing!" he rushes out, cutting you off before you can finish your sentence. His voice cracks, and he's already letting go of you, stepping back like he's afraid of the scrutiny in your eyes. "I-I mean, reflexes? Adrenaline? Fight or flight? Haha…"

You narrow your eyes, suspicious once again. "…Right."

Jungkook scratches the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning red. "Yeah, uh… it's all good. You're fine, right? Totally fine! So, uh… should we—keep walking? Yep, let's keep walking!"

He starts to turn away again, clearly desperate to move on, but you don't budge. You're too busy trying to piece together what just happened, trying to figure out how Jungkook keeps doing things that defy all logic and common sense.

And that's when it hits you.

Spider-Man. Fast reflexes. The ability to move like that without warning. You glance down at his feet, planted firmly on the ground, and then back up at his sheepish grin.

No fucking way.

"I'm leaving."

"No—come on, Tae, you promised!" Jungkook whines, clutching at Taehyung's shoulder like a child trying to stop his older sibling from walking out the door.

Taehyung stops mid-stride, turning to glare at him with an expression that's this close to murderous. "I promised you I'd study with you at the library," he hisses. "Not that we'd come here so you can sit there and drool all over her."

Jungkook freezes, eyes wide. "I—what?!"

"You heard me," Taehyung deadpans, shoving Jungkook's hand off his shoulder.

"I have no clue what you're talking about," Jungkook mumbles, feigning innocence as he suddenly averts his gaze.

Taehyung rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck. "Kook, you've been staring at her table since we walked in. Don't even try to deny it."

"I—have not!" Jungkook protests, voice pitching just slightly higher than normal. His head jerks around, and of course his eyes instinctively flicker to your table. The one three meters to the left. The one where you're currently sitting, completely engrossed in your notes, pencil moving methodically across the page like it's the only thing that matters in the world.

You're breathtaking. Ethereal. Like a beam of light in the dull, dusty gloom of the library.

And honestly, Jungkook's not even sure why he's into you. Okay, maybe he's a little sure. Or a lot. But that's not the point—the point is—he is definitely not staring. Not staring, not drooling. Definitely.

"You're doing it right now, man," Taehyung mutters, arms crossed.

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm not! It's just—" Jungkook swallows, gesturing vaguely in your direction. "I was just… checking out the table. It's a nice table! Good wood quality, sturdy legs. The craftsmanship is—"

"Good wood quality?" Taehyung repeats, staring at him like he's lost his mind.

Jungkook groans, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Fine! Okay! Maybe I glanced at her for a second. It's not a crime, hyung!"

Taehyung lets out a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's already regretting his life choices. "I am so done with you," he mutters. But even as the words leave his mouth, he walks toward one of the tables anyway and plops his bag down into one of the vacant chairs.

"Sit," he grumbles, motioning vaguely to the chair across from him. "And don't make me regret this."

Jungkook doesn't need to be told twice. He practically trips over himself as he sits, trying to act cool and not-at-all-focused on the fact that you're sitting so close. So close that he can see the faint furrow in your brow as you concentrate, or the way you absentmindedly tap the end of your pencil against your notebook.

He's not staring. Definitely not staring. Probably.

"You're staring again," Taehyung says flatly, not even bothering to look up from his own notes.

"No, I'm not!" Jungkook hisses, slouching lower in his chair.

Taehyung snorts. "Okay, Mr. 'Good Wood Quality.' Sure."

Jungkook tries. He really does. He's here to study—or at least, he's here to pretend to study—and he's determined to do something productive. Something library-like. Something that doesn't involve spending the entire time sneaking glances at you like some lovesick idiot.

So, step one: grab a book. Easy. People in libraries read books, right? He can do that. Simple.

He meanders through the shelves, grabbing the first book that catches his eye. He doesn't even check the title. Doesn't matter. A book's a book.

Step two: sit down. Done. Chair, occupied. Book, open.

Step three: look at the book like he's actually reading it.

He squints at the text, hoping his brain will absorb something through sheer willpower because god knows his mind sure as hell isn't cooperating right now. Every five seconds, it drifts back to the table three meters away, where you're still sitting, still taking notes, still looking unfairly... breathtaking.

"Jungkook," Taehyung mutters, his voice barely above a grumble as he glances up from his own book. "Why the fuck are you reading that?"

"What?" Jungkook blinks, startled, then looks down at the book in his hands for the first time.

Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Oh.

"You don't even study physics," Taehyung points out flatly, his tone dripping with judgment.

Jungkook flushes, slamming the book shut and fumbling to shove it under the table. "I—uh—thought it looked interesting."

Taehyung stares at him. "Sure you did."

Before Jungkook can come up with anything to salvage what's left of his dignity, you—of all people—decide to stand up, and all the air in Jungkook's lungs promptly decides to leave with you.

Oh, god. You're moving. Why are you moving? Where are you going? Should he say something? Should he act casual? Should he—

You shift slightly, gathering your things, and suddenly Jungkook's heart is doing this weird thing where it's racing and stuttering and flipping over itself, and now his body is moving before his brain can even think to stop it.

"Gotta go," he blurts, practically tripping over his chair as he bolts to his feet. "To the bathroom. I have to—pee. Yeah, really super really need to pee right now. See you in a bit!"

Taehyung looks up, stunned, as Jungkook all but sprints toward the library exit. "What the—wait—"

But Jungkook's already halfway across the library, muttering curses under his breath as he tries not to make it obvious that he's absolutely not going to the bathroom.

Taehyung sighs deeply, dragging a hand down his face before muttering to himself, "He's gonna get us banned from this place, isn't he?"

Jungkook's halfway to the library exit, heart pounding, when he realizes something odd.

You're not heading to the exit.

You're not even walking toward the bathroom.

He skids to a stop, trying very hard to play it cool, to act like he's not absolutely clocking your every move. His hands find their way into his hoodie pocket as he leans against the nearest bookshelf, pretending to scan the titles like he's not also sneaking glances at you over his shoulder.

Okay, so you're not leaving. That's fine. Totally normal. You're just… heading deeper into the library. Toward some distant corner, weaving past tables and shelves like you've got some secret mission.

And Jungkook? Jungkook is absolutely not a stalker. He's not. He's just curious. That's it. Normal behavior. Normal library behavior for a normal freshman.

Totally not unhinged.

But then you disappear behind a bookshelf, and his feet are moving before his brain can step on the brakes.

He follows, not too fast—just casual-like. Normal person stuff. Nothing suspicious. His eyes dart between shelves as he tries to spot where you went, his stomach doing this weird twisty thing that's part nerves, part excitement, part oh-god-why-am-I-like-this anxiety.

And just when he thinks he's catching up, just when he rounds the corner of yet another shelf and is about to spot you—

Yank.

Jungkook barely has time to register what's happening before soft hands grab him by the hoodie and pull him into a small, cramped room. His back bumps into something solid—he thinks it's the door—and suddenly you're standing right there, close enough that he can see every detail of your face, from the faint line of concentration on your forehead to the subtle curl of your lips as you exhale sharply.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

"You," you exhale, your voice sharp but quiet. "Have some explaining to do, young mister."

Jungkook's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His brain is short-circuiting, sparking like a broken circuit board, because—how? Why? When? What?

"I—uh—I—what?" he stammers, blinking rapidly as his eyes dart around the tiny supply closet you've dragged him into. It's all brooms and cleaning supplies and the faint smell of lemon disinfectant, and holy fuck, it is too small in here. You're too close.

"Don't play dumb," you mutter, arms crossing as you lean back just slightly—not enough to give him actual breathing room, but enough to make him feel like he's being scrutinized under a microscope. "You've been acting… weird."

"Weird?" He squeaks, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "Me? Weird? No, I'm not weird! I'm—uh—normal! Super normal! The most normal person ever!"

Your brow arches, the skepticism written all over your face making his knees weak. "Normal people don't act like they've got something to hide," you reply evenly.

"I don't have anything to hide!" he says way too quickly, voice pitching high again.

You don't look convinced. Not one bit.

Jungkook swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry as he tries to come up with an excuse, a cover, a way to escape both this tiny-ass room and the weight of your accusing gaze.

But all he can think about is how close you are. How your voice sounds louder in this little space. How your shampoo smells faintly like citrus. How utterly and completely trapped he feels—not just against the door, but under the intensity of your stare.

And he's so screwed. So screwed.

"The bus thing," you say, and Jungkook feels his entire soul leave his body for approximately three seconds before crash-landing right back into his chest with a painful thud.

"What bus thing?" he asks, trying for innocent confusion, but his voice comes out more like a strangled whisper. "There are lots of bus things. Buses are everywhere. Seoul's public transport system is very efficient and—"

"Three days ago," you cut him off, eyes narrowing. "When I almost got hit."

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The memory hits him like a freight train. Three days ago. That stupid bus driver who didn't see you crossing. The way his heart had stopped dead in his chest when he realized you were about to—and he'd just—without thinking—

He'd used his webs.

On you.

In broad daylight.

As Jungkook.

Not Spider-Man.

Just... regular freshman Jeon Jungkook, who definitely shouldn't have access to web-shooters or superhuman reflexes or the ability to yank someone out of harm's way from five meters away.

"I don't—" he starts, but his mouth is dry, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. "That was just—"

"Just what?" you press, leaning closer. "Just adrenaline? Just reflexes? Just another totally normal thing that totally normal freshmen do?"

"Yes?" he squeaks, pressing himself further against the shelf on his back like he might somehow phase through it if he tries hard enough.

Your eyes narrow further. "Really."

"Really!" He nods frantically. "I mean, haven't you heard those stories? About moms lifting cars off their kids? Same thing! Totally the same thing. Chemistry major stuff. Very scientific. Fight or flight response. Cortisol. Adrenaline. Biology... things."

"You're not a chemistry major."

"I could be!"

"You're in communications."

"...Minor in chemistry?"

You stare at him for a long moment, and Jungkook swears he can feel sweat beginning to bead at the back of his neck. This closet is too small. The air is too thick. You're too close, and your eyes are too sharp, and oh god, he's really messed up this time hasn't he?

"Jungkook," you say, voice low and steady. "How exactly did you pull me away from that bus?"

"I... ran really fast?"

"You were five meters away."

"I'm... very athletic?"

"Five meters, Jungkook."

He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Would you believe me if I said I've been working out?"

The look you give him could probably melt steel. "Try again."

"Yoga?"

"Jungkook."

"Pilates?"

You lean even closer, if that's possible, and Jungkook's pretty sure his heart is about to explode right out of his chest. "One more chance," you murmur. "Tell me the truth."

And god, he wants to. He really, really wants to. Because you're right there, looking at him with those eyes that see right through him, and he's tired of lying, tired of pretending, tired of—

"I just..." he starts, voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't let you get hurt."

Your expression softens, just slightly, but your gaze remains unwavering. "How did you do it?"

"I—"

Just as Jungkook's about to bolt, there's a distinct click that makes both of you freeze.

"What the—?" You whirl around, pushing past him to grab the handle. It doesn't budge. You try again, yanking harder this time. Nothing.

"You must be fucking kidding me," you mutter under your breath, jiggling the handle with increasing frustration.

And that's when Jungkook realizes several things at once:

1. Someone's locked you two in.

2. The closet is tiny.

3. You're pressed up against him trying to open the door.

4. Your ass is—

Oh god.

This cannot be happening. Not again. Not after the coffee shop incident. Not after he literally had to swing away to deal with his... situation.

"Fuck," he breathes, trying to press himself further into the piece of furniture behind him, but there's nowhere to go. The shelves dig into his back as he attempts to create even an inch of space between your bodies.

His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, not daring to touch you, not daring to move. His breath catches in his throat as you shift again, still wrestling with the door handle, completely oblivious to the way each movement sends sparks of electricity through his entire body.

"Hey!" you call out, banging on the door. "This isn't funny!"

Focus on something else, Jungkook tells himself desperately. Anything else. Math. Chemistry. Professor Kim's boring lectures. That time Jimin ate an entire jar of kimchi and—

You shift again, and Jungkook has to bite his lip to suppress a strangled noise.

"Seriously," you growl, hitting the door again. "Whoever's out there better unlock this right now or I swear to god—"

Think unsexy thoughts. Think unsexy thoughts. Dead puppies. Tax forms. Spidey suit chafing. Anything but how soft you feel against—

"Jungkook?" Your voice cuts through his desperate mental gymnastics. "You okay? You're breathing kind of weird."

"Fine!" he squeaks, voice way too high to be convincing. "Totally fine! Just, uh... claustrophobic! Very claustrophobic. Super claustrophobic. Did I mention I'm claustrophobic?"

You turn your head slightly, and even in the dim light, he can see your brow furrow. "Since when?"

"Since... right now?"

Another shift of your hips as you try the handle again, and Jungkook has to close his eyes, silently praying to whatever deity might be listening to either kill him now or get him out of this situation before he combusts from sheer embarrassment.

Because if you notice... if you realize... oh god, he'll never live it down. He'll have to transfer schools. Change his name. Move to a different country. Become a hermit in the mountains where no one will ever find him—

"Can you try pushing while I pull?" you ask, completely unaware of his internal crisis.

Jungkook makes a sound that might be agreement, might be distress, might be his soul leaving his body. He's not really sure anymore.

All he knows is that he's trapped in a closet with you, with your body pressed against his, and his spidey-sense is absolutely no help because apparently it doesn't warn him about situations that might kill him from pure mortification.

"Jungkook?" you prompt again, and he realizes he hasn't moved to help with the door.

"Right!" he says quickly, voice cracking. "Sorry! Just... give me a second to... uh... mentally prepare."

You snort. "For pushing a door?"

"Yes," he says weakly, because what else can he say? 'Sorry, I need a minute because you feel too good pressed against me and I'm trying very hard not to embarrass myself'?

Yeah, no. He'd rather die.

Jungkook does what you say. He really does. He plants his palms flat against the door, muscles tensing as he tries to push in time with your pulls. But it's too much. Too much to focus on, too close, too you.

His very healthy, very 21-year-old brain is absolutely screaming some unfortunate, very, very filthy thoughts right now, and no amount of silently yelling at himself to stop it, stop it, STOP IT seems to be working.

Push and pull. Yeah, he's thinking of that in an entirely different context, and honestly, sue him. He's a guy. A guy experiencing literal hell because your ass keeps brushing against him every time you shift, and it's doing things to him.

You move again, and Jungkook swears he's going to lose it. Like, right here. On the spot. His knees are weak, his palms are sweating, and his brain is running on some kind of autopilot loop of, "Abort mission! Shut it down! This is a disaster!"

Fuck him. Fuck his life. Just take him now, death. Send the reaper. Hell, send Taehyung to throw him into the Han River. Anything but this.

But then—just as his brain reaches critical overload—you stiffen.

Oh no.

You turn your head slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder, and the look in your eyes is... not great. In fact, it's terrifying.

"Jungkook," you say, his name an ominous warning.

His whole body seizes, every alarm in his mind blaring at full volume as sweat beads at the back of his neck. "Yeah?" he squeaks, his voice cracking so hard he wants to dig his own grave and lie in it.

"Are you hard?"

Oh, fuck.

Oh FUCK.

His brain short-circuits. His entire being freezes. His soul? Gone. It has left the building. His vision blurs at the edges as the words echo around the tiny closet, bouncing off every surface and hitting him square in the chest over and over again.

"I—uh—what?" he stammers, his voice so high-pitched it might as well be a dog whistle.

You straighten, still half-facing him, and your brow furrows with that look of realization that makes him want to throw himself into the sun.

"You are," you say, your tone shifting between disbelief and a growing edge of... amusement?

"I—I—no—what? No, I'm not! That's—no, that's ridiculous!" He tries to back away automatically, but there's nowhere to go, and his shoulders slam against the wood behind him.

You fully turn at this point, arms crossing as you raise a suspicious eyebrow. "Really, Jungkook?" Your eyes drift ever so slightly downward, and oh no oh no oh no don't look down don't look down don't look down.

He flails. Not physically, thankfully, but mentally? He's losing it. He's scrambling for something, anything, to salvage even a shred of dignity.

"It's—it's not what you think!" he blurts out, his hands flying up defensively. "It's—it's the—the door! Yeah! This stupid closet! I told you I was claustrophobic, right? That's gotta... do something... biologically... right?"

You stare at him, unimpressed. Completely, utterly unimpressed.

"It's not me," he continues, voice cracking again because his body is betraying him. "It's—it's like—science! Random reaction!"

"...Random reaction." Your expression is unreadable now, which somehow makes this worse.

"Totally random," he insists, nodding way too quickly. "You know, like... blood flow! Hormones! Human anatomy! It's a thing! You can look it up!"

"Oh, I'll look it up," you mutter, the corner of your mouth twitching like you're trying very hard not to laugh.

"Please don't," Jungkook whispers, his face burning so hot he's genuinely worried the fire alarm's going to go off.

And honestly? He doesn't even care if the fire alarm goes off at this point. He'd happily burn in this library right now if it meant escaping the absolute mortification of this moment.

Jungkook is fairly certain he's about to pass out, maybe die, and definitely disintegrate into dust when it happens. You turn around, shift again, just slightly, your body brushing against him in a way that feels… deliberate?

Or is his brain just playing tricks on him now?

Oh god. Oh fuck. Is this some cruel, sick hallucination brought on by his overactive imagination? Is his mind punishing him for thinking all those filthy, traitorous thoughts earlier? Why can't he have some kind of superpower to read minds right now? Be Professor X or some shit, because at this point, anything would be better than not knowing what the hell is going through your head right now.

Do you think he's a creep? A weirdo? A perverted little freshman who can't keep it together for five fucking minutes?

Or—

The thought makes his stomach flip violently, a spark of something hot—and definitely dangerous—shooting down his spine as you shift again.

Or do you find this… fun?

Amusing?

Arousing?

Because there's something about the way you're not stepping back, the way you're not recoiling in disgust, the way your breaths are just slightly heavier than before, that's making Jungkook's head spin.

And then you chuckle—low, quiet, but unmistakable.

"This is the first time this has ever happened to me," you mutter, the sound light but laced with something he can't quite name.

But he doesn't care what it's laced with. He doesn't even care what it means.

