#the things i do to even slightly keep up with what’s easy for everyone else

[trashpremiium]

killing myself with the sheer amount of caffeine i’ve been consuming just to keep my body functioning 👍

[cryptictongues]

The Thrill of the Chase

pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Mutant!Reader rating: Explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 7.1K summary: Logan ate part of your sandwich, so you stole his cigars. Things turn out differently from what you were expecting.

warnings: fluff and smut, teasing, slight predator/prey trope, banter, making out, dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, squirting, soft!dom Logan

Author's Note: My first Logan fic! X-Men used to be my world and the fact it is making a comeback has rejuvenated me. Also, I was picturing Logan from the first three trilogies but DOFP!Logan also crossed my mind so :)

Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

It was getting close to evening, everyone doing their own thing to unwind after a long day of classes and teaching. You had planned to do the same thing, planning to grab a quick bite in the kitchen before getting ready to relax in your room. You were whipping up a quick and easy sandwich, assembling it onto a plate before moving it to the island in the middle of the kitchen. You went to get a soda from the cupboard, only for your skin to raise as you sense something is about to happen: a certain someone was about to come take your sandwich. 

“If you take one bite out of my sandwich Logan, I will kick your ass.”

You turn to see him, eyes wide along with his mouth, about to chomp into your dinner. He closes his mouth, only for him to keep the sandwich in his hands and an “innocent” smile on his face. 

“Oh, you mean this sandwich?” 

You shut the cupboard door, walking over to him with a stern, playful look. You know he is messing with you. That has been the dynamic of your relationship with him. Ever since he decided to stay here at the school and join the X-Men, you two have grown closer and closer, enjoying each other’s company over anyone else. It didn’t matter what either of you did. You both thrived in the presence of one another. 

But something that has become common practice as of late was playful in nature. You both have always teased, but it has recently ramped up. If one of you started it, the other would find a way to end it before starting again. It was the push and pull between the two of you that you loved, and it has only made you long for him. You want to believe he feels the same, but even your mutation of precognition can’t fully confirm that. 

“Yes, that is my sandwich. I worked very hard on it. I'll have you know.” You are standing in front of him now, having to look up at him slightly as you wait for his next move. 

“I’m sure you did. It looks delicious.” He says, but rather than looking at the food, he is looking right at you. Cheeky bastard.

“Y-yeah, which is why I am asking you to put it down so I may enjoy it.” 

“I don’t know. I think I wanna have a taste first.” 

His hazel eyes are staring you down, almost begging for you to make a move. In reality, you really didn’t care if he ate it. You could easily make another and enjoy dinner with him. But you know that isn’t what he is doing right now. He is playing with you, wanting to rile you up. Well, it takes two to play that game.

“That sandwich is very precious to me. I’d think before you act.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, bringing his face closer to yours. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll take something precious of yours.” 

He chuckles, turning his face to the sandwich. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

He takes a huge bite out of your sandwich, his eyes closing as he chews. You purse your lips, watching him savor your meal with gusto. You know he is overexaggerating to truly get at you, but little does he know you have a trick up your sleeve.

“Enjoying my meal?” 

He turns back to you, swallowing before licking his lips. “Very much. I may have to take another bite.”

You get up in his space, settling onto your tippy toes so your face is by his ear. You let your breath waft against his skin, causing a shiver to shake his core. You can tell he is anticipating what you will do, always highly enjoying your responses to his antics. Oh, he is so in for it.

“That’s okay. You can have it.” You let your pointer finger trace his collarbone that is very much on display from his white, fitted tank. “And you want to know why that is, Logan?”

He takes a deep breath, very apparent that your actions are doing something to him. His left hand lets go of the sandwich to settle on your hip, squeezing the flesh slightly to ground himself. It is actions like that that make you believe you do something to him. Like you drive him just as insane as he does to you. You bring your left hand to his head, pulling him down so you can really get into his ear. 

“That’s because I know where you keep your special cigars from Cuba, and I am going to take them.”

You couldn’t have run fast enough. You are already shooting for the stairs, taking two steps at a time as you speed to his room. You knew it had taken him a second to realize what had happened because by the time you got to his floor, you heard him yelling your name. 

You burst into his room, locking it quickly. It was only to buy some time, for you knew he had a key. You were giggling as you went to his bookcase, plucking out the blue, hardcover history book. You open it, and smile as you see the unopened cigars there in the deep hole where text used to be. Just as you close the book, you hear heavy footsteps reach the door and a jingle of keys.

You panic, needing to find a way out before he opens the door. You could run around him, but you needed a head start. You could hide and wait for him to leave but you knew he’d sniff you out. There was only one option left, and that was to go out his bedroom window. You hear the key enter the lock, and with a quickness you didn’t think you had, you unlocked his window and flung it open. Just as the door busted open, you crawled out. You grasped onto the ivy that clung to the school’s exterior and began to climb down. 

“Oh, when I get my hands on you, you are in for it!”

You look up to see Logan’s head popping out the window. He has a scowl on his face, but you could see the wild look in his eyes. You knew he was enjoying this, for he loves the chase.

“This is for taking my sandwich!” You yell, and continue making your descent. 

You hear the window close, which makes you go faster, knowing he is rushing down those stairs to meet you at the bottom. You could sense that he would go to the front door, so once your feet touch the grassy floor you run to the back door. Opening it quickly, you determine your next move. He is probably at the front, ready to intercept you, giving you the opportunity to hide somewhere. 

You rush to the hallway where many of the classes are held. You run into the first classroom you see, its door already open. You see the large oak desk at the back of the classroom, and quietly walk up to it. It has a space for leg room, so with haste you crawl in it, pulling the chair in carefully to not make any sound. 

Your heart was racing, adrenaline thrashing as you hid. You try to steady your breath, trying to keep quiet. The atmosphere has become eerie, the silence defying as you try to keep it that way. You try to listen for any other sounds over your pounding heart, when another wave of cognition hits you. You can see it clearly, where he finds you under the desk, hands on either side to block you in. You know you need to move on, so you go to move the chair, but you suddenly halt when you hear his voice boom nearby.

“Where is she?” 

You cover your mouth, trying to hold in your breathing as well as the gasp that almost shot from your mouth. His voice was coated in gravel, and absolutely primal. Even from afar, it was clear he was worked up, and it made you embarrassingly wet. 

You hear footsteps enter the hallway, heavy boots against the shiny wooden floor. At first, you think you may have a way out, hearing him pass the room you were in, but you aren’t so lucky because you hear him stop. You grip onto the book and your mouth, even though you know it will do absolutely nothing. You know he senses you, and it is confirmed when you hear footsteps enter the room. You hear him inhale deeply, exhaling with sigh only to turn into a deep rumble. 

“I know you are here.” He is slow in taking his steps, and each step gets closer and closer to your hiding place. 

He sniffs deeply again, growling this time around like he was a wild animal. “No point in denying it. I could smell you the second I walked into the hall.”

You know he will find you, and he will block you in. So you decide to take a risk before he closes in on you. You push the chair out far enough to crawl out, before standing up behind the desk. You put your hands up with the book in your left one, trying to show off a sign of surrender. 

“You have nowhere to go, dollface. No point in trying’ to run for I’ll snatch you up real quick.” 

“You must really want your cigars back to block me in like this.” 

He steps even closer, with him now standing right in reach of the book. He could easily grab it and take it, for he is much stronger than you. But he doesn’t make a move, staying glued to his new spot. You don’t know what’s running through his head, his eyes trained on you. It isn’t until he places his hands onto the desk that you take a step back and drop your hands. 

“You’re wrong.”

You raise a brow, not sure what he is getting at. “What do you mean?”

He smirks, leaning his body over the desk. “It isn’t the cigars I’m after. Not anymore.”

Your heart is in overdrive. You know the answer, it is becoming obvious. But you ask anyway. “Then what are you after, Lo?”

“I think you know the answer. Now it is a matter of will you let me take what’s mine.”

You want to give in. You are becoming more aroused by the second, but you are starting to really enjoy the chase. Seeing how much it gets him going, to see this side of him, only makes you want to push him more. You want to see what he will do, especially when he gets his hands on you.

You walk around the desk, book of cigars still in hand, getting closer to him until you are toe to toe with him. “What’s the fun in surrendering?”

He quickly blocks you in, the desk pressed against your back. He has the most seductive, but feral grin upon his lips, like he thinks he has won his prize. His head leans down to yours, forehead against forehead, before he whispers his next sentence against your lips.

“The fun is in what follows.”

His lips are on yours, desperate and needy. You can’t help the moan that leaves your throat, mind going hazy as his lips devour. You have craved him for so long, you want this to last forever. However, you cannot give into him like this. You will not make this easy for him.

One of your hands goes to the hem of his tank, fingers lingering before going under. He feels so solid, the coarse hairs on his tummy spread thick as you go to his left side. You can feel him shudder over you, and you try to hold back the smirk that wants to curve onto your lips. You move your fingers sporadically over the left side of his ribcage, causing him to jump back. This gives you the chance to run like hell.

“Hey! That’s unfair!” You hear him yell and it makes you giggle profusely. You must thank Jean later for letting you in on that little secret; that the broody, grumpy man with the metal bones was insanely ticklish. You wish you could turn to see his full reaction, but you are too determined.

You can hear him running right behind you, and you have never been more aroused. You shouldn’t feel so turned on by Logan chasing you around, but the thrill of the chase was seeping into your loins and you were addicted. 

More people had shown up around the school, meeting with friends to study or hang out for the evening. You were dodging people left and right, and everyone looked perplexed as they saw Logan charging his way towards you. Many of them probably assumed it had to do with the book you were holding, and while they would have been originally right, they are no longer even close. 

You don’t have time to hide again, not with him so close behind. You make it back to the stairs, hauling ass as you try to make it to your room. You can hear him right behind you, breathing heavily and grunting with each step. Your room is at the end of the hall, and you are basically flying with how fast you are running. The second you reach the door, you swing it open and throw yourself in before slamming it. You had gotten it shut, mentally pumping your fist in victory, but by the time you went to turn the lock, it was too late. The door flies open, sending you back a couple feet back as Logan stands at the door's entrance. 

“I have you right where I want you. No more running.”

If looks could kill, you’d be ash. He enters your room, closing the door behind him with his eyes staying on you. He takes one step forward, with him now hovering over your smaller form. The way he is looking at you makes your knees faint, for you felt you could hear what he was revealing with his stare. 

“I still know your weakness, Logan.” You smirk, holding the book up to your face to dodge any attack he was planning. It is pointless, you know, but it is the best defense you’ve got. 

“Do you now?” He walks towards you, in step with you as you go backwards. The back of your knees hit the edge of your bed, telling you that you truly have nowhere else to go. He is right on you, grinning now that he has the upper hand. 

“I’m afraid that book won’t save you from me.” He snatches the book, tossing it to the side of the bed. 

You are in for it. You don’t know what he is planning, and the element of surprise has overcome you. However, with the way he is looking at you, you guarantee that what is about to happen will be just as exhilarating as when he was hunting you down. 

“What do you plan to do with me, hm?” You let your fingertips walk along his chest, dancing all the way down to his side like you did earlier. 

He is quick to grab your hand, bending down to lift you up in his arm before tossing you onto the bed, following swiftly as he pins both hands above your head. 

“Don’t even think about it. I know you all too well.” He growls through his teeth. “As for what I plan on doing, what’s the fun in telling when I can just show you. Would you like that?”

You simply nod, breathless at how he is handling you. However, that wasn’t good enough for him, as he takes hold of your wrists in one hand so his other one can grip your chin.

“I wanna hear you say it, pretty girl.”

You huff, getting frustrated already that he is dragging this out. With your legs still free, you wrap them around his hips, your heels digging into his back causing him to grunt. Your lips are practically on his, faint contact making you antsy. “Show me what you’ve been wanting to do with me.”

Your lips are squashed by his instantly, hunger and desperation clear. His hands go to your thighs, grabbing at the flesh. With your hands free, they go straight to his hair, gripping and tugging on it which causes him to moan hotly into your mouth. 

His hands travel up to the hem of your blouse, pushing the fabric up past your stomach before his hands go under. You moan at the contrast, rough hands, that have been through so much running along your unmarred body. He swallows what you give him, groaning happily at the effects he was causing.

You are in heaven. You never thought you would be here like this with Logan. You never thought you would be under him at his complete mercy. It makes a shiver travel down your spine, traveling right to your core that is a heated mess because of the man before you. To be with the man you have pined for is riveting, and you could cry that he seems to return those feelings.

You don’t know what triggers your mutation, but it is sudden. Your vision goes blurry, a strong aura surrounding you. It is overwhelming, a whimper bubbling from your throat as you see what is about to happen. Logan releases your lips with a grunt, looking at you intensely as you start to shake. You feel his rough hands cup your soft cheeks, stroking them gently. 

Your cheeks feel hot, your vision turning you into a horny mess. Your hands grip onto Logan’s chest trying to ground yourself to reality. It’s too much. Your visions rarely last long for they are just snippets of future events, but this was different. It was as if you were in a trance, and could feel everything he was doing to you. You don’t know if it is your heightened emotions, especially with him right on you. All you knew is that pleasure was present, and you were starting to fall apart. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You can hear his demeanor change, worry laced in his tone.

“Fuck,” you couldn’t help but moan, unable to control yourself. “I can feel everything, Logan.”

There is a pause, hands still touching your face. A few beats later, he lets his right hand go down, only to stop at your thigh squeezing tightly. 

“Tell me what you see, baby.” 

The rumble in his voice intensifies everything, causing you to grip onto him tighter. “Oh God please don’t make me say it out loud.”

You try to look away, but his left hand shifts so it is grabbing your chin. He forces your head back up, bringing his face down to yours like he had in the classroom. His breath fans over your lips, taking in the way they move as sounds leave them. 

“I’m fucking you, aren’t I? Making you lose yourself on my cock? Is that what you are seeing?”

You can barely talk, too enthralled in your vision. You grab the hand that is on your thigh and bring it to the top of your black pants. Logan gets the idea and angles it so he can slide his hand into them. His fingers brush over the fabric, feeling the damp spot that has formed drastically. You hear him curse under his breath, the vibrations hitting your lips as they brush against one another without full pressure. 

“Oh sweetheart, you are so wet.” He murmurs, pulling his hand out to bring it up to his nose, inhaling deeply before releasing a sound so feral that you could sob. “And you smell so fucking good.” 

You can’t help but nod, not knowing how to respond. All you know is that you need him. Need him to take you on your bed and do whatever he wants to you. You’ll take anything he is willing to give you, for all you want is for him to make himself known to you. 