Because oh god, that chuckle—he'd bottle it if he could. He'd trap it in a jar and keep it with him forever, listen to it on repeat like a favorite playlist, let it echo in his head until he went insane from the sound of it alone.

His mouth opens, but no words come out. His body is frozen, his brain completely fried, every single one of his senses hyper-focused on the fact that you're still right there, pressed against him, closer than you've ever been before.

Say something, dumbass, his brain screams at him. Anything. Literally anything.

"I—it's not my fault?" he manages weakly, his voice cracking so pathetically he wants to punch himself.

You laugh again, and this time there's no mistaking it—there's something mischievous in it, like you're enjoying watching him squirm. And oh no, oh god, you're enjoying this.

"I didn't say it was," you reply, your voice smooth, calm, fucking deadly.

Jungkook swallows hard. His legs feel like they're about to give out any second now. His palms are clammy. His heart is doing that thing where it feels like it's both racing and stopping entirely at the same time.

"I—uh—should we try the door again?" he stammers, trying desperately to redirect the situation before his entire body spontaneously combusts from the sheer tension in the air.

You hum softly, not answering right away, and Jungkook feels every muscle in his body tense in response.

You keep moving, but now it's with purpose—up and down motions that are too deliberate to be anything but intentional. Like you're actually trying to... to get him off. Right here. In this tiny closet. In the fucking library.

Jungkook's mind is gone. Absolutely fucking gone. His consciousness has left his body, floating somewhere near the ceiling as he tries to process what's happening. He's honestly shocked he hasn't passed out yet, given how fast his blood is rushing south.

His hands hover awkwardly over your hips, trembling with the effort not to touch. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, desperate to hold back the embarrassing sounds threatening to escape. Because he refuses to pant like some desperate animal, even though that's exactly what you're reducing him to.

But then—oh fuck—you reach back, grabbing his hands. And before his brain can catch up, you're placing them firmly on your hips.

"It's okay," you murmur, your voice low and honey-sweet. "You can touch me."

The permission makes him shudder, a full-body tremor that he couldn't suppress if he tried. Your hand slides over his, guiding it upward, and his breath catches in his throat as you move it higher, and higher, and—

Oh god.

You press his palm against your breast, and Jungkook's brain completely flatlines.

A pathetic whimper escapes him before he can stop it. His fingers twitch against the soft swell under your shirt, and he's pretty sure he's died. This is death. This is heaven. This is some kind of fever dream his horny brain has cooked up.

"Is this really happening?" he whispers, his voice raw and desperate. "Like, actually happening? Not just another dream or—"

He cuts himself off, realizing what he just admitted, but it's too late. The words are already out there, hanging in the heated air between you.

"Another dream?" you repeat, and he can hear the smirk in your voice. "You dream about this often, Jungkook-ah?"

Fuck.

"Way too often," he confesses, the words spilling from his mouth before his brain can catch up. And yeah, that's definitely because his mind has completely checked out. Because normal Jungkook? Coherent Jungkook? Would rather die than admit something like that.

But normal Jungkook isn't here right now. Normal Jungkook left the building the moment you pressed his hand to your breast. Now there's just... this Jungkook. The one who can't think straight because you're letting him squeeze and touch and feel, and your ass is doing absolutely criminal things against his cock.

His forehead drops to your neck, breath coming in heavy pants that he can't control anymore. Fuck trying to be quiet. Fuck trying to be composed. His hips move on their own, grinding forward to match your rhythm.

Because you gave him permission, right? You said he could touch. You guided his hands. So this is okay. This is allowed. This isn't just another fevered fantasy his desperate brain cooked up at 3 AM.

"Noona," he breathes against your skin, the honorific slipping out again because his filter is completely gone. His fingers flex against your breast, testing, exploring, learning what makes your breath hitch. "Fuck."

You guide his movements with a confidence that makes his head spin, showing him exactly how to touch you. His fingers find your nipple through the fabric, and the way it peaks under his touch makes him dizzy with want. Your hand stays over his, encouraging him to squeeze, to explore, to learn.

And Jungkook? He's never been this hard in his entire fucking life.

He's pathetic, really. Getting this worked up from some dry humping and breast play like he's fifteen instead of twenty-one. Sure, they're absolutely amazing tits—perfect, actually, fitting in his palm like they were made for his touch—but still. He's broadcasting his virginity like a fucking neon sign, getting this desperate this fast.

But he can't help it. Can't stop the way his hips keep rolling against you, seeking more friction, more pressure, more. He knows he's close—can feel it building in his abdomen, that telltale tingling that makes his toes curl in his stupid mismatched socks.

"Noona," he whimpers against your shoulder, the sound muffled by your shirt. "Noona, I'm—fuck—"

His breath comes in sharp, desperate pants. He's making these absolutely embarrassing sounds—little whimpers and moans he has to muffle against your skin because if anyone heard him like this, he'd actually die on the spot.

The pressure builds, and builds, and builds, until he's grinding back helplessly, practically sobbing because it feels so good he can't stand it. His free hand grips your hip like a lifeline, probably too hard, definitely leaving marks, but he can't help it.

"Please," he chokes out, though he's not sure what he's begging for. "Please, I'm—I can't—"

He's going to come in his pants like a fucking teenager, and the worst part? He doesn't even care anymore.

"It's okay, Jungkook-ah," you murmur, voice honey-sweet and deadly. "Let go for noona."

And that's—that should be illegal. The way those words hit him is criminal, making his whole body seize up like he's been electrocuted. His hips stutter, losing rhythm as everything goes white-hot. He groans against your shoulder, embarrassingly loud even muffled against the fabric, as his orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train.

He came. He just—he actually just—came in his pants. Like some inexperienced kid who's never been touched before.

Mortifying. Absolutely fucking mortifying.

A hiccup escapes him, something between a sob and a whimper, and he wants to disappear. To evaporate. To cease existing entirely.

"Hey," you whisper, so soft it makes his chest ache. Your hand reaches back, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, and his skin erupts in goosebumps immediately at the gentle touch.

He wants to cry. Wants to apologize. Wants to explain that he's not usually this pathetic (lie), that he can last longer than three minutes (another lie), that he's not always this embarrassingly eager (the biggest lie of all).

But the words stick in his throat like clay, thick and suffocating. Because what can he possibly say? 'Sorry I just creamed my pants from some dry humping and titty grabbing?'

"It's okay," you murmur, and another hiccup escapes him.

No. No, don't do that. Don't pity him. Don't say those words like anything about this situation is remotely okay. Because it's not. It's the furthest thing from okay. He just—he literally just—

"I really liked that," you add, voice soft but sure.

Jungkook's head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. "What?"

You… liked it? How could you possibly have liked that? He barely lasted three minutes. He came in his pants like a middle schooler. He probably squeezed your tit too hard and left bruises on your hip and made the most embarrassing sounds and—

"How?" he croaks out, voice raw and disbelieving. "How could you—that was so—I'm so—"

Pathetic. Desperate. Inexperienced. Embarrassing.

His brain supplies about fifty different self-deprecating adjectives, but none of them make it past his lips because he's still trying to process the fact that you said you liked it.

The dam breaks.

Jungkook is crying. Tears spill over his flushed cheeks, unbidden and hot with shame, and oh god, he's really lost it now. He's crying, actually fucking crying, because apparently, being mortified isn't enough. No, his body has to betray him in every possible way all at once.

His blurred vision catches you turning around to face him, and then your hands—soft, warm—reach up to gently brush the tears away from his eyelids. The gesture makes him hiccup, and he immediately wants to crawl under the floorboards and die.

"It was cute," you murmur, and your tone is soft but steady, like you actually mean it.

"Don't say that," he mumbles, voice cracking as he ducks his head, his tears threatening to spill faster. He can't handle this. He really, really can't.

You smile—a smile so kind it feels like a dagger to his chest. "Why? I'm not lying."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"It was so embarrassing!" he bursts out, the words tumbling from his mouth in one long, panicked string. "I made such embarrassing sounds and—and I—I came in my pants and—"

"It's what I wanted," you interrupt, your words cutting through his spiraling like a blade.

He freezes, the tears still clinging to his lashes. His breath catches, the air suddenly clammy.

"...What?" he croaks, the word so small and broken it barely makes it past his lips. His mind blanks, unable to process what he just heard. Surely he misheard you, right? Surely this is some kind of cruel, shame-induced hallucination because there's no way.

"It's what I wanted," you repeat, your voice unwavering as you look him straight in the eye, your gaze too steady, too certain.

His breathing stutters. His tears momentarily forgotten, he stares at you, wide-eyed and silent, like you've just flipped his entire world upside down.

Your hand is still on his cheek, thumb brushing away the lingering wetness under his eye, and Jungkook can't look away from your face. Can't process the way you're looking at him—soft but certain, like you actually meant what you just said.

"But—" he starts, voice wavering. "But why would you—I mean, I—" He swallows hard, his face burning. "I barely even touched you. I just... got off on you like some desperate—"

"Because," you cut him off, your other hand coming up to frame his face, holding him still when he tries to look away. "I liked making you fall apart like that. Liked knowing I could affect you that much."

His breath catches. "But—"

"And," you continue, your thumb trailing down to brush over his bottom lip, making him shiver. "I liked how honest you were. How you couldn't hide how much you wanted it."

Jungkook's brain short-circuits again. Because what the fuck? What the actual fuck? You liked that he was desperate? That he was pathetic and needy and—

"The sounds you made," you murmur, leaning closer, close enough that he can feel your breath against his lips. "Were fucking hot."

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, caught somewhere between a whimper and a groan. Because this can't be real. This has to be some kind of fever dream. Some kind of post-orgasm hallucination.

"Noona," he breathes, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure if he's allowed to touch you again. "I—"

And then the door clicks.

Both of you freeze, heads snapping toward the sound. Light floods the closet as the door swings open, and there stands Taehyung, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Time's up, lovebirds!" he announces cheerfully. "Did you two work out your... tension?"

Jungkook is going to kill him. He's actually going to murder his best friend. Right after he dies of embarrassment. Again.

"Hyung," he croaks out, face burning hotter than the sun. "Did you—was this—did you plan this?!"

Taehyung just grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "You're welcome!"

Yeah, Jungkook is definitely going to kill him.

Just... maybe after he changes his pants.

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tsunodaradio · 18 days ago

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cupid’s chokehold ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

isack brings his girlfriend to pierre’s friendly football match, and everyone in attendance realizes cupid has isack in a chokehold.

ꔮ starring: isack hadjar x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 0.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff. established relationship, isack hadjar is a loverboy :(, everyone else’s pov, references to gym class heroes’ cupid’s chokehold / breakfast in america. ꔮ commentary box: short and sweet because the boy-next-door-isms of these photos,, i am #changed. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Everybody knows Isack has a girlfriend.

It’s in the special ringtone he has for you, the one all-too familiar to everyone in the VCARB garage. It’s in the way Isack spends his free time on the phone with you—hours going by with the two of you doing your own thing, as if you’re content to just exist with each other when you’re countries apart.

It’s in the picture in his wallet, fraying at the edges and fading in its colors like he’s pulled it out one too many times. It’s from his first F2 win, his Campos Racing motor suit drenched in champagne as he lifts you in his arms; his trophy, dangling from your hands.

Isack has a girlfriend, and everybody is reminded of it at the Pierre Gasly-sponsored football match.

The rookie had been so shy about it, too. Asking Pierre Can my girlfriend come? in a voice too full of hope to decline. And so Pierre had ribbed Isack a bit, only conceding when the latter’s ears were burning red with embarrassment.

You run late. Isack doesn’t say a word about it. He seems physically incapable of saying anything bad about you as he describes you to Paul and Zhou with an obnoxious amount of enthusiasm.

“She’s got this smile,” Isack tells them as he pulls on his MC Alger jersey, “and her eyes. Oh, man.”

Paul and Zhou share an amused look. The Frenchman isn’t making any sense, but they’ll endure it for the sake of having more ammunition later on.

When you do arrive—spewing apologies for your tardiness, armed with pastries for everyone—it becomes apparent just how down bad Isack really is.

There’s the secret handshake, of course. The one you two exchange the moment he’s helped you set down your boxes of treats. Zhou watches, awed, as you and Isack go through the elaborate routine without batting an eye. You immediately go to converse with Pierre like you hadn’t spent 15 seconds knocking fists and linking pinkies with Isack in a faultless shtick.

“Insane,” huffs Zhou, drawing a snicker from Paul.

Isack follows you as you do your rounds. You’re already familiar with Paul. The two of you exchange a one-armed hug, impeded by the hand Isack firmly keeps at your hip.

You have to be introduced to Zhou, though. “Hi,” you say brightly, and in a heartbeat, the Ferrari reserve driver sees exactly what has Isack so smitten.

You give out your name and shake Zhou’s hand. Isack stands by your side the entire time, his expression so openly smug that it can only mean one thing.

Take a look at my girlfriend, he’s saying without saying.

It’s in the little details, really. Zhou notices the way Isack plants a kiss to the top of your head before they have to head out on the field. Paul rolls his eyes when Isack scores a goal, slams his fist into his chest, and then points directly at you.

Pierre giggles, actually giggles, when the game ends and Isack makes a beeline to you.

The three drivers—poised to take a selfie—pause to watch the scene unfold.

“Not bad, Alexandre,” you tease Isack. Normally, if any other person attempted to refer to Isack by his second name, they would be treated to the boy’s icy glare.

You don’t get that, of course. You get an Isack who melts, his shoulders drooping like the mere sound of your voice had taken away his exhaustion. And when you laugh, wiping sweat off of Isack’s forehead with undeniable affection?

He looks done for. Like there’s no one else he’ll ever look at like that.

“How did I do?” he asks you eagerly, and when you feign thoughtfulness, he lets out an almost petulant whine.

This was Isack Hadjar. Former F2 championship contender, VCARB’s best shot at points. He was known for his shadow-boxing on the podium, for his passionate radio messages.

Surely this was not the same Isack Hadjar.

This Isack is wringing his hands over yours, desperate for any scrap of affection and approval. This Isack is ruddy-cheeked, and devoted, and so obviously in love that it’s sickening.

Paul whistles, calling Isack over for photos. Somehow, the latter manages to tear himself away from you, but the dazed expression lingers even as he jogs back to where the rest of the drivers are waiting. You stay where you are, seeming completely oblivious to the effect you have on your boyfriend.

“If that ain’t love,” Pierre sing-songs to Paul and Zhou, “I don’t know what love is.” ⛐

#isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar imagine #isack hadjar x you #isack hadjar fic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fluff #f1 fic #isack hadjar fluff #⛐ kae prix #⛐ ih6 #everybody avert ur eyes i am Feeling things for isack hadjar . u will see one more of him .. soon

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luna-azzurra · 1 day ago

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Write Tension that isn't just Yelling or Guns

Listen, not all tension is someone holding a knife or screaming “I’ve had enough, Derek!” at a dinner party. Real, edge-of-your-seat tension can be quiet, slow, awkward, and still make your reader grip the page like it owes them money. So here are my favorite ways to sneak tension in like a gremlin under the bed...

╰ Unanswered Questions (That the Character is Actively Avoiding)

Tension isn’t always about what’s said—it’s about what’s not said. Let your character dodge questions, interrupt, change subjects. Let readers feel the silence humming between the lines. + Great for: secrets, internal conflict, emotional gut-punches.

╰ Time Pressure Without Action Pressure

A clock ticking doesn’t always mean bombs. Sometimes it means waiting for a test result. A letter. A phone call. A knock on the door. Tension = knowing something’s coming but not knowing when. + Great for: psychological suspense, horror, relationship drama.

╰ Small Talk That’s Not Really Small Talk

When two characters are talking about the weather, but both are secretly screaming inside? That’s tension. Give one character a goal (say the thing, don’t say the thing) and the other a defense mechanism. Now sit back and watch the discomfort bloom. + Great for: slow burns, rivalries, “we’re not talking about that night, are we?”

╰ Two Characters Who Want Opposite Things But Are Pretending They Don’t

Someone wants to leave. Someone wants them to stay. Someone wants to confess. Someone is acting like nothing’s wrong. Make your characters polite when they want to scream. + Great for: emotionally repressed chaos, family drama, enemies-to-lovers.

╰ One Character Realizes Something The Other Doesn’t

A power shift = instant tension. One person knows the truth. The other’s still talking like everything’s fine. Let that dread slow-cook. Readers love being in on the secret. + Great for: betrayal, secrets, foreshadowing plot twists.

╰ Body Language That Contradicts the Dialogue

They say “I’m fine,” but they’re picking their thumbnail raw. They laugh too hard. Their smile doesn’t reach their eyes. Show the cracks forming. Let the reader sense the dissonance. + Great for: all genres. Especially emotionally loaded scenes.

╰ Echoed Phrases or Reused Words That Hit Differently the Second Time

When a character repeats something someone else said—but now it’s laced with bitterness or grief? Chills. Callback dialogue is your best friend for building subtle dread or emotional weight. + Great for: heartbreak scenes, arcs coming full circle, psychological unraveling.

╰ Characters Performing a Role to Keep the Peace

Pretending to be “the good sibling.” Faking confidence in a boardroom. Playing therapist when they’re not okay themselves. Tension thrives when someone’s holding it together with duct tape and fake smiles. + Great for: internal conflict, layered characterization, slow unravelings.

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littlcdarlin · 4 months ago

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Into Temptation

summary: old!Joel obsessively watches sweet reader from across the tipsy bison each night, until one day he walks her home. read on AO3 warnings: girthy age gap (reader is 20, Joel’s age isn’t mentioned but I imagined late 50s), daddy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, mention of pregnancy (Joel wants to knock her up so bad), naive/sweet reader, Joel calls reader “kiddo”, Joel is a bit of a pervert but so are you for reading this

note: this is written in head-canon format but sort of reads like a cohesive story. It allowed me to churn this out much more quickly than writing it my usual way!