His hand had gone back down to your crotch, cupping your pussy through the material. “Does she want more attention?”

“Logan, please do something.” You choke, your mind steadily coming back to reality, but still not fully letting go. You start to grind down on his palm, desperate for anything he will give you, but he removes his hand, going to the back of your head to grip tightly.

Damn him!

“I know she deserves something, but do you? Do you deserve me after getting me so worked up like that?”

“Logan, I am begging.” You cry out in frustration, your nails digging into his chest causing him to groan lowly. “I want you. God, I’ve always wanted you so please take what’s yours!”

He is back on you, kissing you till the air in your lungs dissipates. He starts to kiss away from your swollen lips, kissing down to your neck. He nips at your pulse point, going up to your ear to give it a light lick before going back down. With every kiss, he takes a deep breath in, which only makes him get more aggressive. Soft kisses turn to an open mouth lather to nips that could have easily broken the skin.

“I don’t think you know what your scent does to me. It draws me in every time.” He bites down particularly hard at your collar bone, and you wouldn’t be surprised if blood had come to the surface. 

His hands come back up to the front of your blouse, carefully unbuttoning the garment before revealing your breasts that are almost spilling out of your bra. His hands mold over the cups, squeezing hard and slow as he makes his way to your sternum. 

He is being so gentle with you, a complete 180 from how you thought this was going to go. He was so rough with you in your head, fucking you until you couldn’t even say a word. This side of him was endearing, but you crave more from him.

“For someone so feral for me, you sure are taking your time.”

He bites the top of your left breast, making you gasp at the sudden pain. “I don’t think you are ready for that side of me, dollface.”

Your right hand goes to his head, taking a handful of his hair and yanking his head up. You know he wants to absolutely ravish you, and if it’s some convincing he needs, some convincing he is going to get. 

“When I said to take what’s yours, I meant it. I want you to make me beg until I’m dumb, so fucking do it.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Princess.”

His hands go under your top from the back, unclipping your bra before letting them resurface. He starts to yank your top off from the shoulders, only to smack your thigh that causes a light sting.

“Arch that back for me.”

You do as he says, allowing him to take the rest of your top off along with your bra. He flings them both across the room, only to do the same with his tank. You’ve seen his upper body plenty of times, as there would be instances in which he disregards it for a training session. But this? This was very different. It’s a different atmosphere, and rather than everyone getting an eye full of his muscular, hairy body, it is now for your eyes only. 

He’s looking down at you, pupils flared as he takes you in. You shiver as his palms stroke your tummy, slowly going up until they encompass your breasts. Your nipples pebble from the rough texture of his skin, and you can see it excites him. So much so that he takes the opportunity to take your nipples between his fingers and pulls them gently with a pinch. Your back bows off the mattress, adoring the pain he is providing, and let out a mewl as he lets go to run his thumbs over the tender peaks.

“You sound so good,” Logan murmurs. “I need to hear more.”

His right arm goes under your back to keep you up, holding you there as his mouth goes to your left breast. He takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking with his eyes still on you. Your cheeks flush, head tilting to the side to avoid looking at him. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much. 

Whimpers slip from your mouth, his treatment of your breasts making you want to rub your thighs together to soothe the ache, but he keeps your legs open. He eventually does the same to your other breast, working to match the work he left on your other nipple: hard, and tainted red.

He lets up, sitting on his knees as he unbuttons your pants, hands sliding the material down your legs in earnest. He tosses your heels off before stripping away your bottoms, and he hums as he admires the black, lacy thong you adorn. 

“Fuck,” he snaps the elastic, eyes entranced. “You sure you didn’t see this coming earlier? Wearing something sexy like this?”

“They work better with my pants.” You huff, his fingers lightly running along your covered slit.

“Hmm, no wonder your ass looked so good today.” He grins. “But this pussy? I could play with her all day.”

He lowers himself, sliding off the bed only to bring you with him, your body gliding across the comforter with ease. He clutches onto your thighs, letting your legs rest in the crook of his elbows. He keeps his hold tight, bringing his lips down to kiss and suck on your thighs. You gasp at the aggressiveness, swearing you will see dark purple marks on you later. You moan at the idea, as it feels like he is finally claiming you; like are his to mark, to claim, to fuck, to love. 

He makes his way to your center, sniffing deeply before releasing a feral growl. He lets the tip of his tongue lightly drag from the bottom to the top of your heat, still fully covered by the damned thong. He flicks at your clit, a ghost of a touch that has you bucking your hips. And he draws back every single time. His self-control is impressive but frustrating all the same.

He starts to suck on it through the material, creating a bigger wet spot with his spit. The more he pushed his tongue against your folds, the more the material would rub just right against you. It made you clench, panting at how much he is teasing you. He pulls away, blowing on your sensitive spot which only makes you whine.

“Awe what is it?” He chuckles, the vibrations barely hitting where you need him. “You want my tongue to play with you?”

His hand lets go of your thigh, fingers tracing the fabric before pulling it to the side. “Lucky for you, I love to play.”

He goes right in, mouth over your bud as he consumes your very being. Your hands shoot to his hair, not prepared for the onslaught of pleasure he is delivering. The swirls he is landing on his target is mind numbing, a tangible pressure that makes you want to curl in on yourself. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, the sound vibrating right on your clit. It makes you buck your hips up, but his left arm presses you down to keep you secure. 

“I know you want more, but you are going to have to be patient. I’m not done tasting this sweet pussy. Fuck, you are so sweet.”

You feel one of his fingers near your hole, circling it teasingly before pushing in. His tongue is back on your nerves, mouthing covering it to add slight suction. Even with his big fingers, it’s not nearly enough. 

“Logan, please add another.” You say, emphasizing as you clench down on his single digit. 

He sucks a little harder, ripping a yelp from your throat. Still, he listens and inserts a second finger with the first. He goes in and out, drawing sighs from your lips as he builds you up. His mouth is going crazy, moving his lips with a vengeance. Your blood is hot, traveling down as your release starts to come to the surface.

You can’t stop clamping down on his fingers, your pussy having a mind of its own. He is pistoning them now, causing your fluids to make its way down your ass onto the comforter. The sounds coming from his handiwork edge you further, your release imminent. 

“Oh God, Logan! I’m cumming!” 

Big mistake on your part.

He pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A smug look appears on his face, and you have the urge to shove his face back into your aching cunt.

“Your first time cumming with me will be on my cock, sweetheart.”

He pulls your thong down your legs and moves you back to the front of the bed. He stands before you, making light work of removing his belt from the loops of his jeans. His jeans are next, pulling them down with his briefs. 

You don’t know what you expected. You weren’t surprised with how well endowed he was, not with the way he is built. But to see it in person is so much different from your imagination. The details that your mind didn’t conjure up, especially the vein that starts from his lower stomach to the tip of his cock. It makes you salivate, wanting to run your tongue along it. 

“You like what you see, darlin’?” He noticed you staring, but you have no shame. Not anymore.

“Yeah, want it in my mouth so bad.”

He walks over to you, his cock in your face. His hand goes to your head, stroking the baby hairs that are starting to stick to your temple. “As much as I would love that, I am dying to give you the fucking you deserve, sweetheart. However…” he brings your head up closer to his cock, your lips not even an inch away. “How about you get it nice and wet for me.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You work up a good amount of spit, letting it drip from your mouth onto his hard cock. You start to lick at the sides, spreading your saliva all over until he is covered. You are basically making out with his dick, your lips and tongue moving like you had when you were kissing him earlier. It isn’t until you get to that vein of his that you start to go wild, licking it up and down. 