He watches you from his spot at the bar, across the tipsy bison, how you laugh with your friends, how your cheeks gain colour with every drink, how you politely refuse any man who makes advances

He knows you’re barely in your twenties, all fresh-faced and so sweet looking, the world can’t possibly have gotten to you yet — that’s what intrigues him, how untainted by cruelty you seem

Tommy catches him staring and scolds him for it — she’s off limits, Joel, there’s a million men better suited for a girl like her

Yes, a million men who you refuse, night after night, offering them your sweet apologetic smiles, and returning to playing cards with your friends. He can’t help but wonder if you’ve got a man already, if that’s why you refuse everyone

One night you make your way over to the bar, stumbling in your cowboy boots, your cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol, your movements a little fuzzy, a vague smile on your face that he recognises from his own youth — the kind of smile only brought out by carefree evenings in bars, cigarettes, and flirting without a goal

You ask the barkeeper for another drink, and accept his wink with a sweet smile when he puts the glass down in front of you. It bothers Joel, this new development. You’re supposed to refuse everyone here

That guy cheats on his wife, he tells you, and your big Bambi eyes land on him, surprised. You two haven’t spoken before. Thought you oughta know.

You cock your head curiously, and lift your glass to your mouth. It’s sweating from the ice, pearly drops of water drooling over your fingernails. You know everyone’s business, Mr. Miller?

You know his name — Joel’s spine tingles. For a sweet girl, you sure manage to hold his gaze, most people would have looked away by now. He’s not known for his pleasant small talk

He wants to ask you to come home with him, but he can feel the eyes of your friends on the two of you, so he restrains himself. Your small hand comes to rest on top of his shoulder, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through him

I wasn’t flirting with him, Mr. Miller, just being polite. You’d know if I was, you say, and then you’re gone, off to your friends again, your dress swaying around your thighs and for a second he has to fight the impulse to drag you back over to him and sit you down on his lap

But he can’t do that, won’t do that, not when you’re so young and half of Jackson would want to see him hang

From then on, you talk to him every time you get a drink — and you start getting them for your friends, too. Any more town secrets to spill, Mr. Miller? How’s that whiskey for the eighteenth night in a row, Mr. Miller? Mr. Miller, I heard Tommy’ll be a Daddy soon — looking forward to being an uncle?

So what if he indulges you? He’s making conversation, people can hardly judge him for it — so long as they don’t know about what he does when he gets home from the bar each evening, imagining it’s your little hand instead of his own

You keep denying all of your admirers, which are more than Joel would like to admit, ever friendly about it. They leave with bruised egos, but glad you were polite about it — all but one. A tall kid, a little older than you but barely 25, and he keeps pestering you night after night. Joel watches the way your brows furrow, the corners of your mouth turning downward rather than up into that sweet smile he adores

The fifth night, the boy touches your shoulder, and your friend pushes his arm away, but he persists. Before Joel can stop himself, he’s on his feet. There a problem here?

Your eyes are round and relieved when they find Joel, and even subconsciously you move towards him. It’s fine, we’re just making conversation, the kid says, so Joel looks at you. You shake your head so slightly he almost doesn’t see it, but it’s all it takes

How ‘bout you ‘n I make some conversation outside? The boy is gone before Joel can put his fist to his jaw, which he’s been itching to do for days now, but after he gives you a slight nod, and you thank him, he leaves your table again to make sure the boy won’t be back as soon as he’s gone

Before he can step outside, he feels your little hand on his arm, and he turns around to look at you. Could you walk me home, Mr. Miller?

He can’t possibly refuse you, doesn’t want to, so he gets your jacket from the coat rack by the door — you don’t question how he knows it’s yours — and leads you outside with a heavy palm on your shoulder

You don’t speak much, but you walk closer to him than you have to, and a sick satisfaction pools inside his belly. You feel safe with him, you trust him to get you home safe, you want to be near him

Right before you reach your house, you look up at him, the apples of your cheeks violently flushed by the cold, snow dotting your hair. Stay a while?

He can’t, he really shouldn’t, not when you’re clearly desperate for him to do so, not when your eyes are all hopeful and innocent and unknowing of what you’re asking of him. Please, I get so lonely at night.

Now, he can’t have that. Sweet girl like you, anyone would be happy to keep you company, and yet Joel’s the one you’re asking. So he agrees, and you open the door into a warm corridor that smells of cinnamon and apples

You take off your boots, revealing your bare legs, only covered by a pair of white stockings to keep you warm, and one of your cotton dresses that can’t possibly keep you warm in this weather. He wants to wrap you up in a blanket and rip it all off at the same time

He stays to ease your mind after he incident at the bar, and after a while you dose off to sleep on the couch, your head drooping and snapping upwards again every few seconds. And he knows you need your sleep, you’re still only twenty after all, so he picks you up to carry you upstairs, but you stir in his arms

Come on, let’s get you to bed, kiddo, he mutters, and in your sleep-drunken state, you rest your head against the crook of his neck, your soft mouth pressing a wet kiss there, and he’s done for, beyond help

When he puts you down on your bed, your eyes open, and he wants so badly to kiss you, to claim you. Sleep with me, you mumble, and God help him, he gets into bed with you, still wearing his jeans

You cuddle up to him, stealing his warmth, his scent, dizzying him with yours. He doesn’t get a wink of sleep, not with the sweet sounds you make while you dream and the way your body molds so perfectly against him

In the morning you smile up at him like you can’t quite believe he’s still there, and then you kiss him, and he knows there’s no turning back from any of it now, not when he’s got you rested and pliant and warm in a bed, not when your legs are wrapped around his thigh so sweetly

So he does what he’s been wanting to do, climbs on top of you, his body weight pressing you into the mattress and pulling the sweetest sounds from your pretty throat — your hands grasp at his shoulders, his back, his arms, when he kisses and licks and bites whatever part of you he can reach

You’re so responsive, like this is the first time someone’s touched you like this, and the thought makes him dizzy. You’re whining for him and he hasn’t even gotten you out of your little dress yet. By the time two of his fingers find your clit, you’re positively trembling under him, and he watches in fascination as you shake and come for him so easily, like you’ve been waiting to do just that, like it’s been building all night. Good girl, my sweet, good girl.

That makes you twitch for him, a broken sound coming out of your mouth that he knows is supposed to be a word. Speak up, kiddo, can’t hear ya.

You do, your hips still moving after your orgasm has faded. D-daddy. His blood starts to boil, and it’s all it takes for him to roughly open his belt buckle, ignore the way his joints pop at the movement, hike up your dress, pull down the cotton panties you’ve soaked, and press the tip of his aching cock against your dripping entrance

When he finally presses himself inside of your tight body, you mewl for him with wide glassy eyes, and it takes all his strength to not just slam into you. He knows you need to adjust to his girth, especially if he’s right and this is the first time someone has fucked you

When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, your breathing comes in little pants, and you throb and clench around him. It makes him want to come inside of you, fuck you until it takes, until that little pussy has what it’s so desperately trying to drain from him

He starts fucking you deeply, as deeply as he can, and you cry for him with every thrust, sweet chants of DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy. You don’t just want it, you need it, eyelids fluttering and your soft red mouth slightly agape. Your hands tangle into his greying hair, tugging and trying desperately to hold onto something

When you come for him again, he rubs at your little clit until you’re done, but even then, you keep letting him fuck you, his cock moving in and out of you easily, your whole body shaking with overstimulation. Want it inside please, Daddy, you moan, your muscles limp. He grips your hips, and empties his balls deep inside of you, keeps thrusting until he’s sure his spent can’t possibly be deeper inside of you

You smile up at him when he calls you his good, sweet girl, a blissed out and happy look on your face

So he stays, fucks you again and again that day, barely lets you leave your bed, until Tommy knocks on the door and tells him he missed patrol and the whole of Jackson is talking about you and him. But Joel doesn’t care, not when the second the door is closed you kiss him

People stare when the two of you walk through the streets of Jackson, your hand in Joel’s, smooth fingers against weathered, calloused ones. You don’t mind, kiss him in the tipsy bison in front of everyone, ignore even Tommy and your friends when they tell you to take some space

He knows it’s bound to get worse once your belly starts to swell, which is inevitably going to happen with how often he pumps you full of his load, his back aching and yours arching off the bed. He pays it no mind, though, not when you beg him for it so sweetly every night, please Daddy, want it inside.

#I need to be put down #old!joel #Into Temptation #my writing #jackson!joel #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #Joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

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acid-ixx · 5 months ago

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— related post !

socialite! (secret himbo/bimbo) reader who takes one look at bruce wayne in a gala and you decide you'll use your (dumbass) alluring charms on the man to spend a night with him and it ends up successful. you had the best bed-breaking sex in your life, never once questioning all the taut muscle underneath his polished thousand-dollar suit; now crumpled by how handsy you were taking off his clothes. he was great with aftercare, too, carrying you off to one of his luxury bathtubs to bathe you and leave even more marks on the expanse of your back whilst massaging your naked body (you didn't even think for a second at the romantic implications his actions had).

then you're at one of luthor's galas the next time, being interviewed by this cute man with eyeglasses, who calls himself clark kent, with the cutest country-boy accent, who looks too tall to act all lanky, but you're not one to judge. you take one look at his baggy suit, ignore the pen and paper in his hands and drag him off to one of the spare janitorial rooms to have, quite possibly, the most pleasurable quickie you've ever had spent inside a cramped closet, your sweat sliding off each other as your bodies move in a harmonious tandem. you give him a kiss on his collar right after the momentary sex, and giggle at the skittish blush dispersing on his face, as if he didn't just give you a reason to go home early due to the limp on your step.

after everything, they were buried in the back of your mind. they were great fucks, yes, you never had a moment of horny zenith not until you met them, yes; but your relationship (if you could even call it that) with both men were purely sexual and a one-time thing. you never really thought of them, you prioritize your social life and reputation above all else, not your coster of other rich people you've slept with.

but one day, you see both in the same room as you in another gala. you're oblivious to the sets of eyes hungrily taking you in, or how quickly they shove off other people just to move closer the moment their attention land on you. you take a look at the two men, biting your lips whilst your eyes devour the memory of their muscled pecs squished between your index and middle finger, and their thick thighs pistoning you back and forth, all hidden under all the clothes covering their body; and whisper not-so silently:

"i can take them both, not in a fight."

sadly, you'll never know that they're both at each other's throats after hearing your confession, ready to take each other in a fight if it meant having you in their arms once more. you'll never know just how bruce managed to throw in a microchip in your bag before you're escorted home by his limousine, or how clark watched your sleeping body in your apartment as superman just to make sure you slept well after he pounded you to oblivion in that closet.

all you'll know is that you're going to score them into fucking you once more either way. after all, if they're both the best choices when it comes to pinning you down and going crazy on your body, then you'll do anything to achieve that aching goal with the both of best worlds.

you're unaware that they'd do the same thing for you, though. but it's not out of the intentions to merely sleep with you, no. they're also planning to find a pathway into your heart while at it.

so... welp, guess that's just an added list of all the other suitors you had fighting over the chance of having another night with you.

a/n: gender-neutral reader. no bodily gender mentioned at all. this is purely sexual content with some plot. i blame my irl best friend for this (the single dialogue was me thirsting over the characters through our chats). yes, i post this after posting angst. am i shameless? also yes.

2K notes · View notes

justkending · 6 months ago

Text

It's just a papercut... (Drabble)

Summary: Mission one-on-one with Bucky? It's been done before. So why is this one different? Why is he acting weird and not letting me storm off in a rage at his cold shoulder? Also, was the one bed necessary?

Pairing: Grumpy Bucky x Avenger Reader (Enemies to lovers)

Word Count: 7000+ (It's a long one...)

A/N: I've been spending a lot of my time on Character ChatGPT AI, and a secret agent conversation made me say, " Yeah, I need to put this into a Bucky fanfic." So here we are🥰 Did it turn a lot more emotional than I planned? Yes. Do I regret it? No. Enjoy, my loves!!

_____

"Jesus! The goal is to survive the mission! And from the likes of it, bullets aren't even going to be the thing that finishes the job!" I shout over the whipping wind as Bucky maneuvers through cars in the foreign country while outrunning the guards we just escaped from on a motorcycle he stole in front of a shop.

"Shut it!" he shouts back, taking another sharp turn that has me clutching on as if one wrong blow of the wind will have me ending this chase with a case of road rash on my entire body. "I'm losing them."

"And likely me with them," I grumble, and he shoots me a quick look in the rearview mirror, showing that he heard my remark and didn't care for it.

I look behind us and see one of the jackasses we were running from has joined us in motorcycle theft, and I curse under my breath as I come up with a plan.

"Goon, five o'clock!" I announce as I dig into my boot for a small handgun I keep hidden.

Bucky looks around and clocks him. His teeth grit together as he kicks the speed up, weaves through a few cars, and turns down a new street, but the man following seems to be just as skilled in bike chases.

"Still on you!" I shout and let out an annoyed groan, realizing that at some point in our mission, I'd lost my backup weapon.

"I see that!" Bucky groans, and as we pass a fruit stand on the street, he knocks it over with his metal hand, causing a traffic stop and the motorcyclist to have to drive over apples and pears, making him lose his balance some.

However, it wasn't effective enough. "I got it," I sigh as Bucky takes another sharp turn, and I clutch onto him. "Do me a favor and try and stay straight for longer than 3 seconds!" I complain, and he complies, although begrudgingly.

I point my fist towards the bike, and as the man makes mean eyes at me, I wiggle my fingers at him with a grin before shooting a taser shock out of the widow bite Nat gifted me.

They shoot across and cause his entire bike to seize at the overload of electricity. He flies off the bike as it stutters and gives Bucky and me a clean escape down an alley.

A few alleys later and a quiet spot away from the chaos that had just ensued, Bucky and I hop off the bike and hide it behind a dumpster. I catch my breath as I throw my backpack over my shoulder and watch as he covers the bike more with the lid of the trash before grabbing his own pack.

"We need to lay low for the night," I note, adjusting my backpack and looking into the dead-end alley.

He sighed, taking in the area, and I could see the pistons firing in his head. "There's a hotel not far from here that'll work. Not shitty, but also not anything fancy." He immediately starts stalking away, not waiting for me to follow.

I huff in annoyance as he leaves me, and I fasten my backpack, buckling it across my chest before jogging to catch up with his long strides.

We don't say much as we get to the hotel- both of our minds coming down from the adrenaline and running through the last pieces of the mission.

While in the lobby of the hotel, I get a call and move to take it, seeing it's Steve checking in, and I leave Bucky to handle the check-in process.

"Got it. We'll head to the airport in the morning," I nod and turn around to see Bucky confirming something with the clerk, and I turn back to the phone.

When he finishes checking in (fake IDs with real payment thanks to Stark's ways), he turns and waves his hand toward the elevator in a quick hand gesture.

"Yeah. We're fine," I note, feeling a stitch in my side but not wanting to check just how bad the damage is until I'm behind a closed door. "He's being a dick as per usual," I chuckle lightly as I start my walk to the elevators. "No, Steve. I don't need you to call him and reprimand him. You know-... Seriously, Steve. Leave it... I said it as a joke more than anything-" He cuts me off again, ready to always put Bucky in his place with the cold shoulder he seems to love to give to only me.

When I make it to the elevator, where Bucky is holding the door impatiently for me, I quickly say, "Losing you! Getting in an elevator so I can't-" There's a protest on the other end. "What was that? It's cutting out." I say in stuttered beats to play it off before hanging up. "Steve says hi," I say to Bucky as I lock my phone and shove it in my back pocket.

"Sure," he says back, and I'm not sure if it's unconvinced or unbothered... or both. Either way, his face is still stoic.

"You really need to lighten up," I sigh in a deep breath, annoyed that he never relents his tough guy act around me.

"Don't feel like."

"Do you ever?"

The elevator is silent. The only sound is the mechanics of the metal box moving up. It eventually dings, and as I go to step forward, I grimace slightly so as I step wrong, causing pain to go up my side, but I quickly brush it off.

"What was that?" Bucky says behind me as he steps off the elevator last.

"What was what?" I ask, looking carefully at the room numbers and acting ignorant.

"That look. You flinched."

"Yeah, no," I shake my head. "Your eyesight must be getting worse with age."

"My eyesight is fine," he grumbles, pulling my arm back as I pass the room, realizing he never told me the number. "We're here," he turns to the door and presses the key card to it. The color changes from red to green, giving us access.

"I call the shower first," I shout, shoving him out of the way and unbuckling my backpack as I rush into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and locking it.

All I hear is an exasperated sigh on the other side and a shuffle of footsteps as he shuts the door, locks up, and moves into the room.

I let out a sigh of exhaustion and relief to be done for the day and move to warm up the water. If there is one thing I've learned about going on missions with Bucky, it's that the man's superhearing is just an excuse for him to be nosy. He listens to almost EVERYTHING.

So, with the water running and him hopefully distracted by the hotel views, I undress and focus on the shower. As soon as I took my shirt off, I was shown exactly what I worried was the problem.

Down my side is a semi-jagged cut going up my rib cage. Close to four inches long, if not less, but angry and red. I hiss and quickly bite my lip to muffle my pain. It's not bleeding anymore, which tells me it's not deep, so with the proper cleaning and care, it'll be fine in a few days. I use my time in the shower to clean it and wash the rest of the day away with it.

When I come out, I rummage through my bag for a first aid kit. I usually pack a travel-size one, given the job, but I can't find it. I change into a pair of clean shorts and a tank top I packed (light and takes up minimal space) before checking in the mirror to make sure my cut wasn't prominent through the light-colored tank. When I feel comfortable enough that Bucky won't ask questions, I straighten and fight the soreness that's taking over my body now that I'm not going 100mph.

I walk out, and when I see that Bucky is lying back, arms over his eyes on a king-size bed, I immediately take in the fact that it's the only bed in the room. The sound of cheers from baseball on the TV is quickly tuned out.

"Um," I start, hands out as I assess the space. "What's this?" I ask.

"A bed," Bucky answers simply and sits up tiredly as he looks at me, leaning back on his forearms. "You ran straight into the bathroom before I could tell you, or you saw for yourself."

I cross my arms and flinch when I graze my cut but quickly roll my shoulders as if the full-body soreness was the only issue.

"Well, did they not give us another option or maybe a second room we could have-"

"What was that?" he cuts me off.

"Hm, what was what? What do you mean-?" I look right at him and furrow my eyebrows, hands on my hips.

"You made that face again."

I roll my eyes. "I'm sore," I shrug, scoffing and even I know I'm a horrible actress right now, so I don't make eye contact.