Logan is groaning deeply, and pulls your head back, a string of saliva connecting before breaking apart. You hear him curse under his breath before crawling back onto the bed, his hands holding your face as he brings his lips to you. His kisses are slow this time, letting it sink in that this is happening; that you two are about to be connected. 

“You did such a good job. You are such a good girl.” He murmurs against your lips before sitting up. 

His dick is now sitting heavy on your mound, and the weight of it feels delicious. He taps it against your clit a few times, your hips thrusting up in kind. 

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” He lets his cock rut into your folds, thrusting up into your clit. “I think that sweet thing of yours is.”

“Give it to me, Lo. I need you so bad it hurts.” 

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take that pain away.” He promises.

And as promised, he places the tip right at your aching hole and pushes in slowly. Your jaw slacks, the pressure as he continues his descent much more intense than you anticipated. It’s been so long since you’ve given yourself to someone. It all feels new, and you are thankful; thankful that it's with him.

He is fully seated in you, and you can only describe it as euphoric. With the way he sits heavy in your cunt, filling you up completely, you can honestly say that this was meant to happen. Logan was meant to be with you in every single possible way imaginable. It’s the only explanation.

“How does it feel, baby?” Logan asks, hands rubbing up and down your thighs soothingly. 

“It feels,” you whimper, gripping down on him. “It feels so good, Lo.”

“Yeah? My cock makin’ you feel good, doll?” He groans, clearly being affected by your behavior. 

Before you can mutter a pathetic answer, your brain turning to mush, he shifts back. His cock slides out until the mushroom head is at your entrance, and then he slams back in; hard and slow. 

The constant back and forth of his cock has you shaking, his hard thrust knocking the air out of your lungs and the slow thrusts feeling oh so good. And with the way he is watching you, his face mimicking yours as he receives his own pleasure, is sending zaps of electricity to your cunt. It makes you grasp onto him hard as he gets you more worked up.

Logan sits up straighter, grabbing your right leg and bringing it up to his shoulder. His left hand keeps it steady as he speeds up slightly and presses gentle kisses to your ankle in the process. It lets him go deeper, kissing your cervix every time it goes in. The pressure feels incredible, and the more he speeds up, the more your cunt starts to spasm out of control. 

“That’s it, baby. You are taking me so well, like you were fucking made for me.” He growls out, biting your ankle. 

“God yes, Logan! I’m yours!” You cry out, him and his cock making you utterly delirious. “You were made for my pussy!”

“Fuck, you got a mouth on you.” He chides, his right hand going to your right breast.

He is squeezing your tit so tight; his hips are on autopilot with how fast he is taking you. Your hands don’t know where to go, going from gripping the fabric below to holding onto his wrist. He is putting you into a completely fucked out state, and you can’t get enough of that treatment. 

You can tell you are on the precipice of cumming. You are clenching on and off rapidly, no longer in control of your muscles. The sounds coming from your coupling, wet smacking echoes that are music to your ears. You can feel the telltale sensation of being overwhelmed, and you know you are now on the track of no return. 

“Logan, baby, I’m gonna cum!”

He snarls at you, a crazed look in his eyes as he slams into you. He lets go of your tit to grab your chin, keeping your eyes on his. “Do it, darlin’. Cum around my cock.”

You are over the edge in seconds, a silent scream taking over as you tremble and quake. Your pussy is convulsing like crazy, small gushes of liquid coming out. You see Logan look down at where you two are connected, and he is grinning like crazy.

“What a fucking sight. There isn’t one thing about you that isn’t pretty.”

You could sob at his words, especially with how overstimulated you are becoming. You work his cock, wanting him to cum inside of you. 

“Give me your cum, Logan. Fill me until I’m dripping.”

Your words must have triggered something because next thing you know he has let go of your leg and face and is falling onto his forearms with his mouth landing on yours. You hear the sound of his claws, completely unsheathed from his skin, causing him to bellow into your mouth, rutting like a madman which causes cum to leak out from your hole onto the bedding. 

He slows down, milking out the rest of his spend before stopping all together. He lets go of your lips gasping, face buried in your shoulder as he tries to calm down. Your hands go to his back, massaging the taut muscles as he shakes. 

“Fuck, Logan,” you sigh, catching your breath as you come back to earth. You feel so relaxed, even with your guts feeling completely rearranged.

You hear his claws sink back into his skin, and it is then that he pulls out, falling to the other side of the bed. His chest is going up and down with every heavy breath, and you can’t help but admire him like this. 

He turns his head over to you, his hand coming to grab the hand by your side. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You make it over into his side, head laying on his chest as you both bask in the post-sex glow. You can’t help but smile at this turn of events, not expecting to have been in this position with Logan. But here you are, laying on his chest with his arms around you. 

You notice something in your peripherals and see splintering from the headboard of your bed. There are six holes in the wood, and it sends you into a laughing fit, a euphoric glaze covering your entire body. 

“What’s so funny?” He asks gruffly, pulling you into side as you continue to laugh.

“Your claws pierced my headboard.”

You see him glance back, and you see him sigh, relaxing more into the mattress. “I’ll fix it up for you, darlin’. I’m sorry about that.”

“No need to say sorry.” You snuggle your face into his skin, breathing in his natural musk as you relax more into him. “I just can’t believe we did that, but I’m glad it did.”

“I can say the same.” He murmurs, stroking your hair gently. “Seriously, I gotta know, did you see this coming?”

You shift up, going to lay your arms across his chest only for you to rest on them. You look into his eyes and the need in them is still there, but not in the way they were before. They were searching, looking for any confirmation that what you both just did truly meant more. It makes him look vulnerable, something he rarely shows. It makes you smile at the prospect of him opening up even more. 

“Not until today. It’s strange now that I think about it.”

“And why is that?”

“I never saw you coming, I guess. Even when it is clear as day how you felt about me, I never got anything that told me it was real. I didn’t want to potentially screw anything up between us.”

He hums, a look of contemplation on his face before taking a hand and rubbing his face, a long sigh coming out in the process. “I suppose that’s my fault.”

You can’t help but look confused. His fault? “Why do you say that?”

“I haven’t been fully honest, but ever since I came here, no matter how welcomed and appreciated I am here, I have contemplated leaving.” His hand leaves his face to go behind your neck, lightly scratching the skin at the nape before continuing. “I’ve been alone for a long time. Having a family has never been in the books for me. It is easier to not let people in.”

“So, that’s why I couldn’t see you coming. You hadn’t made up your mind?”

“It’s possible, but it’s just a theory.”

“But, if that’s the case, have you made your mind up?” You start rubbing his chest with your palm, feeling his heart pulse slowly. You are confident you know the answer now, but you want to hear him say it.

He grunts in laughter, shaking his head slightly before letting his fingers curl around the back of your neck. “I think you know the answer, princess. But if you really want to know, come up here.”

You push yourself from him, moving so you are straddling his torso. He brings his hands to your face once more, pulling you down so you are face to face with him. He kisses you, slowly initiating intimacy with his lips. He isn’t saying anything, but you can feel what he is saying through the act alone. 

“I can’t close myself off from you,” he says between kisses. “And I don’t want to. Especially if you’ll have me.”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Lo.”

“Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

You pull away so you can look into his eyes, giving him all the sincerity you can muster. “I love you, and I want you to stand by me.”