"That's not a sore grimace. That's something else," he sits up straight now and tilts his head down, assessing me in almost a predatory way.

"Stop that." My arms move from my hips to my chest and around me, and my discomfort only makes a smirk appear. "Stop. It's weird."

"No, what's weird is why you're being so weird," he remarks with a sassy face.

I blink at him a few times, feeling much less intimidated thanks to his comeback. "Good one," I said, turning and going to his backpack now.

"Hey, what are you doing?" He stands quickly from the bed and looks at me over my shoulder as I unzip his bag.

"I think I put something of mine in here. I can't find it in my bag," I note, dunking my hand into his things. He steps up, pulling my shoulders to get away.

"Stop going through my stuff. You're worse than Sam," he notes, tugging me away, although gentler than how he is typically.

"I just need-" I feel the small plastic box I'm looking for and tug it out, quickly holding it behind my back. "Nevermind. I found it."

"What are you talking about-"

"Nothing! Just give me one minute. I need to brush my teeth," I jab a thumb behind my shoulder as I walk backward to the bathroom, his steps matching mine. "I'll be out in five minutes," I note quickly as I turn on my heel and run back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and locking it again.

Instead of seeing the door handle budge like I expected, he bangs a fist on the wooden barrier.

"Y/N, open the damn door! What the hell did you take out of my bag?"

"My toothbrush!" I lie. Why didn't I say toothpaste? That would make so much more sense... "I must have gotten our bags mixed up when I packed them." I cringe at myself.

"How could you do that? Yours is brown, and mine's black," he notes.

"A very dark brown," I argue, lifting my tank top and sitting on the bathroom counter to get a better look in the mirror of my cut. "Just give me a second-"

"You're being weirder than normal," he groans in frustration on the other side.

"Yeah, well, get used to it," I hiss as I put the sanitizer spray on it and bite my knuckle to suppress the pained groan I want to let out. "Jesus," I mumble under my breath, but the next thing I know, the door is swinging open, and Bucky's staring at its handle that's hanging on by a thread before back at me. "Hey!" I look at the door and back at him. "They're going to charge us for that."

His eyes immediately go from annoyed and over it to concerned and confused.

"What the hell is that?" He points at my stomach, where I'm frozen on top of the counter, shirt lifted, showing my entire torso and cut on full display.

"A paper cut." Dear God. What the hell happened to my logical excuses?

His concerned face drops some, and he deadpans from my injury to my eyes before marching to me and turning me at my shoulders to face him and get a better view.

"When did this happen?"

"Wild guess, but likely when the guards we fought to get out pulled a knife on me and played dirty," I sigh, realizing I wasn't talking myself out of this one anytime soon. "But that could be a stretch," I add.

He again looks up at me from my injury with an incredulous and agitated look.

"Let me see," he sighs, bending down to get a better view and looking at the injury from a head-on angle.

"It's just a scratch, Barnes. I'll be good as new after a little disinfectant and ointment. Nothing a bandaid can't fix," I brush off, turning on the counter to grab the kit.

He stops me in my turn by placing a hand on my knee and turning me back around to where my legs hang off the counter. I'm sitting with him in between my legs.

"They used a serrated knife," he notes, taking the first aid kit out of my hand and opening it, instantly getting to work as if I wasn't doing it myself two seconds ago.

"Um, excuse me, but I can-"

"I know the things you can do, Y/N. You don't have to tell me," he says sternly, grabbing gauze and another bottle of something I didn't know the contents of and tipping it onto the gauze before bending down again. This time, his eyes found mine as he looked up at me from his now crouched position. "This is going to sting. That sanitizer you were using before is shit. This one actually does the job," he notes, and I'm a little stunned by the turn of events. "Ready?"

Never in my life did I think Bucky Barnes would be this gentle and considerate with me, but I'm not going to stop a good thing from happening.

"I don't think it can hurt more than the knife itself," I smirk and nod when he gives me a look. "Yeah, yeah. Do your thing, Doc." I gesture to him, looking up at the ceiling as I prepare for the sting.

I don't feel it instantly, and just as I'm about to ask what was taking him so long, the cool liquid hits my cut, and I hiss, grabbing his wrist in a tight hold out of instinct to hold him back. "Jesus H. Christ," I grit through my teeth. "What the hell kind of acid did you just put in-?" I let out a slow breath through my lips and quietly say, "I'd pick the knife again. I'd pick the knife again. The knife for sure."

"It's Banner-strength disinfectant," he says with a stupid little prideful smirk, yet is dabbing the cut ever so gently as I hold his wrist. His touch is soft, but the sting is anything but. "You grabbed my first aid kit. I had him make it since you tend to get hurt easily, and we're not in the cleanest country." He's fully concentrated on my cut.

"What?" I asked, surprised, grabbing the kit's container and seeing that it indeed was not mine. I brush over the fact he had Bruce specifically make it and pack it for me as I look over at my bag, still slumped against the wall from my rush to take a shower, and realize I must have forgotten mine.

"Relax. Tensing doesn't help," he adds, bringing his free hand to my thigh and giving a light squeeze to distract me. I hiss again as he pads over an agitated area.

All sense of humor drops slowly from his face, and he gives me a look. "Y/N, why didn't you tell me about this as soon as you knew? This was not far from being infected in a way that could have been a lot worse than just an irritating sting."

"When was I supposed to tell you?" I sass, throwing my head back on the mirror as I focus on anything but the sharp stings. "As soon as we got off the bike, we headed here. You didn't say a word to me, and I was in my own head. Honestly, I didn't even realize it was there until we were checking in and I was on the phone with Steve. Adrenaline must have kept me from realizing it."

He mumbles something under his breath, and I hear the word, reckless in the middle of it.

"Watch yourself," I warn, kicking my leg a touch, skimming his rib cage. "There can easily be two injured people in this room."

"No need for both of us to get stupid injuries," he grumbles.

I scoff and shove his hand away from me, jumping off the counter as he stands and glares at me.

"Sorry for getting stabbed," I sneer up at him, stepping into his space. "I'll make sure to ask the assholes shooting and swinging at me next time to keep the knives at home. Oh! Or better yet," I exaggerate. "I'll tell them my partner said I'm not allowed to get into fights with men triple my size, so if they can just play gentle so I don't end up with any battle scars, that would be greatly appreciated." I smile wide and fake before dropping it and brushing by him to the bedroom.

I catch the tail end of his eyes rolling before I hear him stomping behind me.

"I need to finish patching you up. If it's not done properly, you can get sick." He comes up behind me, but I stop abruptly, and he runs into my back before holding my shoulders to steady himself. I turn to him, not breaking the space.

"I know how injuries work, Barnes. This isn't my first time in the field, although I'm sure you believe otherwise," I scoff in anger. "Just," I put my hands up, stepping away in frustration and groaning. "I'm going to get some air," I try and push past him to leave, but his hand wraps around my arm and holds me shoulder to shoulder by his side before I can get my feet past him.

"No. You're going to let me finish patching you up. Now..." he stares at me with his Sergeant's eyes. "Sit. Down." I struggle to fight my stubborn retort, but he sees it brewing and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

I groan in protest loudly and pull my arm out of my grip before moving to the edge of the bed and sulkingly wait for him to finish his job- that I didn't ask him to even start, by the way!

"Good girl," he mutters with a smartass smirk, and I take a breath in to yell something at him, but he goes back to the bathroom to grab the kit we left behind.

"Cyborg headed-ass, caveman, son of a bit-" I mumble, and he comes back in, shooting me a look that says, 'really?'. "Oh, sorry, did you hear that?" I say with fake regret.

He rolls his eyes and crouches again by my knees to get a better angle at the cut, and I lean back, my hands flat against the comforter as he works quietly, and I stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the warmth of his hands on my stomach when he's been nothing but cold to me.

As he's patting the tape over the piece of gauze he fashioned over my cut, I look at him calculatingly. He notices my gaze on him and awkwardly starts putting his things up, sneaking glances at my stare here and there.

"What?" he finally asks. "Stop staring at me."

Instead of an answer, I just stare harder and raise an eyebrow, tilting my head to the side as I analyze him deeper.

"Cut it out," he growls, standing and moving to put the kit on the counter. "You're creeping me out."

I let out a single laugh and shake my head before lowering my tank top and looking out the window. "You're so fucking confusing," I state, standing as I straighten my clothes.

"I'm confusing?" he asked rhetorically. "You're fucking confusing."

"Come up with your own lines," I throw an exasperated hand out, waving him off. "I'm getting air."

I don't know what provokes him, but he steps in front of me, his towering figure shadowing over me.

"No," he says, looking at me sternly.

"There wasn't a question mark at the end of that sentence, asshole," I sidestep him and move to the door. I manage to open it maybe a foot before it's slammed in my face, and I feel Bucky's chest pressed to my back. I look up, and his hand is splayed flat on the door.

"I said no," he says lowly. His voice is just over my shoulder, and I hold back the shiver that threatens to take over my body.

"And I said, fuck off," I say just as lowly, looking up at him, tilting my head back. "Move."

"We need to talk."

"And I need to put a good three blocks of this city between us so I don't add another person to the stabbed today club. I'd rather stay on Steve's good side." I jut my arm back to elbow him in the ribs, but he dodges it with a huff of an annoyed laugh.

"Real mature," he sasses, and I can see a touch of playfulness in his features, and that makes me even more furious.

"You're one to fucking talk!" I turn and shove him in the chest, and he relents, putting his hands up in the air as I shove repeatedly in vexation. Each shove and each curse I send his way has him taking one slight step back with a grin. "Stop smiling!" I grunt as I push him harder, and he laughs. He fucking laughs!

My eye twitches, and my hits become more forceful. Nothing close to what I'm capable of, but I'm not looking for a full-on brawl. I just want to smack him enough to wipe that stupid smirk off his face.

"Y/N," he says calmly in between hits to his rock-solid chest. A chest, I'm sure, will give me bruises if I keep this up.

"No! You don't get to talk!" I point at him after shoving him one more time and successfully making him falter a few steps back at the power behind it. "I'm walking out of this room to get some air, and you're going to stay right fucking there. Right there!" I point to the floor under his feet. "And not keep me from leaving this God damn suffocating room. Got it?"

I know my eyes are wild, and I know the emotions I'm feeling are written clear as day on my face because his sly smirk falters, and he takes a deep breath in, hands still up in surrender.

"I'm sorry," he mutters out as his gaze falls to his feet.

"What?" I ask, shocked and slightly out of breath from exerting myself.

"I'm sorry," he says a touch more clearly as he clears his throat and looks up, hands coming down and eyes avoiding mine.

I blink a few times and throw my hands up. "I can't do this." I let out a breath and turned back to the door.

"Y/N, please don't," he says, and I stop. I surprise myself, but I stop, turning back to him slowly.

"Why?" There's a long pause that follows my question, and I wonder whether Bucky even knows why he's asking this. "Genuinely Bucky... Why are you so insistent on me staying in this room right now?"

He runs a nervous hand over his beard and shifts his weight to one foot as he throws one hand up in a single wave.

"I don't need you getting hurt again," he states, still avoiding eye contact.

My eyebrows narrow in confusion, and I cross my arms, popping my hip to the side as I stare at him. "We're in a hotel. Not a battlefield."

"It's better we stay in here than wander around. The guys who were after us are likely still hunting us, and it's best we don't show our faces in public spaces," he notes.

Ok, that's a logical reason, but something tells me this is a more emotional reason on his end. He's not sharing everything, though...

"Ok..." I drag out and look at the balcony. "Then I'll go out there."

I walk promptly to the balcony, surprisingly not being stopped by him as I brush past him and jiggle the door handle, finding it stuck. "Fucking hell," I grumble under my breath as I pull the handle and push it up and down to try and get it to work.

A hand comes behind me and takes the door handle for me. I stare at it, not turning to acknowledge how Bucky expertly pushes it just right for it to open.

"I had the same issue," he says, pulling his hand back and nodding his head to the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower." He steps back, quiet and sinking back into his usual stand-offish behavior, but now with more nerves and awkwardness.

I give a grunt in acknowledgment and shut the balcony door behind me before sitting in a shitty lawn chair. I don't turn to see if he's still standing there watching me, but instead, I focus on the city view in front of me. It's not a well-off country, so the views aren't more than rundown buildings and vendors in the street shouting for people to buy their things over their neighbors, but it's fresh air away from the man that makes my blood boil.

Fifteen minutes later, I feel a little calmer. Although still annoyed, I'm more confused than anything. Why the hell was he acting so strange, and why do I feel like some kind of serious conversation was going to-

"Y/N?" I hear the door open with a creak and turn to see Bucky with wet hair, a change of clothes, and soft eyes focusing on the door that's obviously broken. "God, this place has gone down in quality," he notes, leaving the door cracked as he comes onto the balcony with me.

"Been here before?" I ask, turning back to the view ahead.

"Once like 8 years ago," he nods and moves to stand by the railing, his arms crossed over the edge of it, and his gaze now focused on the same place mine is. "Must have gotten new management."

It's silent for almost five minutes after that. No words, no looks, no sounds. Just silence outside of the city noise. I debate, standing and going back into the room if he's going to continue to go radio silent and not explain his strange behavior earlier, but just before I stand, he speaks up.

"I don't know why," he says, and a crease forms between my eyebrows. He continues to stare off into the city. I wait a few moments, and he continues. "I don't know why you stress me out more than the others."

Great. So that's how this is going to go.

I stand and silently move to go back into the room, but his hand clasps around my wrist.

"Please, just let me find the words," he asks, and I can hear the plea in his voice.

I look back and up at him and his eyes are in the puppy dog form I've seen only a select few times. Ones that have never been directed at me but have held no truer emotion than requisition.

"Ok..." I drag out, moving back to the lawn chair and sitting quietly as he drops my wrist almost hesitantly and leans against the railing, fidgeting with his hands. I've never seen him like this, so I give him the space.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and closes his eyes before just unloading everything.

"I don't like seeing you get hurt," he starts. "I mean, I don't like seeing any of my friends get hurt. It's no decent person's interest to watch friends and family get harmed, but it's like a nagging in my head. No," he shakes his head, trying to find the right words. "It's like having pins and needles surrounding your lungs, and every time you try and take a breath to come down from the terror- the pain of seeing them hurt- the needles poke and stab. Making it nearly impossible to take a deep breath and ground yourself. And that's only a part of the pain that comes with it."

I stare up at him. My eyes are likely wide as I take in what he's saying. He glances at me once before looking back at his hands.

"I know I'm an asshole to you. I know that," he says, cringing as if the truth behind it hurts him. "I don't know why. At least, I say that to make myself not think about it longer than I can probably handle, but I've talked to my therapist about it, and she says it's a protective technique my brain finds more plausible than just dealing with the confusing feelings I have towards you."

My eyes shift back and forth as if trying to understand the words.

"Feelings towards me?" I repeat. "Like annoyance?"

"No," he sighs, and then he chuckles a soft laugh under his breath. "Well, yes. Sometimes you can be annoying, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't find it endearing most of the time."

My eyebrows raise at that. Where the hell is all this coming from?

I shake my head in disbelief and lean back in my chair. "Barnes, you're giving me a bit of whiplash, and I'm not sure-"

"I like you."

My mouth is still open from where my sentence was going, and I blink once. Then twice. Then, a third time, as I tried to understand if I just heard him right. Because if he meant it as a friend, I'm shocked. But if he meant it otherwise... I'm hallucinating.

His eyes find mine, and this time, he doesn't look away. He keeps eye contact, and I can feel him trying to read me.

"I-Is there more to that sentence?" I ask, my brain trying to make sense of the situation and short-circuiting ultimately.

"Yes, but from the looks of it, you're still trying to translate those three words."

"Good observation," I nod, pursing my lips and sinking into my chair.

"I've been known to make them," he smiles a tight-lipped smile. I'm actually grateful for his quip at this moment.

"Bucky, you have to understand that those words don't make sense with how you treat me-"

"I know, and I'm sorry," he pushes off the railing and steps forward just in front of my chair. "God, I'm so sorry. I don't even know why it's taken me this long to apologize for the way I've acted this long, but for some reason... When we were fighting today, I saw a man get the jump on you. I was seconds from leaving my own fight and coming straight to you to handle it for you, but you quickly turned the situation around. It wasn't the first time I'd seen you in that scenario, yet something about it..." He pauses, looking up at the sky, throwing a hand through his hair. "It freaked me out. It freaked me out far more than it has in the past."

He looks at me in a sincere way and moves to sit in the busted up, rusted, and metal patio chair that looks like it very well could have been here when he came 8 years ago. It creaks as he turns it in and angles his body toward mine. His elbows rest on his knees, and he looks down at his hands again. And as he talks, I realize he's breaking it down not just for me but for himself—these emotions and sudden changes.

"Maybe it's because I knew if I didn't get to you, you were on your own. We didn't have a backup. I couldn't call Steve or Nat, or Wanda to come in and help where I couldn't. And then the actualization that if I couldn't get to you, if no one was there to back you up, there was a chance I'd end up regretting everything all because I can't seem to come to terms with my feelings." His eyes find mine again. "And then that cut," his eyes drag from mine down my torso to where my knife wound lays under my tank top. "It was like a final piece to knock some sense into my head."

He looks at me, and I can't explain it, but I want to hold him when he looks at me like that.

"Seeing you hurt reminded me... You're human. You aren't invincible even if you can take on three men triple your size attacking you at once. It's a skill I'm glad and impressed that you have, but it doesn't guarantee someone won't get the jump on you again, and I'm not sure I can handle that."

I stay in silence for a moment, taking in the information and processing it all. I must have been quiet for a while because a soft "Y/N?" makes me look up from where I've been staring blankly at the balcony.

"You ok?" he asks gently, carefully.

I nod and run a hand up and down my arm from a slight breeze blowing with the sun setting in the distance.

"Trying to..." I started, but I didn't know what words were meant to follow. "I'm a little shocked," I say, eventually looking at him.

"I can't say I blame you. It's a 180 from our normal conversations," he takes a deep breath and smiles softly at him. "Do you need a minute?"

I shake my head. "No..." Then I scrunch my nose. "Well, maybe."

"That's ok," he nods, sitting back in his chair, and it weakly groans in protest. He takes in the fact my legs are up to my chest now, and I've wrapped my arms around myself. "We should go inside. It'll get cold soon." He stands and motions for me to head in first, then offers a hand to help me stand up.

I look at it before taking it, standing, and walking in with my arms still around my middle. As soon as we're in, I turn and catch us both off guard by being chest-to-chest with him after he shuts the balcony door. I don't move, though, and neither does he.

"Since honesty seems to be the theme of the night," I look up at him. "I've always admired you..." His face softens at that. "But I'd be lying to both of us if I said how you treated me didn't affect that original feeling." He nods in understanding and slightly cringes to himself.

"I wouldn't hold it against you."

"Why did you- Why did you not like me at first?"

He shrugs a touch, but there's no uncertainty behind it. "I saw you as young and naive. I saw you as someone who seemed to make almost anyone love you, and all you had to do was exist around them. I think a broken part of me was envious and confused by that trait, and I used it as a reason to be hateful to you instead of taking advantage of the kindness you freely give and allowing myself the gift of that. I didn't think I deserved that." He sighs, his hands going into the pockets of his sweats. "I convinced myself that your kindness was nativity when I've learned quite quickly that you're anything but naive."

I sigh, nodding my head as I turn and move to sit on the edge of the bed. "You wouldn't be the first person to misinterpret my kindness. It's why I tend to fall into becoming a stubborn ass when people don't appreciate that kindness. Hence why I haven't been the perfect person in this relationship myself," I motion between us. "I should have recognized where you could have been coming from and continued to kill you with pleasantries, but you didn't seem to respond well to it."

"It wasn't your job to recognize that or fix it. It was mine to stop being a stubborn ass myself and talk to you rather than make assumptions," he shifts on his feet. "I thought I was self-preserving when I was actually self-sabotaging. Something I'm still working on recognizing."

"It's a process," I sigh, knowing the steps well enough myself. I consider the conversation and take a deep breath, relaxing in my spot as I come to my conclusion. "Bucky?" He looks at me, hopeful and attentive. "I forgive you."

I watch as his body stiffens at the declaration before slowly relaxing.

"I don't expect you to just be fine with everything I've done the last-"

"Many years?" I chuckle, lighting the mood. "Yeah, but why would I want to waste any more time when I get it? I get your reasoning, and I can't say I blame you."

"But you should blame me," he moves to sit on the comforter next to me, our knees brushing.

I shrug, turning to face him better. "But I don't." He starts to talk, and I cover his mouth with my hand. His icy blue eyes looked down at the motion before back at me. "I swear to God, Barnes. You take two steps forward, and it's like you feel guilty for making progress and regress." He flinches slightly at my words, and I feel I struck a nerve. "Sorry, I shouldn't-" I take my hand back.

"No, you're right. It's something I'm still working on. I mean, small things are easy to accept and move on, but this," he gestures to me. "A part of me doesn't believe I deserve your forgiveness after the caseload of shit I've given you, but-"

"But it's my forgiveness to give, so I'll decide if I want to give it..." I look at him as if waiting for him to connect the dots. He smiles and nods as he looks down at his hands. "You catching on?"

"I'm catching on," he looks up at him again. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We look at each other for a little while, and the atmosphere is new. It's not tense. It's not awkward. It's not uncomfortable. It's like we've come to a point we've been actively avoiding for years, and it turned out to be a really nice point.

"So..." he starts, and I decide to break the seriousness of it all.

"Why is there only one bed, Bucky?" I ask with a look meant to lighten up the mood, turning and patting the comforter we're sitting on.

He looks at it with me and smiles with a laugh. "It wasn't intentional, if that's what you're asking."

"Feels a touch intentional. Not letting me leave the room or demanding I stay close kinda plays into the fact you'd be forced into sharing a bed with me. Another way to secure my proximity," I tease.

"Or..." he drags out, and his hand comes up, pushing a wayward hair behind my ear and casually taking his hand back. "The receptionist told me they didn't have any two-bedroom rooms available right now because there is a festival in town this weekend, and they're booked up."

"Seems legit, but not sure if I believe you," I grin a touch bashful and look around at the room as if I'm surveying it and not slightly melting at his touch.

"Believe me or not," he shrugs, standing and stretching. "Either way, we're sharing a bed tonight, sweetheart." He winks. He fucking winks at me and moves to the other side of the bed, getting his side ready for sleep.

This new side of him is not one I was ready for, but seeing it makes me think about what I haven't gotten to experience sooner. So I say that.

"I knew you were a lady's man back in the day, but I never thought I'd see the flirt you were rumored to be," I turn in my spot on the bed and look at him from the end of the bed.

"I don't flirt with everyone," he says, throwing the blanket back and adjusting the pillows.

"Well, yeah, obviously, but-"

"Just people I'm attracted to," he says, cutting me off with a telling grin. "And to women, I'd like to have flirt back."

My mouth drops, and I let out a laugh. A genuine laugh. "Was that a move? Did you just make a move on me?" I smile like a teenager at him, partially in disbelief and partially in interest.

"Did it work?" he chuckles, sitting on the edge and scooting into the bed but not fully getting in it.

I shake my head with a smile and laugh again. "Honestly, I have to say yes."

His smile widens at my confession, and he leans back on the headboard, two pillows propped behind him.

"So you're saying I have a chance if I keep it up?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, cowboy. It's not going to take just a flashy wink and a flirty comment to get my attention fully. I like to be sought after."

"Good to know."

"Is it?" I ask incredulously with a smirk as I move to my side of the bed and throw the covers back enough to sneak under them.

"Can't give away all my plans," he shakes his head, and I turn off my bedside lamp.

"Wouldn't want you to. I like being surprised," I lay down and nuzzled into my pillow before turning on my side and looking up at him. "Must say, your surprise tonight was a pretty good start."

"You think?"

"I think," I nod and debate on my next idea, but I decide what the hell? Who's it hurting? "Feel free to say no, but if we are sharing the same bed, I tend to be a cuddler unconsciously, so if we-"

"Yes," he says simply a large grin he doesn't seem to care to hide marks his handsome features. "Yes, please." He nods, moving under the blanket.

"That answer was a little too fast to believe that this hotel didn't have other beds."

"I don't know what you mean," he shimmies under the blanket, and I feel his leg brush mine.

"Listen, normally I wouldn't, but I learn I sleep best when I'm with another person, so-"

"You don't have to give me a reason, doll. I'm happy to lend the support." His arms are quickly wrapped around my middle and I'm turned to where my back is pressed against his front and I'm not going to lie... It's a perfect fit. "Night, Y/N."

"Night, Bucky." I smile putting my hands on his around my middle and laying back into him.

This was a good start to something possibly more...

Want to keep reading? (Part 2 of 2)

Marvel Tags:

@thejourneyneverendsx @death-unbecomes-you @mythos-writes @srrymydood @xa-dia @redhairedfeistynerd @morganclaire4 @connie326 @captain-asguard @mollygetssherlockcoffee @teenagedreams-bucky @shower-me-with-roses @livstilinski @basicallylool @starryeyeseunbyul

My Lovelies Forever:

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Bucky Barnes Tags:

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader insert #one bed trope #marvel fanifc #bucky barnes #reader insert #justkending #marvel #bucky barnes x avenger reader #enemies to lovers #bucky barnes x drabble #buckybarnes

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intheupside · 21 days ago

Text

“I get to do what I love,” Crosby said. “The least I can do is treat people well along the way.”

really good sid article in the athletic today

Moments before overtime of Game 6 between Sidney Crosby’s Pittsburgh Penguins and Alex Ovechkin’s Washington Capitals in 2016, the Penguins all sat in the silent home locker room. No one moved. No one uttered a word..

Over the years, the Penguins had been mentally tougher than the Capitals, which explained why they owned their bitter rival in the biggest games. Now, the tables appeared to have turned and the Penguins were rattled. It was all silent in the Pittsburgh room, until only a few intermission minutes remained.

Then Crosby, the soft-spoken captain of the Penguins, stood up and addressed his team.

“Hey guys,” Crosby said. “We’re better than that f—ing team. This ends now.”

It took only 6 minutes, 32 seconds of overtime for Bonino to score the game-winner, ending the series and paving the way for Crosby and the Penguins to win their second of three championships. But Crosby’s message left a lasting impression.

“No one could believe it when he did it,” Cole said. “Bones scored the goal, but it was Sid. We needed to hear it. It was all Sid. That’s the kind of leader he is.”

Crosby has been the captain of Team Canada since 2014, and for almost half of his life, the 37-year-old Crosby has skated with the “C” stitched on his chest in Pittsburgh. Along the way, he has developed a reputation for leadership that is second to none. There is a family atmosphere and a charitable spirit within the Penguins organization that largely exists because of him.

Even this season, as Crosby’s Penguins miss the playoffs for a third straight season, his leadership attributes have never dimmed. The results and on-ice success may vary from year to year; Crosby does not.

What’s his secret? What makes him unique? What makes him a great leader?

Those who have shared a locker room with Crosby swear by him and talk about a set of common principles:

He treats everyone the same and insists that he’s treated like everyone else.

He makes everyone feel welcome and does so with personal touches.

His competitiveness rubs off on everyone else.

His work ethic and consistency inspire others to be better.

“There’s never been anyone like him, and there never will be,” said former Penguins general manager Jim Rutherford. “I’ve been around a while and I’ve met a lot of people. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

In 2014 the Penguins acquired Lee Stempniak and Marcel Goc at the trade deadline, and the pair was set to play in San Jose the following day. Goc and Stempniak were en route to the SAP Center in San Jose.

The rest of the Penguins had long since departed the arena in San Jose for the hotel to engage in the standard pre-game afternoon nap. Stempniak and Goc, however, were headed straight to the arena, so Crosby sat for hours in the Penguins locker room, waiting for the new players to arrive. He had already welcomed them to the team via text, but he prefers to add the personal touch.

“That’s what I noticed when the Penguins first traded for me,” said Ryan Pohling, who played one season for the Penguins before moving on to Philadelphia. “I get a text from Sid. And he’s chatting you up, making you feel so comfortable. And you’re like, ‘Sidney Crosby is talking to me.’ It just gets your attention because of who he is. But he just wants to make you feel welcome immediately. He’s different than anyone else.”

There is a long trail of evidence of Crosby making new guys feel welcome.

“It’s crazy,” said Rutger McGroarty, one of the youngest Penguins. “You’re barely in the NHL, and Sidney Crosby is chatting you up.”

But those personal touches extend to longtime teammates as well.

“If you’re having a bad day or having a problem, he’ll take care of you,” said Marc-Andre Fleury, his former teammate. “He’d talk in French to make me feel better.”

During the 2016 Stanley Cup run, Crosby frequently took the young players out to dinner, wanting them to feel comfortable in a new city.

Sometimes they’d be itching for a nap on the road. Too bad.

“We usually have these team lounges at hotels,” Rust said. “Trust me, he was always encouraging us to get down there. He wanted everybody there, but especially the younger guys. So you would go down to the lounge, and he’d be there waiting. Shoot the bull, play cards, whatever. I think he just wanted everyone hanging out together. It was important to him, and it still is. We’d have team dinners, stuff like that, and he’d always make sure the young guys attended. He went out of his way to make us feel comfortable during that time.”

That, Rust said, led to the Penguins’ back-to-back championships as much as their talent.

“It’s 100 percent a real thing, and Sid always understood that,” Rust said. “It can be the missing piece to the puzzle.”

Just because he wants to make people feel welcome doesn’t mean Crosby wants them to stay too relaxed. Not for long, anyway.

Crosby makes those around him better simply by challenging them.

“He doesn’t even mean to do it,” former teammate Mike Rupp said. “At least, I don’t think he does.”

In 2010, the Penguins were conducting their annual team testing at the beginning of training camp. Rupp, a 6-foot-5, 230-pound power forward and menacing physical presence, had earlier in the day thrown the medicine ball further than any of his teammates.

when Crosby walked up to him.

“So I heard you have the record for today?” Crosby said. “Not anymore.”

“So we started throwing the medicine ball back and forth after this,” Rupp said. “I throw it the first time, and it goes maybe 25 feet. Then he gets 26. Then I throw one 27. So then he throws one that goes 30 feet. I think we got up to 33 feet.”

“The point is,” Rupp said, “I had thought, at that time, that I had thrown it as far as I could. That I gave everything that I could. But I hadn’t. That’s how Sid brings you to another level.”

On or off the ice, Rupp had never seen anyone who could inspire greatness from those around him like that. The oldest of his former teammates agrees.

Matt Cullen was almost 40 when the Penguins won those championships in 2016 and 2017. Even he found himself looking up to Crosby.

“I think his drive to constantly improve his own game and his unmatched work ethic leaves teammates no choice but to follow,” Cullen explained.

#pittsburgh penguins #sidney crosby #bryan rust #rutger mcgroarty #matt cullen #marc andre fleury

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pucksandpower · 8 months ago

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Seeing Color

Lando Norris x soulmate!Reader

Summary: the average person goes their whole life without seeing so much as a drop of color, so safe to say you’re quite surprised when the sky suddenly turns blue while you’re covering Formula 1 for the first time

The sky’s a muted gray, just like every other day of your life, as you stand in the bustling paddock of Silverstone, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

This isn’t what you signed up for. Football’s your thing — sweaty players, goals, and post-match interviews in rain-soaked stadiums. But motorsport? Formula 1? It’s a different beast altogether.

“Just one race,” your supervisor had assured you. “It’ll be fine, Y/N. You’re a pro.”

Easy for them to say. The paddock is a maze of garages, team colors (which are a uniform grayscale for you, of course), and a cacophony of sounds that’s more overwhelming than a packed Premier League stadium.

You’ve been briefed on the basics — Max Verstappen’s the reigning champ, Lewis Hamilton’s the legend, and Lando Norris, the homegrown young talent, just secured P2.

P2. The words feel alien, even though you repeat them to yourself over and over, willing them to become familiar. Podium finish, second place. You’ve got this.

But the truth is, you don’t. Not really. And it’s showing as you fumble with your notes, trying to prepare for the post-race interviews. Your heart’s racing faster than any of the cars on the track.

“Hey, you alright there?”

The voice comes from behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. You turn around and see a young man — not too tall, with curly hair, and a faint smirk playing on his lips. You recognize him immediately, even in black and white.

Lando Norris.

“Yeah, just-” You scramble for professionalism, straightening your back and offering what you hope is a confident smile. “Just getting ready for the interviews.”

Lando’s eyes flicker down to the notes in your hand. “First time covering F1?”

Your smile falters. “Is it that obvious?”

He chuckles softly, and for a moment, it’s as if the world around you narrows down to just the two of you standing there in the paddock, the sounds and chaos fading into the background.

“A little,” he admits, leaning casually against the wall, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “But don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound surprising even yourself. There’s something about his easygoing manner that puts you at ease, just for a moment. “I appreciate that.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, right?” He asks, and you’re caught off guard that he knows your name.

“That’s me,” you reply, slipping into the role of interviewer as best as you can. “Congratulations on P2, by the way. How was the race for you?”

He glances at you, and for a brief second, his expression changes. It’s subtle — almost imperceptible — but it’s there. Something shifts in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Thanks,” he says, but the word comes out softer than you expect. There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation, before he continues. “The race was … it was intense. But honestly? Standing here right now … it feels like something else is happening.”

You frown slightly, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

Lando looks at you again, more intently this time, and you’re acutely aware of the way your pulse is thumping in your ears. “Look around,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if he’s sharing a secret. “Do you see anything different?”

You blink, confused. You glance around, expecting to see the same monotone world you’ve always known, the same dull shades of gray. But instead … you see it. A soft glow in the distance, a faint tinge of color in the sky.

It’s … blue.

A gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it. “What …”

Lando steps closer, his expression as bewildered as yours. “You see it too, don’t you?”

“I-I don’t understand,” you stammer, your heart racing even faster now. “This can’t be real. I’ve never seen color before.”

“Neither have I,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But … I’m seeing it now. Because of you.”

The air around you feels electric, charged with something you can’t quite name. Your eyes lock onto his, and suddenly, the world isn’t gray anymore. It’s alive with hues and shades that you’ve only ever imagined. His eyes, a stunning shade of fluid green, meet yours with the same wonder.

“This can’t be real,” you repeat, more to yourself than to him. You’re trying to make sense of the impossible, of the vivid blues and greens and reds that are slowly seeping into your vision, like the world is waking up from a long sleep.

Lando reaches out, his hand hovering near yours, not quite touching. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze that’s startling — like he’s just as unsure of what’s happening as you are. “I think …” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard before trying again. “I think it’s because we’re soulmates.”

“Soulmates?” You echo, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. You’ve heard the stories, the myths — how the world is black and white until you meet the person you’re meant to be with.

But it’s just that, isn’t it? A myth? A fairytale? With over 8 billion people on Earth, the chances of actually meeting your fated match are slim-to-none. Most of the population has grown to accept that they will never see anything other than black and white.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what they say, right? You don’t see color until you meet your soulmate. But I never thought it’d actually happen. Not like this.”

You’re silent for a moment, trying to process it all. The colors, the implications, the fact that this person — this stranger — is suddenly supposed to mean everything to you. It’s overwhelming.

“I don’t even know you,” you whisper, voicing your fears. “How can we be soulmates if we don’t even know each other?”

Lando’s smile is small, almost shy. “I guess we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

The words are simple, but they carry a weight that you’re not sure you’re ready to bear. But when he looks at you like that, with such sincerity, you find yourself nodding.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “I guess we will.”

He takes a step closer, and this time, his hand does brush against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You feel it in every nerve, every inch of your being. It’s like the world has shifted on its axis, and you’re standing at the center of something much bigger than yourself.

“Can I ask you something?” Lando’s voice is quiet, almost tentative.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice just as soft.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s such a simple thing, and yet, in this moment, it feels like the most important question in the world. You look around, taking in the colors that are now flooding your vision — the vibrant greens of the trees in the distance, the deep blues of the sky, the bright reds and yellows of the cars and team logos.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels right. “I’ve never had a favorite color before.”