He smiles teeth and all, and pulls you back down, kissing all over your face causing you to squeal. “Hmm I love you too, sweetheart. Always have.”

You both stay like that for a while, basking in each other's company in post-coital ecstasy by continuing to taste one another. Another thought came over you, and you can’t help but laugh again.

“If I had known sex would make you like this, I would have made a move a long time ago.” Logan jokes, breathing them in. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m laughing because it took me taking your cigars hostage to do it.”

Logan throws his head back, chuckling at what you presume is the same thing you are laughing about.

“Speaking of those cigars, can you grab them for me?”

You perk up, pushing away from him to lean over to your side of the bed. Your fingers stretch for the book, getting a grasp on it before getting settled back with Logan. He pulls you in quickly, hurdling you into his side. You see he has his lighter ready, which he must have grabbed while you were getting his cigars.

“You gonna smoke one?”

He hums, taking one out. “I only smoke these on special occasions. I think this qualifies.”

He carefully unsheathes a claw, cutting the end before it sinks back under his skin. He flickers the lighter, letting the bright flame linger on the end to get a good burn going. He then lays back, pulling you even closer into his side, before taking his first puff. 

You smile, laying your head against him as you let your eyes drift closed. You feel yourself drifting away, the smell of his cigar and the sound of his pulse lulling you to a deep sleep; a sleep with dreams that you hope feel like déjà vu in the near future.

[iris-qt]

Okay okay I keep thinking about oblivious reader who doesn’t think Theo is flirting with her because ~clearly~ he doesn’t even know her name. Meanwhile, Theo is confused because usually girls swoon when he calls them “Bella/Cara/Amore”

careful, cara

the way i immediately started writing when I saw this request...ily.

You’re rounding the corner outside the library with three books, an inky quill stuck behind your ear, and a half-eaten biscuit in your mouth when you slam directly into a wall.

Except it’s not a wall.

It’s a very tall, very warm, very alive boy who smells faintly of old parchment and something expensive and intoxicating, like stormy weather. Your biscuit goes flying. Your books scatter. You just about lose your dignity.

“Oh my—sorry!” you gasp, already dropping to the floor to collect your books and the crumbly remains of your breakfast.

A hand reaches out to help you. Long fingers. Calloused knuckles. You follow the trail of his arm up to a loosened tie, an open collar, and the annoyingly perfect smirk of Theodore Nott.

“Easy there, Amore,” he says, voice like velvet and mock concern. “You alright?”

You blink up at him. He’s doing that thing. That leaning thing. The one girls whisper about in Potions.

“Oh, uh, thanks. I didn’t see you.”

You give him a polite smile and reach for your last book, brushing his hand in the process. You barely notice.

He does.

“Careful,” he murmurs, helping you up. “Wouldn’t want Hogwarts losing its brightest star.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Pretty sure Hogwarts would survive.”

He laughs soft and surprised, then, with a practiced sort of charm, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You freeze. He smiles. Like a boy who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You… do not.

Because, obviously, he’s just being polite. Or flirty. Or… whatever he usually is. He calls everyone Amore, doesn’t he? Or Bella. Or Cara. It’s practically punctuation with him. It’s probably because he doesn’t know anyone’s actual name. Especially not yours.

You smile back, half apologetic, half amused. “Thanks again. See you.”

And just like that, you walk off. With jam on your sleeve. And crumbs in your hair. And not a single thought in your head that Theodore Nott was very much genuinely flirting with you.

Behind you, Theo watches you go, something almost betrayed flickering across his face.

He mutters under his breath, half to himself, "Merlin, what do I have to do, serenade her under her window?"

Then he smirks, slow and dangerous.

Maybe he will.

.ೃ࿐

You slip into your usual seat for Charms, dropping your bag with a soft thud. You’re mid-rummage for a quill when you realize: There’s someone sliding into the seat beside you. Someone tall. Smirking. Smelling again unfairly good. You glance up.

Theodore Nott.

Again.

He drapes himself lazily across the chair, like he owns both it and the air you’re currently breathing.

"Morning, Amore," he says, low and easy.

You blink as he offers you a polite, confused smile. He must think you’re someone else. Maybe Isabella Hampton, she’s much prettier and sits somewhere nearby, right?

"Hi," you say awkwardly. "Did you need something?"

Theo leans in just slightly, a casual tilt of his shoulder, a lazy curve of his mouth. You could swear the entire room tilts with him.

"Only your company," he says, sounding devastatingly sincere.

You laugh, a little panicked. "Ha — that's funny."

You busy yourself yanking out your textbook and drop a quill in the process. It rolls dramatically across the floor. Before you can even react, Theo is already crouching down, retrieving it with a little flourish like a knight presenting a sword.

"Your weapon, mia cara," he says, handing it back.

You snort, which is not the sound you meant to make. Merlin, this poor boy is so theatrical. He must flirt like this with everyone.

"Thanks," you say, cheeks warm again.

Theo watches you for a second longer than necessary, something fond, almost wonderstruck, lighting up behind his eyes. Then he slouches back in his chair, spinning his wand between his fingers as if nothing unusual just happened.

You face forward, heart thudding, willing yourself to focus on Professor Flitwick's lecture.

You do not notice the way Theo leans slightly closer whenever you scribble a note. You do not notice the way he half-smiles every time you chew the end of your quill. You definitely do not notice the faint, hopeful look he sends you when Flitwick assigns paired spell practice for homework.

But you do notice, vaguely, that Theodore Nott is oddly...friendly. You chalk it up to him just being charming. Behind you, Pansy Parkinson drops her quill in shock, nudges Daphne Greengrass, and hisses, "Did Theo Nott just choose a partner?? Voluntarily???"

The Slytherin girls watch the scene unfold like it’s the third act of a very dramatic opera. Theo doesn't even notice.

He’s too busy smiling, a real, soft, slightly crooked smile, as you mumble, "Alright, I guess we’re partners, then?"

Like you’ve just handed him the bloody moon.

.ೃ࿐

You and Theo spend the next hour practicing Arresto Momentum for Flitwick's assignment.

Well... you practiced.

Theo mostly watches you with a look of soft, patient amusement, correcting your wand angles only when absolutely necessary.

(And each time he does, his fingers brush yours a little longer than they need to.)

You try not to think about it. You try very hard.

Finally, when you manage a perfect, object-slowing Arresto Momentum, you grin triumphantly. Theo grins too, wide and gorgeous, like you’ve just invented magic itself.

"You're brilliant," he says, voice low, warm.

You tilt your head, embarrassed. "I'm sure you say that to all your partners."

"I don't," he says simply.

You laugh it off again, assuming he's just being polite. Sweet, sure. But probably just friendly. Right?

(You are so stupidly, gloriously wrong.)

Class ends, and you're packing your things when it happens. You're struggling to jam your stupidly fat Charms book into your bag when Theo leans in, close enough that you catch that parchment-and-coffee smell again, and says:

"See you tomorrow, Y/N."

You freeze.

The book slips from your hands and thuds to the floor.

Theo straightens up, amused but obviously trying very hard to hide it, like he knows exactly what he just did.

You stare at him, heart thumping.

He knows your name. He knew your name. The whole time.

"You—" you start, stupidly.

He arches a brow, smirking, all lazy confidence. "What, Amore?"

You flush so hard you’re surprised you don’t combust on the spot.

"I—I thought you didn’t—"

"Didn’t what?" he says, looking genuinely entertained now.