Lando smiles, a real smile this time, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Pretty sure I’m legally obligated to say mine’s papaya,” he laughs, and you notice it for the first time — the vibrant hue of his team’s colors, standing out against the grayscale world you’ve known until now. “I think you’ll like it.”

You smile back at him, feeling the connection between you deepening with every passing second. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and everything in between.

“I think I might,” you say, and the words are full of a promise that you’re not sure you fully understand yet, but that feels right nonetheless.

For a moment, the world falls away, and it’s just the two of you, standing there in a kaleidoscope of color that’s bursting into life all around you. The roar of the engines, the clamor of the crowd — it all fades into the background as you look at each other, truly seeing each other for the first time.

“So … what happens now?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s hand tightens around yours, and there’s a steadiness in his gaze that grounds you. “We take it one step at a time,” he says. “We get to know each other. And we see where this goes.”

The simplicity of his words is comforting. There’s no grand declaration, no rush to figure everything out. Just a promise to take things as they come, to let whatever this is between you grow naturally, in its own time.

“I’d like that,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, that boyish charm back in full force, and you can’t help but smile in return. “Good,” he says. “Because I think we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”

There’s a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip a beat, and for the first time since this whole whirlwind began, you find yourself excited about the future — about the possibility of what’s to come.

“Yeah,” you reply, your smile widening. “I think we are.”

And as you stand there, hand-in-hand with Lando Norris, surrounded by the vibrant colors of a world that’s finally come to life, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is where you were always meant to be.

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missadangel · 12 days ago

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MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 7: Apologize

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Chapter Summary: When you call it quits on secrets, it’s funny how more of them spill out. Then Harry comes sprinting after you, begging for forgiveness. I mean, how can you say no to that face? Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 10,5k, ROMANCE, feelings!!! fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, jealousy, dirty talk, love triangle authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

As the elevator headed up to the penthouse, disbelief hit you hard. How could Harry have lied to you like that? You’d been cleaning his place without even knowing it. It felt like a total betrayal, but honestly, you were more pissed off than anything. Then another thought struck you—those cameras. Had he been watching you this entire time?

“Jerk. Fuckin' asshole.”

“Huh?”

Right, you were in the elevator with Mia, this little girl you just met, both of you heading to the same flat. But it was clear you had a shared goal. The elevator chimed as you reached the penthouse, and Mia stopped you. “I need to do something first.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused.

Mia peeked out of the elevator, checking the area. “The cameras,” she said.

You were caught off guard.

“I can’t let my mom find out I’m here, so I need to shut them down before we go in.”

“Your mom is Maria, right?”

“You know her too? Who even are you?”

With a smirk, you said, “Just think of me as your partner in crime.”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “Partner in crime?”

Leaning in a bit, you said, “I want to take down those damn cameras too.”

She thought about it for a second, narrowed her eyes, and then glanced at your uniform. “So that’s you, huh? My mom mentioned you.”

“What did she say?”

She smirked. “You are the girl who made Uncle Harry look like he’d been hit by a truck.”

You giggled. “I really want to hit him with a truck right now. Because you see, I didn't know it was his apartment when I was cleaning here, he played a trick on me. And as if that wasn't enough, he watched me on the cameras. So what do you say, partner? You want to smash those cameras?”

She frowned. “Smash them? What are you, a vandal?” She took his tablet out of her school bag. “Here, I'll activate the app here, but since we're partners, I need you to turn on the signal first, can you do that?”

You felt like an idiot next to this smart 10-year-old girl. “Okay, tell me what to do, partner.”

“Since you're the cleaning lady who always comes here...”

“Maid.”

“Yeah, maid, whatever. I need you to go to the control panel on the wall and choose the option to connect to nearby devices.”

You frowned. “Why can’t I just walk over and hit the button to turn off the camera? There has to be an option for that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks Einstein, if you do that, the camera's feed will be disabled and Uncle Harry will receive a notification, which could make him suspicious. I’ll just link to the camera from the tablet and adjust its angle. Then there won't be anything to worry about. It's not like Uncle Harry is going to be monitoring the camera constantly during his meetings at work.”

Now you felt even more silly; it was a super clever plan. “Wow, you’re really smart,” you said. She styled her hair like her mom. “I know. Just go do what I say.”

You chuckled softly, “Understood, ma’am.”

She flashed a grin.

As you entered the apartment, you acted casually, avoiding the cameras while strolling down the corridor. “It feels like I’m in a movie,” you whispered to yourself. You quickly connected to the cameras through the control panel’s touch screen and hit "add device." Moments later, Mia's tablets name appeared, confirming the connection.

“Connection complete,” Mia announced as she walked in.

“High five, girl!” you said, extending your hand.

She laughed and high-fived you back. “We make an awesome team. I like you.”

“I like you too, Mia,” you replied with a wink.

Looking at the cameras, you realized Mia was indeed controlling them from her tablet. They were all aimed toward the corners, so as long as you didn’t walk by, the cameras wouldn’t catch you. Mia sprawled out on the couch as if it were her own home and started watching a video on her tablet. Glancing at her knee, you noticed it was slightly bleeding.

“Hey, let me take care of that knee,” you said, heading to grab a first aid kit. When you returned, you sat beside her and cleaned her wound with some alcohol. “Is this because you skipped school today? Is it about your mom?”

She sighed. “Yeah, it’s about her and my dad. They keep saying they’ll get divorced, but nothing changes.”

You paused. That must be tough for her. “I didn’t know; that sounds rough. How do you feel about it?”

She shrugged. “I just want them to figure it out already. I’m so tired of their drama and constant arguing.”

“I get it. If it ever gets to be too much, just call me. My place isn’t nearly as big as this one—barely bigger than the living room—but I’ll make room for you. What do you think?”

Mia smiled with a maturity beyond her years. “Thanks, you’re a really good friend.”

You smiled back and wrapped her knee with some bandages. “Alright, don’t take this off until tomorrow, got it?”

“Got it, thanks,” he said as he flopped back onto the couch. “You’re mad at him, huh?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m really angry. I just want to break everything in here,” you muttered while glancing around.

“How mature,” he remarked quietly.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, you looked at her. “I mean, of course I won’t actually do that.”

“My mom did,” she replied, surprisingly calm. “She broke everything in Dad’s office. You adults can be super childish sometimes, and then want us to act like we’re grown-ups.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “You’re not wrong; we can be pretty childish about things.”

“Just talk it out and figure it out,” she said.

You grabbed the first aid kit and stood up. “What if I’m so mad at him that I don’t even want to talk?”

She smiled. “I don’t think you are.” You raised an eyebrow. “Well, I hope you are not, because I don’t want him to be upset.” She was messing with something on her tablet.

You loved how she was just like her mom, always keeping an eye on Harry. “I don’t want to upset him, honey, but I have to make him eat a little humble pie, okay?”

“But you’ll forgive him later, right?” she asked with hope in her voice.

“Of course, I love him,” you said softly.

“Awesome,” she said, clearly happy, and went back to playing with the tablet.

“Well, I guess I should get back to my chores,” you said, heading into the kitchen to start cleaning up.

“What's up?”

Oliver stepped into his office to find Harry staring at his tablet with a frown.

“There’s something wrong with the cameras. They won’t rotate and there’s no sound coming through. Do you think there's a bug in the app?”

“Maybe your girlfriend got fed up with the cameras and sabotaged them,” he quipped, taking a closer look. “Let me see.”

“I can't blame her,” Harry replied, guilt creeping in.

Oliver noticed Harry’s troubled look as he fiddled with the app. “Seriously, when are you going to tell her?”

“I’m planning to do it tonight,” Harry said with determination. “I just couldn’t find the right moment this morning.”

At that moment, Maria walked into the office. “Harry, I'm seriously considering taking that tablet away from you. You’ve been messing with it more than Mia. I worked really hard to convince them—it’s not worth ruining the meeting over.”

“He was just worried he couldn’t see his girlfriend on the camera,” Oliver muttered.

Harry shot him a glare.

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m calling her right now and telling her everything,” Maria said, pulling out her phone.

Harry jumped up and grabbed the phone from her hand. “Stay out of it. I’ll handle this.”

Just then, her phone began to ring. “School,” Harry said, handing her phone back to Maria.

Maria picked up immediately. “Hello? Yes, this is her mom.”

Harry glanced at Oliver. “Have you fixed it yet?”

“Nope, it’s weird. It’s like someone else has logged into the cameras on their phone and taken over.”

“What did you just say?”

They both turned to Maria, who looked concerned. “Okay,” she said, hanging up.

Harry frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Mia,” Maria said as she dialed another number. “Her teacher said she didn’t show up to school today. Come on, pick up the damn phone.” But Maria’s face dropped when Mia's dad said he hadn’t seen her either.

“Or perhaps she went back home,” Oliver added.

“We’ll find out now,” Maria said, pulling up an app on her phone.

Harry moved closer to her. “What are you doing?”

“Tracking Mia with a smartwatch app,” she said, waiting for the app to locate her. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll try the app that tracks her phone.”

“Geez, Maria. Have you planted a bug on her, too?” Oliver said with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she did,” Harry scoffed.

“You’ll understand when you become parents,” Maria replied, giving them a pointed look.

“Hopefully not for a long time,” Oliver said.

Harry chuckled at the idea.

“There! I’ve got it,” Maria said, her eyes widening. “Oh no. Harry, you need to see this,” she said, showing him her phone screen.

Harry froze, staring at the location the app found. “No…Fuck...”

Oliver leaned over to take a look. “Damn, this is your apartment.”

Cleaning duty today felt tougher than usual. Ever since you discovered it was Harry’s house, things had started to feel different, especially now that you were technically his girlfriend. It made you feel a bit like a housewife, which was both thrilling and painful at the same time. You still needed answers, as you felt genuinely hurt. But your love for him was so strong—what could you really do? Deep down, you weren’t sure how long you could cling to your anger. With your pride and stubbornness tossed aside, you weren’t thinking straight anymore, so you chose to let it go for now.

As you walked through the hallway with the cleaning bucket, your eyes landed on that door—the locked door.

The secret room.

What was Harry hiding behind it? There were no keys in sight, so how would you ever get it open?

Did Mia know about this room?

When you walked in to check on her, her eyes were closed; was she asleep? Just as you turned to slip out quietly, you caught a hint of a muffled sound—no, she was crying.

“Mia? Are you okay?”

She sniffled and nodded, but kept her eyes shut. You moved to sit beside her on the couch. “Hey, what’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing... just nothing.”

You gently patted her head. “You sure? You can tell me. I'll keep it between us, I promise.”

“My mom and dad... I hate them, especially my mom. They decided to get divorced without even consulting me. I don’t want them to split up, but they didn’t even ask how I feel. They won’t love me anymore, and they’re going to be busier with their work.”

“Shh, don’t think like that. Of course, they’ll still love you. They’re your parents, and their love for you will never fade, I assure you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a mother’s love for her child is unconditional; it can’t just vanish. You're not the reason they're breaking up, I swear. Sometimes, even if adults love each other, things get messy, and splitting up is the only way to handle it. It might seem like the end, but it can also lead to something better.”

“Really?” she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy.

“Absolutely, trust me. You’re lucky to have both your mom and dad around; I’m sure they’ll take care of you, even if things change. I kind of envy you because I lost my mom, and I'll never get the chance to tell her how much I miss her. I wish she were still alive. As for my dad... it feels like he doesn’t care about me—he doesn’t even bother to call, you know?” Your voice cracked slightly. “But your mom and dad are with you and must have been searching for you all morning, haven’t they, Mia? I’m sure they are worried—”

Looking down, you saw that she had fallen asleep, holding your hand tightly. A smile crossed your face as you wrapped your other arm around her. Suddenly, you felt tired too, and before you knew it, you drifted off beside her.

“Mia? Sweetie?” Maria called out for her daughter.

You blinked awake, realizing Harry’s face was mere inches from yours, and his hand was gently resting on your cheek. You stared at him for a moment before pushing his hand away and getting off the couch.

How did you even fall asleep?

Mia stirred and rubbed her eyes. “Mom?”

“What happened to your knee?” Maria's voice rang out.

“It’s nothing, just a little scrape. I fell in the street, and she helped me clean and bandage it.” She pointed to you.

All eyes turned to you, but you avoided their gazes. You forced a smile at Mia and quickly looked away. “I think it’s time for me to go. I hope you enjoyed my service, Mr. Castillo,” you said, trying to sound casual as you made your way to the door.

Oliver stood by the entryway, looking guilty.

“Wait,” Harry called after you. Just then, Maria touched your shoulder.

“Thank you. I’m so relieved that Mia has been with you all day,” she said, pulling you into a hug that took you by surprise.

“You’re welcome, she’s a very smart girl,” you replied, feeling a bit evasive.

She beamed at you, and you offered a smile back, though it felt awkward given the situation.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Harry approached you from behind, his voice soft but insistent.

You turned to face him. “With whom? With your girlfriend? Or with your maid-in?”

Harry let out a troubled sigh, his frustration evident as he glared at you. You turned away again. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, stepping closer to the door.

Maria nudged Harry from behind, encouraging him to move. He stepped in front of you, causing you to halt abruptly.

“How can you say there’s nothing to talk about? There’s plenty,” he insisted, moving closer and locking eyes with you.

You turned your head away again. “Were you trying to get revenge? If you wanted to talk, you should have spoken up sooner.”

“Revenge?” he replied, confused.

“So because I lied to you from the start and deceived you, this was your way of getting back at me?”

“I would never, never do that,” he shook his head, his expression earnest.

“Is it out of pity then?”

His brown eyes darkened with frustration. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Then why, Harry? Why did you hire me for this job without giving me a heads-up? You totally deceived me. Did you actually enjoy watching me on camera the whole time?”

“I’m sorry. I felt responsible because you were unemployed because of me, and I wanted to help—”

“It wasn’t because of you! Besides, I could have found a job myself. You didn’t need to use your money or power. Did you really think I would feel better about this? Right now, I just feel like a complete idiot. How could you do this to me?”

Maria took Mia’s hand and started to leave. “You two talk it out; we’ll give you some space, come on, Ollie.”

“No, there’s nothing left to say,” you snapped angrily.

"But you'll forgive him later, won't you?"

"Of course, I love him."

Oh no, that sounds just like what you told Mia earlier.

Did she record you?

"Mia!" you complained, glancing at her.

She just shrugged, holding her tablet. "Sorry, my finger slipped."

"That's my girl," Mia said with a giggle, as she high-fived her.

Oliver chuckled, and Harry smiled.

But you narrowed your eyes at them, feeling furious.

"Oops, we should get going," she said to her mother. They quickly headed for the elevator, leaving you alone with Harry.

But before you could go after them, Harry came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off your feet.

“What are you doing? Harry! Put me down!”

“Nope. You're going to listen, sweetheart. No more running away.”

“Let go!” you protested, but he refused to budge.

He carried you to the couch and set you down next to him, holding your hands tightly, but you turned your head away.

“Baby, please forgive me. I tried to explain before, but I just couldn’t find the right words. I thought helping you find a job would make you happy. I never meant to offend or hurt you; please believe that.”

“Did it have to be your house?” you grumbled.

“Isn’t this better than being at someone else's place?”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

His hand trembled as he sighed. “I mean, I hate this too. It hurts to see you so exhausted, to watch you work so hard, and I can’t stand the thought of your beautiful hands being worn down in those cleaning gloves. I want to kiss those lovely fingers, to cherish them.”

As he began to kiss your fingers one by one, your heart raced. You almost let your guard down, almost kissed him.

Almost.

“Harry,” you whispered. “This is my job, and—”

“Don’t,” he interjected, frustration evident in his voice. “Can’t you just skip the cleaning? You can keep working with Chef Bruno, but please, no more cleaning.”

“Is it because you don’t want to introduce your girlfriend in that way?”

“No, what I mean is—”

You stood up, your frustration boiling over. “I’m sorry, but this is my life. I have no problem introducing you to my friends, but it seems you hesitate to do the same. I can’t change who I am.”

He rose to his feet as well. “I don’t know how we ended up here. I never intended for this to happen. Listen-”

“Harry, you listen. I understand your intentions, and I appreciate them, but I wish you had considered how I might feel in all of this. And I can't do this if...”

“Wait a minute, why do I feel like you’re giving a breakup speech?”

“Because I am,” you said, tears brimming in your eyes.

“No, no, no, don’t do that.” He moved closer, but you took a step back and raised your hand.

“We agreed there would be no secrets between us, but we couldn’t even manage that. How can our relationship develop from here?”

“There are no secrets left now that everything is out in the open,” he said, trying to smile. You crossed your arms and bit your lip, acknowledging his point. Then he drew nearer and wrapped his arms around you.

“I promise, baby, there will never be any secrets between us again, I swear,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his breath soft and tender. “Please don’t leave me.” The plea struck deep within you, twisting like a knife. How could you even entertain such a thought? The very idea of parting from him was unbearable, a wound that throbbed in your chest and brought stinging tears to your eyes. It was the last thing you wanted—a painful notion that sent ripples of hurt through your heart.

In that moment, you set aside all other emotions and surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, allowing yourself to rest your head on his chest for a while.

“What about that locked room?” you asked then, glancing toward it, wiping your tears meanwhile. “I wonder what you’re hiding behind that door.”

A sly grin crept across his face. “Do you want to see it? But promise me that once you see what’s inside, you’ll tell me you love me again, and you won’t leave me. Deal?”

“It all depends on what’s in there.”

He chuckled, then walked into the bedroom, still holding your hand. Nervousness washed over you as you tried to pull your hand back.

“Relax, I’m not trying to lure you into bed,” he laughed. “At least, not right now.”

“You wish,” you grunted.

He chuckled as he opened the nightstand drawer. “Funny. You were practically begging me last night. I can still hear you meowing.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I don’t remember any of that,” you lied.

He pulled out a box from the drawer and took out a key. “I have the scars on my back to prove it, kitten,” he teased.

Your face was burning now, as red as a tomato. “Stop it and do what you need to do.”

Chuckling, he held up the key, “Here it is; come on,” taking your hand again.

Together, you stood in front of the locked door. Harry inserted the key into the lock and paused to look at you. “Are you ready, baby? The big secret is about to be revealed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop showing off and open the damn door,” you muttered.

Grinning, he unlocked the door and stepped back, inviting you in with his hand.

You hesitated before stepping into the room, shocked at what you saw.

To your left stood a massive floor-to-ceiling wardrobe filled with clothes, and to your right was a complete wardrobe of bags and shoes. In the center was an elegant dressing table. Harry slid open the wardrobe, revealing all the clothes and shoes he had ever bought you, carefully arranged. He embraced you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and kissing your cheek. “It’s all yours. This room is for you. I was waiting for you to say yes to me before I revealed it to you. I kept it locked and tried to stay away, but I found it hard to resist many times,” he whispered, nuzzling along the curve of your neck.

You were rendered speechless, taken aback. Then you noticed a jewelry box on the dresser. “Isn’t that the earring?” You walked over, picked it up, and examined it closely. “Have you had this all along?”

“Oops, looks like another secret is out,” he said with a chuckle.

You shot him a pointed look. “You really. Why didn’t you say anything when I told you I would pay you back?”

“Because you broke my heart,” he replied softly. “You told me you never wanted to see me again, so I thought the earring would be a good excuse to get you to meet me.”

“You're unbelievable,” you shot back, your irritation surfacing.

“What about you?” he countered, but then his expression softened as he noticed the look on your face. “I love you,” he confessed, his lips forming the word like an apology.

Damn he was so cute.

His adorableness made you giggle despite yourself.

“You didn’t say it again.”

“Say what?”

“Do you want me to make you say it? Just like last night,” he whispered, leaning in close. “You remember how well that turned out.” His lips brushed against your earlobe as his hand slowly slipped down, hovering dangerously close to your thigh. Your reaction was instinctive; you caught his hand. However, his lips found their way to your neck, and you couldn't help but bite your lower lip and roll your eyes. “Harry, stop.”

“I know you want me, baby; don’t try to deny it,” he purred, his voice low and teasing.

“No, you’re wrong,” you replied, almost breathless.

“Then why are you holding my hand so tightly?” he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips.

You withdrew your hand quickly, shocked at your own reaction.

What the fuck?

When did this escalate?

You frowned at his chuckle. “I really hate you,” you whined, though your irritation was half-hearted.

“No, you don't,” he laughed, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Well, I really like this room, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you. And it definitely doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed with you,” you declared stubbornly.

“Then what do I need to do to win your forgiveness? I’ll do anything,” he said, voice dripping with seduction.

The look he gave you was enough to make you avert your gaze.

“I don’t know; I need to think,” you said, fighting back a giggle. “But I have to go now—I told Bruno I would head to the hotel early.” You turned to leave the room.

He followed right behind you. “I’ll give you a ride.”

You responded without looking back. “Well, if you’re that eager.”

With a smile, he followed you behind as you walked toward the elevator.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” Harry asked again as he parked the car in front of the hotel.

“You just asked me that five minutes ago."

“I’ll keep asking until you say you forgive me,” he replied, shutting off the engine.

You opened the door and turned to him. “At least let me think it over.”

He took your hand, pulled you closer, and placed a quick kiss on your cheek. “Whatever you say, kitty. Good luck at work.”

“Thanks for the ride,” you said with a faint smile, stepping out and closing the door behind you.

As you made your way to the hotel entrance, Harry watched you from the driver’s seat. Just then, you spotted Alan getting out of his own car, heading your way.

“Good evening,” he greeted you.

You turned and smiled, “Good evening, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Come on, call me Alan already, will you?”

Harry, watching from a distance, muttered, “Asshole.” Trying to keep his cool, he stepped out of the car and approached you two. “Baby,” he called out, and before you could react, he spun you around and kissed you so passionately that it left you breathless. Pulling back, he glanced at Alan and added, “I almost took off without kissing my girlfriend goodbye.” The way he said “girlfriend” caught his attention and everyone around the street.

Alan’s expression darkened.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, caught off-guard by how intimate the kiss had been.

“Anyway, I should be on my way,” he said.

"Yeah, you do that," you said, squinting at him and gesturing for him to leave.

“Good night, Finnegan,” Harry said, getting into his car, clearly amused by Alan's reaction.

Shaking your head at Harry, you noticed Alan squinting at him, clearly unamused. “I didn’t realize you were with him,” Alan said as he walked inside.

“Well, things are a bit complicated,” you murmured.

“Not surprising, things always get messy with Castillo,” Alan muttered quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“I just... You really should think twice about being with him,” he warned lightly.

“Alan, it’s—”

“Anyway, I suppose my employees’ personal lives are none of my business,” he said with a smirk, heading toward the elevator.

What just happened?

Why had he said that?

And why was he suddenly in a good mood?

You really should have asked Harry about the weird thing between them, but now you had to focus—you had a kitchen to get to.

Things were really hectic in the kitchen, and as if that weren’t enough, Alan was having a business lunch in the dining room and asked you to make some desserts just for him. As you handed off the treats to the waitstaff, he called you over and praised your work. If he wasn’t your boss, you might have said something about his overwhelming attention, but you figured it was best to keep quiet until your internship was over. Then, just when you thought the day couldn’t get any worse, Melanie called.

“What do you want?” you asked, annoyed.

“What do I want? I need you to talk to my dad, and I want you to do it right now, like you promised!”

“I will, but I've been super busy and haven’t had time yet.”

“Well, it’s on you. If my dad doesn’t let me come back home, I’ll just crash at your place.”

“Wait, what? You called my house a disgusting little flat. Aren’t you with Nate? Can’t he help you out?”

“Don’t even mention that jerk!”

“Did you two break up already? Wow, that was quick, even for you.”

“Just drop it, okay? It��s none of your business. Talk to my dad tomorrow night or I’ll make your life miserable!”

“As if you weren’t already a pain in my ass!” you shot back and hung up in frustration. As you walked toward the exit, muttering under your breath, someone called out from behind.

Ugh, it was Alan again.

“Are you okay? You sounded like you were venting at someone on the phone,” he said, wearing that annoying smile.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“Well, if you did it, they probably deserved it,” he said, grinning.

Just when you thought it was over, you turned to leave but almost bumped into the revolving door. Alan grabbed your arm, pulling you back.

“Watch out!” he said.

What the hell?

You could’ve easily dodged the door; you weren't that clumsy. His other arm wrapped around you, too.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” you said, carefully pushing his hand away. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he replied, watching you walk away as you stormed out. Your phone buzzed again, but you ignored it; you weren’t in the mood for more of Melanie’s drama.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Harry.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Are you okay?” he asked, and just seeing him made you feel so much better.

“Yeah, sorry, thought it was Melanie,” you said, spotting the bouquet of pink roses he was holding.

“Is she still being a pain?”

“Forget about her; I’ll handle it. Are those for me?” you asked, trying to hide your smile.

“Of course they are, beautiful,” he said, handing you the flowers.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a whiff of the roses.

“Come on, let’s get to the car.”

As you walked together, he leaned closer. “Am I forgiven?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not in a day, ol'man.”

Harry sighed and opened the back door for you. “So, if I asked you to spend the night at my apartment instead of going home, you wouldn’t consider it?”

Ah, damn...

Those puppy-dog eyes and dangerously tempting lips made it hard to say no, but you somehow managed to act like you weren't interested, thanks to your stubbornness.

And the oscar goes to...

“N-no, sorry, I need to check on Zoe. She’s still home alone,” you stammered.

He sighed again and closed the door after you settled in the car.

“Hey, Ollie,” you said while he was chilling in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, girl! How’s it going? You two good now?”

“We’re good, right, baby?” Harry said, sitting next to you.

“Kind of,” you muttered, still eyeing the roses in your lap.

“Kind of?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged, teasing him.

“Come on, really? Okay, I’m taking you on a date tomorrow night, and we’re going to sort everything out,” Harry grumbled.

“Uh-oh,” Oliver chimed in as he drove.

You squinted at Harry. “If you ask me with that tone, you might be going on that date alone.”

“Okay, sorry,” he said with a sigh. "Would you like to accompany me for dinner tomorrow night, lovely lady?"

You giggled but kept your expression cool. “Um, let me check my calendar first.”

Oliver chuckled.

Harry squinted again.

“Alright, fine. But I need to have a quick chat with Jack tomorrow. If he agrees, you can pick me up at the hotel again.”

He smiled widely taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. “As you wish, darling.”

As you stepped into the apartment, the sweet scent of the bouquet Harry had given you lingered in the air, enveloping you until you finally reached your place with the flowers cradled in your arms. When you opened the door and walked inside, you were taken aback by the scene in front of you.

“Oh sweet Jesus!”

John and Zoe were on the couch, wrapped up in a passionate kiss—thankfully, they were fully dressed. The moment they noticed you, they pulled apart, and John shot up from the couch, his face a canvas of embarrassment.

But you felt even more embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry, guys, I, uh…”

“No, no, no, I’m so sorry!” John stuttered, quickly averting his gaze, adjusting his hair.

“Awkward,” Zoe murmured, covering her mouth in surprise. “I thought you were with your boyfriend,” she added, glancing at you and the bouquet still in your hands.

“Well, yeah… I mean, no, I wasn’t. It’s a long story.”

“I’d better be going. Bye, girls. Good night,” John said, grabbing his jacket and making a hasty exit.

Once the door closed behind him, you turned back to Zoe. "Jesus, girl, what just happened?"

Zoe huffed in disbelief. "I have no idea! He helped me change my bandage, touched my leg and then… suddenly we kissed. It was so strange, but it felt amazing."

“Strange”? You seemed pretty into it."

“It might have turned into something really hot if you hadn’t barged in,” she replied with a hint of annoyance.

“Sue me,” you muttered, placing the flowers in a vase on the table.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. You were with him last night, right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s a long story.”

“Still not officially together? Seriously, get your shit together already. What’s going on with you two?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. Just when I think things are finally going well, something messes it all up, and I'm left feeling hurt again…”

“Uh-oh, spill everything.”

"Okay, do you want something cold to drink?"

"Yes, please! I’m dying of heat over here."

You giggled as you made your way to the fridge. “So if I had come in five minutes later, would you have been completely undressed? Good thing I didn’t.”

“You're so bad,” she laughed.

You began the day with that text that pinged on your phone the moment you woke up, that familiar message from the person you had been longing to hear from, the one you had been waiting for eagerly.

Morning, kitten. The sun is shining, the birds are singing— Isn't it the perfect day to make you feel like forgiving?

Was he rhyming?

He was really good at it or bad not sure, but he would have to try a little harder.

Hmm. I'm not sure if today is the day. You'll know for sure tonight, doll. I'll make you. Hmm, how ambitious. Always I am.

After you changed, you stepped into the living room and saw Zoe was getting ready.

“Where are you off to?”

“To the hospital to get my ankle checked.”

“Do you want some company?”

“John will,” she replied with a cheeky smile. “Besides, you’ll be off on your date with Harry tonight, right?”

Your cheeks warmed at the thought. “Well, yes, maybe.”

“I’m planning to invite John over for dinner, and he’d better come clean about something tonight.”

“Oh, I see, you’re trying to get rid of me, huh?”

"Come on, he shares an apartment with three guys; it’s more convenient for us to be here."

“Okay, don’t worry, I won’t crash tonight,” you replied with a grin, thoughts drifting to Harry’s bedroom.

“Awesome!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“Wow, you could be a bit less eager about this.”

“Sorry, but I can’t help it, I’m in love,” she said, giggling.

“Apology accepted,” you responded, grabbed your bag, and headed out the door. Just then, you bumped into John in the hallway. “Hey."

“Hey there. How’s work treating you?”

"Good. Listen, John, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what’s up?"

"Do you have feelings for Zoe?"

"Yes, she’s a wonderful person, and cute too," he said, smiling.

He was definitely into her.

“I mean, I thought there was something going on between you and that woman Lucy at the wedding. I need to know if you really like Zoe.”

"Lucy is just my childhood friend and ex. But, don't you know her already?"

"I only know she's Alan's girlfriend and a matchmaker."

John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Surprised that Castillo hasn’t told you about her."

“What’s there to tell?”

John let out a troubled sigh. “You know, I’m not sure if it’s a good time for me to drop this on you, but those two were actually together a few years ago.”

Damn, you were worried about this. "So that’s why," you murmured after a brief pause.

“Listen, he will share the details with you, but Lucy isn't like you or Zoe. She deceived both me and Castillo, leaving us heartbroken in the end. I can't hold a grudge against her because we share this strange bond, but I promise you, I’ll never hurt Zoe because of this."

You nodded. "It better stay that way, John. You should tell her as soon as possible, or I will," you said. After receiving a nod from him, you turned and headed down the stairs to leave the building.

All day long, as you worked, your thoughts kept drifting back to Lucy. You regretted asking John about her. It wasn’t just that Harry hadn’t mentioned her—after all, that was fine considering the incident had happened years ago. What truly unnerved you was the possibility of her showing up at any moment, especially as Alan's girlfriend. It felt like trouble was just around the corner, and you couldn’t shake that feeling. Alan himself was another source of tension; his frequent encounters with you and his growing interest were weighing heavily on your mind. You knew deep down that sooner or later, things were bound to get complicated.

You really hoped this internship would wrap up soon, and that Chef Bruno would write you a glowing letter of recommendation. Yet, with the fair approaching and the day ticking down, you had to press on through the culinary internship.

Earlier, you'd called Jack, and he had already said he wanted to meet. As you waited at the table, you spotted him approaching and stood up to greet him. "Thanks for taking the time to meet me here," you said, shaking Jack's hand as he took a seat across from you.

"Of course, no problem," he replied, settling into his seat.

"Jack, about Melanie—"

"Save your breath, honey. I’m not here for her."

You were taken aback. "What do you mean? I thought that’s why you came—"

He pulled out a bunch of newspapers and magazines from his bag and dropped them on the table with a bang, making the glasses and plates rattle.

Your eyes went wide. “What’s all this?”

“Why don’t you check for yourself?”

Following his lead, you picked up the top magazine, and your heart sank at the sight of your own image on the cover. Someone had captured a photo of you and Harry dancing at the wedding from a distance.

Who is the mystery girl dancing with famous businessman Harry Castillo? the headline read.

You quickly grabbed another magazine, revealing a picture of you and Melanie.

Get ready for a surprising twist! How did the maid in Melanie Johnson's mansion pretend to be her and trap a famous billionaire?

“Ugh, what a bunch of vultures,” you muttered, shaking your head.

As you continued flipping through the articles, the headlines turned more shocking. Words like "gold digger," "sneaky housekeeper," and "fortune hunter" jumped out at you.

"That's what I was warning you about," Jack said. "I don't want you to worry, though—none of these magazines have been printed yet. These are all test editions. We managed to confiscate them before they went into mass production, and Harry’s assistant has ensured the online stories have been taken down."

You looked up at him, relief washing over you. "Thank you, Jack."

"You don’t need to thank me for dealing with the news, which includes Melanie; I did that for my own reasons. But regarding the rest..." He pointed to the magazine cover with your dancing picture. "This is the thing I wanted to discuss. I see you as a daughter, so take this advice from a father to his daughter: end whatever is happening between you and Harry before it spirals out of control. If this keeps up, there’ll be more stories about you, people will dig into your past, and in the end, it’s you who’ll get hurt. Do you understand?"

You sighed. "Jack, I honestly get what you’re saying, and I do appreciate it. But there's nothing in my past or family that I’m worried about. Gossip like this finds someone new to focus on every day; it could just as easily be me one day and someone else the next."

He paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. "So, it appears there's something more between you two than I realized. You've made up your mind. Well, it's your life, after all. I just hope you don’t wind up hurt and come to regret this decision.”

"Jack."

You both turned your heads, and damn it was—Alan. He usually didn’t come to the hotel on Saturday nights, but today was clearly an exception.

Of course.

Jack stood up to shake his hand. "Alan."

"How are you? Didn’t see you at the wedding."

"I was in D.C.," Jack replied. Just then, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered. Alan looked at you with a smile, and you returned it.

Damn, he might have noticed the magazines on the table, you thought.

"Sorry, I’ve got to leave," Jack said suddenly.

You stood up, worry creeping in. "Is everything okay?"

"Melanie," he hissed, frustration clear in his voice. "She ran away from home."

"What do you mean she ran away? Or have you been keeping her locked up?" Your voice rose higher than you meant it to.

You couldn't shake off the memory of that one time Jack had locked her in her room, and it had ended poorly. A shudder ran through you at the thought.

"I had no choice. I thought she’d see reason and come to her senses, but apparently, I was wrong."

"Jack, are you out of your mind? Do you really not know your daughter? Locking her up isn’t the solution!"

Heads in the dining room turned toward you.

"You’re right. I messed up this time, but I couldn’t let her keep hanging out with that playboy Nate."

"I can’t say I blame you for that," you replied quietly.

"Anyway, I really have to go. Catch you later, Alan."

"See you, Jack."

As Jack strolled away, casting a backward glance, a heavy sadness settled in your chest. Melanie hadn't matured much and was acting like a nightmare. Despite his faults, Jack was a good father—if only he showed a little more genuine care to his daughter more than his work.

"Sounds like Melanie’s giving Jack a rough time," Alan said, still holding onto that smile.

"Yeah, she’s a bit immature," you admitted quietly.

To your surprise, Alan looked around the table and sat down in Jack’s vacated chair.

"Have a seat; your dessert's still waiting."

You did your best to keep it together and not roll your eyes. "Thanks, but I really need to go—"

"Just give me five minutes, alright?" he said, leaning in a bit closer.

You glanced at your watch, thinking about how Harry would be picking you up in about an hour. With a sigh, you plopped back down. "Fine."

"Thanks," he said, adjusting his suit jacket and settling in. "I know what happened here last time." You looked at him in surprise; this wasn't what you expected. "About what Lucy did..." He paused and took a breath. "I want to say sorry on her behalf."

Your eyes widened. “Alan, it’s okay. But if you start treating me differently because of her, it will only make her dislike me more. Plus, this kind of stuff probably isn't over yet."

“It won’t happen again,” he stated firmly. “I won’t allow it in my hotel. I broke up with her, and I doubt she will be coming back here.”

“That can’t be the only reason you decided to break up with her, right?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, but it played a part. It’s disgraceful to have such disrespect shown here, especially towards our customers. I was wrong about her; she’s not the kind and innocent person I thought she was.”