You open your mouth, realize you have absolutely no idea what you’re trying to say, and shut it again.

Theo’s smile softens.

"I've always known your name, you know," he says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can even begin to untangle that emotional catastrophe, he reaches down, picks up your fallen book and tucks it carefully into your bag for you.

Then, with another soft, almost secret smile, he brushes a hand against yours and strolls out of the classroom leaving you standing there, red-faced and stunned, clutching your bag like a lifeline.

You still haven't moved.

[daryltwdixon]

Could you do bicep choking 🌚🙈

Daryl Dixon x Reader Grip

Summary: You let something slip—just a thought, just a passing comment—but Daryl hasn’t been able to shake it since. A week later, the tension between you reaches a breaking point.  tags: smut MDNI 18+, awkward pining, pinv, breast play, praise kink. awkward daryl & fmc, bicep choking obvi a/n: hello my love! thank you so much for this request and for your patience. in a second ask, anon did specify that they meant Daryl bicep choking. fair warning, I did not reread this a ton / proofread much. please lmk of any mistakes/errors!

The sun hangs low over the trees, heat pressing in heavy as you weave through the abandoned gas station, boots crunching softly over broken glass. Daryl moves a few steps ahead, bow slung across his back, knife in hand, moving with that effortless quiet of his. Always aware. Always in control.

And his arms.

You tell yourself you’re just paying attention—watching his movements like he watches everything else around him, staying alert. But your gaze keeps catching on the shift of muscle beneath his skin, the way his forearms flex when he grips his knife, the lazy tension in his biceps every time he lifts his arm to wipe sweat off his brow.

You shouldn’t be looking.

But it’s hard not to.

Especially when he plants a boot on a fallen shelf, using his weight to pry open a rusted metal door. The strain makes his muscles coil tight, veins standing out just enough to make you swallow hard.

"Well?" His voice snaps you out of it.

You blink. "What?"

Daryl jerks his chin toward the darkened storage room behind the door. "You goin’ in first or what?"

Shit. You’ve been staring.

"Yeah. Right. On it."

You step past him, ears burning. The space inside smells like old rot and motor oil, a few overturned boxes scattered around. You crouch, rifling through some supplies, heart still kicking too fast. It’s stupid. You’ve been on runs with him before. But something about today—the heat, the silence between you, the way he’s been rolling his shoulders like his muscles are wound too tight—has you hyper-aware of every damn thing he does.

A tin of peaches clatters loose from a shelf, and you reach for it at the same time he does. Your fingers barely brush his, but the contact is enough to send a jolt up your arm, like static crackling under your skin. He pauses. Just for a second. And when he draws back, you swear you catch the flicker of his gaze sweeping over you before he looks away.

You can feel your pulse in your throat.

You should let it go. Should get back to work. But the words are out before you can stop them.

"You ever—" You hesitate, pulse hammering, but you push through. "You ever, I don’t know, choke somebody with your arms before?"

Daryl stops. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, eyes narrowing just slightly. His bicep shifts as he adjusts his grip on the tin in his hand. "The hell kinda question is that?"

Shiiiit. You fucked up.

But instead of retreating, you force yourself to keep looking at him, tilting your chin up just a little. "I just mean, you’re strong." A shrug, like it’s no big deal. "Bet you could hold somebody down real easy."

Silence.

Then, Daryl exhales through his nose, shaking his head. But there’s something in his expression—something flickering behind his eyes, sharp and considering.

He tosses the tin into your hands and mutters, "You’re weird." and walks away.

═════════════════════════

Back at the prison, dinner is quiet, the usual hum of conversation mixed with the occasional scrape of utensils against tin plates. Most people are too tired to talk much, a day of tending to the gardens, cleaning out cell blocks and keeping walkers at bay making everyone look forward to the slower evenings. The air in the hall feels thick with the kind of exhaustion that settles deep, making everything feel slow, heavy.

You should be eating, but your stomach isn’t interested.

Because Daryl’s staring at you.

You haven’t looked at him, not really since you got back, but you can feel it. That steady weight from across the room, the burning of your ears, it makes it almost impossible to keep your stomach from doing somersaults. 

You should’ve kept your mouth shut on the run. Should’ve swallowed the words down, let them die in your throat. But no—you had to go and say it. Maybe it was your stupid hormones, the way he seemed to speak to some primal part of you that evolution put in your dna, maybe it was just some stupid impulse you couldn’t control. Either way, it’s too late now.

Not like it meant anything.

Except, if it didn’t, why was he still looking at you?

Your fingers tighten around your fork, but you don’t move to take another bite. Instead, you stare at the food on your plate, willing yourself to focus on anything other than the way your face feels too warm, the way your pulse is pressing a little harder than it should.

Maggie shifts in her seat, nudging Beth’s arm. “You good?”

You blink, glance up. Beth tilts her head, studying you, while Maggie smirks like she already knows something you don’t.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost today or somethin’,” Maggie says, “The run go that bad?”

“N-no,” you stammer, already feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “It went fine. Got a lotta good stuff, actually.”

Maggie hums, unconvinced, and you watch as her eyes flicker behind you when she says, looking back at her plate, “Looks like someone’s got a little crush.”

The fork slips from your fingers, clattering against the plate, “I do not!”

But your reaction is what does it– it’s too sharp, too defensive. Beth startles a little, but Maggie just stares, slow realization spreading across her face as you lock eyes with her.

“I was only kiddin’." she says incredulously, "I meant the grouchy archer sittin' across the room, he keeps starin’ atcha.” she shakes her head, eyes lighting up. “But I see I’ve been mistaken.” She leans in. “You like Daryl?”

Your stomach drops.

Beth gasps, slapping Maggie’s arm. “Oh my god.”

Your face is on fire. “I don’t—”

Maggie grins. “Holy shit, you totally do.”

Beth’s trying to stifle a giggle. You shake your head fast, like that’ll help, like it’ll undo the last five seconds, but it only makes Maggie look even more certain. You can feel the walls closing in, feel their eyes on you, but worse—you can still feel his.

It’s too much. You push your plate away and mutter a quiet, “Not hungry anymore,” before standing and heading for the stairs, their laughter echoing behind you.

You don’t look back, because if you were to turn around and find those ocean blue eyes still on you, it would be your undoing.

═════════════════════════

The book in your hands is old, pages yellowed and brittle at the edges, the spine cracked so deep you have to be careful when you turn the pages. You’re not even sure what it’s about. Something about a man lost at sea. Maybe.

You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for the last ten minutes.

It’s not that it’s boring. It’s just that your mind refuses to focus.

You shift on your cot, tugging the blanket over your lap, trying again, but it’s useless. Your brain keeps circling back, over and over, to dinner. To Maggie’s knowing grin, Beth’s giggles, and—worst of all—Daryl.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling sharply. You should’ve never said anything. Should’ve kept that stupid thought locked away where it belonged.

A quiet scuff of boots outside your cell makes your stomach jolt. There’s a pause, then a hesitant knock against the frame of your open door. Not loud or rushed, more like a question.

You look up.

Daryl stands in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head slightly ducked. His shoulders are hunched, like he’s already thinking about leaving before he’s even fully stepped inside.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then, he clears his throat. “Didn’t know ya read.”

You blink. It’s such a small thing to say, but something about the way he says it, like he’s searching for an easy way in, trying to settle into the conversation, makes your stomach tighten.

You glance at the book in your lap. “Yeah. Helps pass the time.”

Daryl nods, his eyes flicking around the small space of your cell, like he’s looking for something else to comment on, something to delay whatever it is he actually came here for. Between your haphazardly taped posters and handmade streamers, he doesn’t find anything, so instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, exhales through his nose, then finally says:

“That thing you asked me.”

Your stomach drops. Of course. You should’ve known that was why he was here.

Your fingers tighten around the book, but you shake your head quickly. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry if I made you–”

“You think I can?” he asks, huffing.

You frown. “Think you can what?”

His jaw tenses, and when he speaks again, it’s lower. Almost cautious. “Forget it.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s forced. “Ain’t exactly somethin’ you just let go of.”

Your chest feels too tight all of a sudden. You can’t quite place the look on his face—something careful, something guarded, like he’s trying not to let on that it’s been sitting in the back of his head since you said it. What went through his mind when you asked him?

You shift on your cot, swallowing. “Daryl, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

His gaze flickers, just barely. “Yeah?”

You nod, but something in the way he’s looking at you makes your throat dry out. He still doesn’t seem convinced.

“You think that’s what I am?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge there, frustration starting to rise in his voice. “Some kinda animal? The kind of man who would kill someone with–” he shakes his head slightly, jaw clenching. “You think I’m like that?”

The realization hits you hard. Your stomach twists. “Daryl, no,” you say quickly, sitting up straighter. “That’s not—”

He shakes his head again, looking at the floor. “Wouldn’t blame ya.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs. “That’s not what I meant.”

Daryl exhales, folding his arms over his chest, still avoiding your eyes. “Then what did you mean?”

You hesitate. Because now he’s looking at you. Not guarded, not distant—just waiting.

Your fingers press into the book in your lap. This is your chance to brush it off. Laugh it away. But you can already feel the heat creeping up your face, and Daryl is still standing there, still waiting, and if you don’t say it now, he’s just going to keep thinking the worst.

You shift slightly. “I meant…” Your throat feels tight. “I meant in bed.”

Daryl blinks.

His whole body stiffens, like his brain short-circuited, like the words hit him sideways and he can’t quite recover. His face is already turning red, slow at first, then creeping all the way up to his ears.

Your own face burns, and you clear your throat, pushing through the embarrassment. “I meant—if you’d ever choked someone in bed. With your arms.”

A silence falls over the room. A long, unbearable silence.

Daryl shifts, dragging a hand over his mouth. He scratches the back of his head, looks anywhere but at you.

Finally, he exhales, mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath, then huffs out a quiet, almost nervous laugh.

Your stomach clenches. “I know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s—uh. That’s what ya meant?”

You nod quickly, still burning. “Yeah.”

Daryl looks at you for a second. His fingers flex slightly at his sides, like he’s thinking too hard about where to put them.

Then, after a long pause—his voice comes out quieter.

“You’d want me to?”

Your stomach drops.

Your eyes snap to his. “What?”

Daryl shrugs, but it’s forced, like he’s trying to play off how red his face still is. “I dunno. Just—” His mouth twitches slightly, like he can’t believe he’s even saying this. “Sounded like somethin’ you were real curious about.”

Your breath catches.

He’s not teasing, not quite—but there’s something in the way he says it, something light, something almost amused. Like he’s surprised at himself, surprised at you, but now that he’s said it, he’s not taking it back.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Your hands are way too warm.

“I wouldn’t—” you swallow. “I wouldn’t not want you to.”

Daryl huffs out another soft laugh, shaking his head, glancing toward the hall like he’s wondering how the hell this conversation ended up here.

Then he looks back at you, eyes a little sharper now, lips twitching.

The heat in your face flares as he just chuckles under his breath, rubbing at his jaw before he steps back toward the door.

“Get some sleep,” he says, still smirking.

He turns, but not before you catch it—just the slightest flicker of something in his expression.

Something knowing. Something interested.

And when he finally walks away, you can’t do anything except stare at the empty doorway and try to remember how to breathe.

═════════════════════════

The past week has been unbearable.

It’s not like anything has happened, not really. No one has said anything, no lines have been crossed, but the air between you and Daryl hasn’t been the same since that night in your cell.

It’s in the way his eyes catch on you more often now. The way he lingers a little too long before walking away. The way your skin prickles when he’s nearby, too aware of the space he takes up, too aware of how small you feel in comparison.

And now, you’re on another run together.

“Last one went well,” Rick had said, shoving packs toward both of you. “Might as well stick with what works.”

The drive into town is quiet. Neither of you talk much, just like last time, but it’s not the same. There’s a different kind of weight, and you’re grateful that the open road on the motorcycle leaves little conversation to be said over its echoing roar.

When you finally reach an old pharmacy on the outskirts, the sun is starting to climb higher in the sky, heat burning your neck and the pavement glimmering.

Inside, dust clings to everything, thick in the air. It smells stale, like old paper and time left to rot. Shelves are overturned, bottles and boxes scattered across the floor.

You do your job, scanning for anything useful, but your focus keeps slipping.

Because every time you glance up, Daryl is there.

He’s not doing anything different. Not saying anything. Just moving through the space like he always does—quiet, efficient. But somehow, it feels like every single movement is deliberate. Like every shift of muscle under his skin is something you shouldn’t be watching, but you are.

The dust-covered counter at the back of the building gives you something to focus on, something to do besides thinking about the weight of Daryl’s gaze. You hop over the counter and crouch down, scanning the lowest shelf, rifling through half-empty boxes of medication, checking for anything still worth taking back.

A prickle of awareness crawls up the back of your neck.

It’s not the usual kind of awareness you get on a run, not the instinct that tells you someone—or something— dangerous is lurking nearby. It’s different. Warmer. Closer.

When you stand, a bottle of pills in your hand, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Daryl is right there, barely a foot away, standing between you and the only way out.

Your breath stutters. He doesn’t usually get this close without reason.

He’s blocking the exit, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trapping you—it feels like he’s stopping himself from walking away. His weight shifts between his feet, his arms twitch like they want to cross, but he doesn’t move, just watches you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hand. “Wha—what’s up?”

Daryl doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you, quiet and considering, something simmering beneath the surface. His teeth catch against the corner of his lip for a second, his fingers flex at his sides, but it’s like he still hasn’t worked out how to say whatever it is that’s sitting heavy on his chest.

Then he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Can’t stop thinkin’.”

His voice is rough, like the words have been stuck in his throat all day.

Your pulse jumps. “Thinking... about what?”

He shifts again on uneven footing, glancing toward the counter before dragging his gaze back to you. The moment stretches, thick enough to smother, before he finally speaks again.

“Since last time,” he mutters, voice quieter now. Your stomach flips. He shakes his head, almost to himself. “You got me all fucked up, girl.”

It’s not frustration, not really—it’s more like exhaustion, like he’s tired of pretending that something between you hasn’t changed. And when he steps forward, closing the last bit of space between you, your body reacts before your brain catches up.

Your back hits the wall behind you.

The old metal shelving is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him. He’s so close now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of pine and sweat clinging to him, close enough that every nerve in your body locks up, unsure whether to tense or melt.

His arms come up, hands bracing against the metal on either side of you, and suddenly you can’t look anywhere but at him.

Your breath feels too shallow.

Daryl dips his head slightly, breath warm against your cheek, and you hear the way he inhales, slow and deep, smelling the remnants of the apple shampoo you used days ago. 