"I’m sorry," you said, your tone a touch insincere.

"Not me," he replied with a grin. "I’m kind of relieved."

What was that supposed to mean?

A nagging feeling grew as you sensed he was gearing up to say something you wouldn’t like.

"One of the reasons I broke up was because of a question she asked me."

Oh, please, let this be over.

"She wanted to know if I had feelings for you."

You fought to maintain a neutral expression.

Don't say that, please don't.

"I couldn't answer her because, honestly, I actually have feelings for you that I didn't realize until now."

That was more than you could handle.

"Alan, do you even realize what you’re saying?"

"Yes, I’m fully aware."

You sighed deeply. "Maybe you’re mistaken," you suggested, looking away and starting to shake your foot nervously.

"No, I absolutely know how I feel now. I like you." He reached across the table and took your hand, catching you off guard.

You quickly pulled away. "Alan, I’m with Harry."

"You mentioned before that things were complicated between you two," he said, casually picking up one of the magazines.

"That doesn’t mean I don’t love him," you shot back, your voice sharp.

His serious expression told you he wasn’t taking it lightly.

You stood up, feeling a surge of urgency. "Look, Alan, whatever you’re feeling, you need to let it go, or I won’t be able to stay here."

"Are you really going to quit your internship?"

"If I have to, yes," you affirmed.

"Alright, I won’t pressure you unless you come to me yourself."

Surprise and annoyance washed over you. "That’s not going to happen."

He leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. "Don’t be so sure; life has a funny way of surprising us.”

What the fuck?

Your phone started ringing, and you just held it in your hand without answering as you rushed out of the dining room, still shaken by what had just happened. It was Nate calling, so you definitely weren't picking up; you quickly silenced your phone. Taking a deep breath, you let it all go and shifted your focus to getting ready for your date. Harry had offered to buy you a dress again earlier, but you turned him down. This date was meant to feel like a fresh start, a first date of sorts, and you wanted to treat yourself to the entire process.

During lunch break, you popped into one of those upscale department stores and slipped into the black, shimmering backless dress you had chosen—probably the priciest dress you had ever bought, costing almost four months' salary. You tried to keep a positive mindset; nothing would ruin tonight. The expensive Birman black shoes that Melanie had given you the night before matches perfectly with the dress. Just as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup, your phone rang again, but your smile quickly faded when you glanced at the screen.

It wasn’t Harry.

Seeing "Trouble" light up the screen only added to your anxiety.

No way were you picking up.

The phone could ring its heart out. When it rang again as you reached for your red lipstick—perfectly matching your nails—you pushed on, determined to finish your look.

However, the incessant ringing soon got on your nerves, and you finally answered, ready to give Melanie a piece of your mind. “Look, I can’t deal with your drama right now—”

“It’s me, Garry.”

You could barely hear him over the loud music in the background. “Garry? What are you doing on Melanie’s phone? And where in the world are you?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her for a while; she’s completely wasted, and I don’t know how to handle this. Please, I need your help.”

“Look, I have a very important date tonight—”

“And it seems we have our new volunteer dancer!” a woman’s voice chimed in, followed by masculine cheers and applause.

Oh man.

“Don’t tell me you’re at a strip club!”

“You just heard it. I’ll try to drag her out of here, but you need to hurry. I’ll send you the location.” Garry hung up before you could say anything. “Garry! Hold on—what the hell! What kind of night is this?” you exclaimed, quickly changing up your outfit and bolting out of the room.

When the taxi driver brought you in front of the strip club, you were cursing inside, nervous and angry. It was too much, the strip club was too much, even for her. How could she be so thoughtless and reckless?

At the entrance to the door, unfortunately, everyone was staring at you, including the women.

Oh that's right, you were all dressed up, probably looked breathtaking, but it wasn't to come here, damn it, it was to meet your boyfriend.

Things got even worse when you entered the club. You've never been in a club like this before, it wasn't like other nightclubs.

You're thinking, No shit, I wish it was.

The music was blaring, and two girls were dancing on stage. Some men were cheering and staring at you.

Great.

Ignoring the gazes, you spotted Garry and made your way to him. However, just like the other guys, he seemed fixated on the girls performing. “Hey!” you nudged him.

“Oh you're here? Wow girl, you look great, but I wish you hadn't come here wearing a dress like this.” he said, looking around at the men.

“I couldn't change because you called me while I was getting ready for my date.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, but Melanie's gone crazy.”

“Where is she?”

“She was going on stage and tripped and fell, I was tried to check her but the women wouldn't let me in. That's why I called you.”

“Goddamn it,” you grumbled, shoving your purse at him. “Hold this, I’ll go get her, and then we’ll all head to the car together, okay?”

“Got it. I’ll wait here.”

Just as you left, Garry couldn’t help himself when your phone started ringing non-stop. He didn’t think to check your purse without asking, but when it rang like crazy, he finally picked it up. “Yeah?”

Harry nearly wrecked his car when he heard a guy’s voice on the other end. “Who the hell are you? Why are you answering my girlfriend’s phone?”

“Mr. Castillo, you probably don’t remember me, but I’m Mr. Johnson's driver.”

“Wait, is that club music I hear? Where is she?”

“We're at the strip club. It’s kind of complicated.”

Harry was stunned and slammed on the brakes, making the tires screech on the road. The car behind him honked and yelled, but he didn’t care. “Just tell me where the club is!”

"Melanie, I swear to God, if you don't come with me right now, I'll drag you out of here by yanking your hair if I have to! I'll do it, believe me, I will!"

“Not until Nate gets here!” she snapped.

The girl was not only drunk but also trying to climb onto the stage. You were tugging at her from behind the curtain, hoping Garry could lend a hand, but she was putting up a fight.

“Hey, you two, get lost! Stay clear of the stage!” one of the dancers hissed at you.

“I'm not interested; as you see, I'm trying to get her out of here!” you retorted, still struggling to pull Melanie back.

“No! I’m going up there! I paid for it!” Melanie shouted defiantly.

“What did you just say?” you exclaimed, bewildered. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Leave them alone, girls,” an older woman chimed in, casting a knowing glance at you. “The guys who wanted you on stage shelled out a lot of cash,” she said with a sly smile.

Melanie laughed. “See? They’re dying to see me! Nate needs to get over here right now, call him!”

“It wasn’t for you,” the woman replied, eyes darting between Melanie and you. She surveyed you up and down, a smirk playing on her lips. “They paid for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m not a dancer or stripper.”

“That doesn’t matter, darling. You look fantastic. I could even give you half the take.”

“What the fuck? You promised me that I’d go on stage! Not her!”

You narrowed your eyes and glared at Melanie. “No one’s going up there!” you shouted firmly.

“Enough with this! Girls,” the woman called out, and the two dancers approached you, trying to take off your jacket.

“Hey! Get your hands off me! What do you think you’re doing?” you exclaimed, wrestling against them.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t overreact. Just trust yourself,” she replied, grabbing your wrist. But before she could pull you away, someone else seized her arm and pushed it back.

“Leave her alone!”

When you spotted Harry, a mix of surprise and embarrassment washed over you, yet relief followed quickly. He grabbed your arm, pulling you behind him, and draped his jacket around you, wrapping you with it.

“Hey, mister, what do you think you’re doing?” the woman asked, taken aback.

"If you touch my girl again, I'll bring this club down!" Harry growled.

Just then, a man approached you two, dressed in a suit. "Mr. Castillo, there's been a terrible misunderstanding. Please forgive us, sir." He then turned to the girls. "Get back to work and return the money to those customers."

"And give me back my jacket!" you shouted.

Harry reached over, snatched it from one of the girls, and pulled you closer. "Are you okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah, thanks. Melanie! Harry, stop her!" you exclaimed, pointing at her. Harry grasped her arm and pulled her away from the stage.

That's when Nate strolled in, his phone in hand, ready to take pictures. "Oh no, did I miss the show?"

The son of a bitch was grinning.

"It's all your fault!" you shot at him.

Garry came over to Melanie. "Miss Johnson, let’s head to the car, please."

Melanie clung to Harry's arm touching his face. "Hey, old man, want a lap dance?" She was clearly trying to make Nate jealous, but it was Harry she had her hands on.

Your man.

Harry chuckled as he gently pushed her hand away. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm not interested."

Wait a minute.

Not only was Melanie, but almost all the women dancers were looking Harry up and down. A wave of jealousy washed over you.

And then you lost it.

You were so angry that you pulled her off of her by the hair. "You little slut, who do you think you're touching?" You pushed her towards Nate. "Take your girlfriend and get the hell out of my life! Garry, you call Jack right now!" you said to him. Grabbing Harry's hand tightly, "Let's get the hell out of here." you urged.

He was still laughing as you pulled him out with you.

“Stop laughing, Harry,” you scolded as you made your way to the car.

“But you were so cute when you protected me from real Melanie back there,” he replied, still chuckling.

You paused and turned to face him. “Are you really enjoying this?”

“Actually I don’t know what to think. Do you know how angry I was when I saw you here with those women? And those men… the way they look at you? I think I hate the real Melanie.”

“Welcome to the club,” you replied sarcastically. “But I’m sorry; you are right. I shouldn't have come here. Tonight was supposed to be special, and now it’s all ruined—just like my hair,” you said, running your fingers through your locks.

Harry glanced at the clock. “Um, the restaurant is about to close.”

“I really messed up,” you said, biting your lip. “I’ve ruined everything.”

He gently took your face in his hands. “Nothing’s ruined, baby. We’re going to plan B.”

“You had a plan B?” you asked, intrigued.

“I just came up with it,” he said with a grin. “Come on, we’re starting over.”

You smiled. “Okay, but where’s your car?”

“There it is,” he said, pointing to a red sport car.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “But it’s a Mustang GT!”

“That’s right. I rented it just for tonight,” he said, pulling the keys from his pocket and handing them to you. “So, am I forgiven now?”

You snatched the keys from his grasp. “Let me take it for a spin, and I’ll think about it.”

He laughed, and as you slid into the driver’s seat, he took the passenger seat beside you. You fastened your seatbelt and started the engine. “Hold on tight, ol'man.”

“Drive carefully, honey. The streets of New York are a whole different beast compared to the traffic you dealt with back in Paris.”

You shot him a playful glance before slamming your foot on the gas. “I accept the challenge.”

“Hey, that wasn’t a challenge,” he retorted, his eyes wide as he clutched the seat.

You laughed, the thrill coursing through you. “Relax! A little excitement never hurt anyone.”

“You excite me enough in that dress, babe,” he grinned, glancing at you with a mix of admiration and mischief.

After a few exhilarating laps, embarrassment washed over you when the flashing lights of a police radar caught you speeding through the night. Still, you found a way to enjoy the moment, laughing together as you swung by a 24-hour diner to grab some late-night munchies before heading toward Harry’s building. “Wow, that was an incredible ride."

“Yeah, it was a blast, even if it’s going to cost me a few hundred bucks in fines,” Harry said, opening the car door.

“Oops, sorry about that,” you said, stepping out of the car.

As he opened the trunk, he pulled out a huge bouquet of roses. “If it hadn’t been for that strip club incident, I would have met you at the hotel with this.”

“Harry,” you murmured, touched.

“Here you go, Cinderella—99 roses.”

You raised an eyebrow as you accepted the bouquet. “Why not a hundred?”

“That’s you,” he said, smiling sweetly. “The hundredth rose is you.”

You felt yourself melting at his words.

“That’s very romantic, ol'man. Thank you,” you said, reaching out to kiss his cheek.

“So, you forgive me now, right?” he asked, extending his arm so you could take it.

“Come here,” you said, encouraging him to lean closer. He complied, and you shared a tender kiss, sweet and gentle. “You’re forgiven, Mr. Castillo.”

He grinned, wrapping his arms around your waist, leaning in to kiss you again, this time with more passion, the world around you fading away. But since you were still out on the street, you gently pushed him back, laughter in your eyes. “Save the rest for later, mister.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer with one arm still wrapped around your waist, and together you strolled toward the entrance.

“Here we have some Bordeaux wine,” he said as you unpacked the food and set the plates on the table.

“Parfait,” you replied with a smile, embracing the French language.

With skilled hands, he uncorked the wine using a polished corkscrew, the soft pop echoing in the cozy room, and poured the ruby liquid into your glasses, its rich color glinting in the soft light.

“Hmm, delicious,” you remarked, savoring the first sip.

As you shared the meal, the conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving in and out of tales about Melanie and the others, laughter bubbling up like the wine in your glasses. “That’s actually much better,” you said softly, feeling the warmth of the evening. “I mean, it’s better that we’re here than in a bustling restaurant.”

“I couldn’t agree more; it’s just the two of us,” he replied, his fingers entwining with yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your gaze locking with his, a deep connection simmering in the air between you.

He sighed and stood up, a hint of excitement in his voice. “I have something for you.”

“Another surprise?” you asked, intrigued.

He returned with a small box, sitting back down and handing it to you across the table. Different from any jewelry box you’d seen, it piqued your curiosity.

"I’ve been pondering this all day, and I've come to a realization. I always wanted you to be part of my world, but I was missing something important," he said as you opened the box. Inside, you found a card and a key. nstantly, you recognized them; it was the very card and key you had used countless times for the elevator and the apartment door.

“Harry,” you gasped, taken aback. “You mentioned that you don’t feel like you fit in my world, so how about letting me into yours?”

Your eyes filled with tears as you rose and embraced him tightly. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you before leaning in for a kiss. Then, he turned on some soft music from the stereo. “Will you dance with me?”

You nodded. “Absolutely.”

You found yourselves swaying together, lost in the slow, sweet melody, savoring the magic of the moment in comfortable silence.

But then the tension between you began to rise. Harry ran his hand through the fabric of your dress. “Great choice of dress by the way.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he whispered.

“What about my bra?” you said huskily, guiding his hand to the lace strap of it.

“I admire it,” he purred.

You lifted the skirt of the dress, revealing your lace garter stockings. “My stockings?” your eyes twinkling.

He smiled at you and reached out, drawing a circle on your leg with his fingertip. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the side of your neck. “I worship it, baby,” he said, his voice breathy and deep.

Your arm found its way around his waist, and your fingertips caressed his back. “Mmm. Keep doing that, please.”

He chuckled and continued, his hands slowly creeping up under your dress. You gave a deep, breathy moan when he latched on to the spot behind your ear, licking, sucking. Getting eager, you found his lips and kissed him, your tongue sweeping into his mouth tentatively. He responded by grabbing your hips and pulling you, lifting you into his lap. Then you broke the kiss to unbutton his shirt.

Taking a brief moment to admire you he let you stripped him out of his shirt before kissing you deeply, exploring your mouth hungrily. Popping the clasp on your bra with ease he let it fell to the floor, whilst he kissed a path between your breasts leaving a trail of goose flesh in his wake. Noticing your nipples were already pert betraying your arousal, taking one between his thumb and forefinger he rolled it making you cried out, lowering his head he circled you other with his tongue before drawing it into his hot mouth and sucking. He could feel his cock straining against the his pants but he ignored it focusing all his attention on you. He repeated the action with your other nipple before moving on, his lips gliding down over your ribs, across your stomach towards the garter belt and waistband of your panties.

Hooking his thumbs into the lace, he pulled the small scrap of material down your shapely legs until you could kick them off, but letting the garter belt still be on you. Kneeling before you he cupped your hips bringing you closer to him inhaling your scent, then he ran his tongue along your wet folds the cry that escaped you when he circled your clit was guttural, he felt his cock throb begging for attention but he ignored it once again. Slowly he worked you over, teasing you with shallow thrusts of his tongue into your velvety softness over and over again until your skin was slick with sweat and your thighs began to tremble.

“Please,” you begged, your fingers tangled in his curls, clinging to him. In answer to your plea, he flicked his tongue over your swollen bundle of nerves until you cried out when your orgasm hit. Keeping a tight grip on your hips, he held you steady, letting you ride it out before kissing his way back up your body, finally claiming your lips once more. You tasted yourself on his tongue, but you didn’t care; you devoured each other desperately.

Once your equilibrium returned, your hands found his belt, quickly you unbuckled it and pulled it from the loops before popping the buttons on his fly and pushing the material down over his hips. He shucked his pants and his boxers off and before he knew it your hand was around the base of his throbbing member and you were pumping him into your fist. He gritted his teeth, "Fuck, baby, you are such a needy kitten aren't you? Good girl. But there’s no way I’ll last if you keep that up."

Taking your hands in his, he threaded your fingers together and crushed his lips to yours once more, pinning you against the wall with your interlocked hands above your head. You gasped in response. His aching cock lied heavily against your core, you shuddered. He realized he couldn’t stand it anymore; he needed to be inside you.

Hoisting you up, he hooked your legs around his waist, pushing into you in one smooth stroke.

"Harry," you moaned, feeling dizzy with incredible consuming lust.

Your hair was plastered to your sweaty face now and in the throes of passion when your pupils dilate, cheeks flushed.

"You're breathtakingly beautiful just like this, darling," he hummed.

You were soft and warm, and your walls gripped him tightly as he thrust into you, making love to you against the wall. God he’s missed you so damn much, burying his head into the crook of your shoulder he picked up his pace, he knew you were close because he can feel your inner walls begin to tremble around him. Your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, your heels press into his firm ass as he pounds into you deeper and deeper.

As you ran your fingers through his hair down to his neck, spurring him on with sweet cries. "Harder, faster, please."

"Fuck," he growled, pressed his forehead against yours so that he held your gaze as your second orgasm striked. You screamed his name as your body locked up, your sex gripping his cock in an iron grasp.

He made an incoherent sound and cursed as your orgasm triggered his, and he released himself inside of you. You collapsed into each other a hot, sticky, sweaty mess, panting heavily. When finally he caught his breath, he ran his nose along your smiling devilishly down at you.

“So how was it, baby?” he asked waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Fast, delicious, hair-raisingly good,” you giggled.

"How about a second round? This time in the bedroom?" he panted, still catching his breath.

You tightened your arms around him playfully. “You betcha, mister."

Just as your words finished, he scooped you up and rushed toward the bedroom, causing your laughter to ring out cheekily through the hall.

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