“S’not like I haven’t thought of ya before.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You can barely think straight with him this close, his voice this low. He smells of musk and leather and summer sunshine, something distinctly masculine and Daryl all at once. His words sink in, heavy and real, and before you can even process them, he huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head against the side of yours.

“Thought of ya a lot, actually.”

Your stomach twists, heat flaring under your skin.

Daryl pulls back just enough to look at you, and that’s when you see it—the way his pupils are blown, the way his breath comes slow and measured like he’s still holding something back. His jaw is tight, his fingers flex slightly against the metal, and you don’t know whether he’s waiting for permission or for you to push him away.

“Say somethin’,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel in your ears. “Please.”

You reach up then, your hand trembling slightly as your fingers brush along his jaw, skimming over the uneven scruff growing in patches on his face. He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you trace up along his cheekbone, down the side of his neck, feeling the tension there, the way his pulse beats strong beneath your fingertips.

“I think of you a lot too,” you finally manage to say, and it’s barely louder than a whisper.

His eyes open, still blown wide as they flicker between yours, then drop to your lips. His breath is slow, measured, like he’s forcing himself to hold back.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you breathe. It’s more than just a response—it’s permission, it’s consent, letting him know that whatever he’s thinking, whatever’s been running through his mind, you want it too.

And like you’ve just cut the cord that’s been wound too tight between you, he pushes forward, his lips crashing into yours with urgency.

You’re surprised just how soft his lips are, how gentle he tries to be, but the way he moves is anything but hesitant. There’s no testing, no waiting—he’s done holding back, done second-guessing. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like it’s something he’s wanted for too damn long, and you can’t help but act in equal fervor.

Your fingers tighten against his jaw, then slide up into his hair, gripping, pulling. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, wrecked, sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through you. His hands move without restraint now, gripping at your waist, fingers pressing into your hips, pulling you closer like the space between you is unbearable.

You barely register the sharp clatter of bottles knocked from the shelves as your back presses harder against the metal. Daryl doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the mess spurs him on, makes him more reckless, more desperate.

He kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your legs weak, makes your stomach tighten. He’s breathing hard, fingers digging into your sides, body pressing fully into you now, until there’s nothing between you but heat and friction.

His lips drag from your mouth down to your jaw, then lower, his breath hot as he murmurs against your skin. “Been losin’ my mind over you all damn week.” His teeth catch on the pulse in your neck, not biting, just grazing, making you shudder. “Longer than that, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Your nails bite into his shoulders as he kisses lower, pressing into the spot just beneath your jaw, the one that makes your breath hitch. His hands are everywhere—roaming, gripping, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips brush against bare skin, warm and rough, and you arch into his touch without thinking.

“Daryl…”

He groans at the way you say his name, a quiet, broken sound that sends a deep shudder through his body. He presses his forehead against yours for a second, breath ragged, like he’s trying to steady himself but failing. Then his hands tighten on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter of the pharmacy.

You gasp softly, but he’s already between your legs, already pulling you flush against him, the heat between your bodies unbearable. His lips are on yours again, claiming, devouring, his hands moving up your thighs, squeezing, gripping like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you kiss him harder, the urgency between you growing into something more frantic, more consuming. His hands slide beneath your shirt, pushing it up and over your head, and you shiver as his palms drag over your ribs, rough and warm.

His mouth leaves yours just long enough to mutter against your skin, voice thick with something wild, something unraveling. “You sure about this?”

Your only answer is to pull him back in, crashing your lips to his, fingers fisting in his shirt as you tug him closer, needing him, needing more.

That’s all he needs. His shirt is gone in the next instant with yours following suit, and the moment the fabric is over your head, his lips are on you again, everywhere. You arch into his touch, heat rolling through you as his mouth works down your neck, trailing over your collarbone, then lower. Each kiss leaves behind something electric, something you feel everywhere, and when he drags lower still, down onto your bare chest, his lips and teeth and tongue worship everywhere but where you want him most.

Your breath hitches, your hands restless, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his hair—anywhere you can reach, anywhere you can pull him closer. He’s between your legs now, his body solid, burning against yours, his hands gripping your thighs, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back.

You look down at him, ready to beg, but the sight of him wrecks you.

Daryl between your legs, his lips on your skin, mouth open, breath warm as he stares at you like he’s never seen anything like you before.

Any coherent thought vanishes the moment his lips close around your nipple.

A breathless moan leaves your lips as his tongue flicks over it, hot and slow, sending a deep ache curling low in your stomach. His rough fingers knead your other breast, rolling and pinching your sensitive skin in just the right way, his touch deliberate, like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

You arch into him, pressing closer, needing more, but he keeps the pace slow, like he’s savoring every second, like he wants to soak in every feel of your body against his. 

His tongue swirls over the sensitive bud, lips tugging gently before he soothes it with another slow flick, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. His other hand stays firm on your breast, rolling, kneading, fingers rough with callouses as he works you over with slow, steady intent. It’s almost too much, yet not enough, and you feel yourself tilting between the two sensations, every nerve in your body locked onto the way he’s touching you, kissing you, like he never wants to stop.

You’re barely aware of your own sounds, the quiet gasps, the soft moans, the way your hands dig into his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, needing him closer. His mouth moves lower, lips dragging down your stomach, his hands sliding along your sides, gripping your waist like he’s grounding himself.

Then, just when you think he’s going to keep going, he stops.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, lips slick and parted. His hands squeeze at your waist, thumbs brushing slow over your skin, and he swallows, throat bobbing as he exhales through his nose.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thick with something dark, something unfiltered.

Your breath catches.

You do as he says, shifting, dropping your feet to the floor and gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself as you twist in his hold. The air feels even thicker now, hotter, your pulse hammering as his hands slide over your hips, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

His palms press firm against your lower back, tracing down to your waist before his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. There’s no rush in the way he tugs them down, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every new inch of skin he reveals. The scrape of fabric against your thighs sends a shiver rolling through you, and when they finally pool at your ankles, his hands smooth back up, gripping, kneading, pulling you back into him.

A sharp inhale leaves your lips when you feel him press against you, his breath warm at the curve of your neck. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tight, like he’s still trying to hold himself back, like he’s at war with the need running through him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t have time to respond before his lips are on your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, hands gripping you tighter, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him seeps through you, burning into your skin, your body molding against his like you were always meant to fit there.

Then, slowly, his hand slides up.

You barely register the shift before the weight of his arm is curling around your neck, firm but careful, forearm bracing across your throat, holding you in place. The solid strength of his muscles—it’s everything you imagined, everything you tried so hard to ignore when the thought first crossed your mind.

A low, rough chuckle rumbles against your ear.

“This what you wanted, ain’t it?” His voice is gravel, wrecked, thick with something primal as his breath ghosts along your jaw. His hold tightens just slightly, just enough to make you shudder. “My arm around this pretty neck?”

His words send a shudder through you, pooling heat low in your stomach as your hands grip the counter harder. His arm is thick around your neck, a steady weight that makes you dizzy with want, and when he tightens it just slightly, enough to make you feel it, a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice barely there.

Daryl stills for half a second like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. Then he makes a noise low in his throat, something rough, something wrecked, and his grip on you tightens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice thick, warm, almost tender in contrast to how strong he feels behind you. His nose brushes against your jaw, his lips grazing over your pulse as his other hand trails lower, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hip. “What a sweet thing you are”

The praise sends a jolt through you, your breath catching, fingers twitching against the counter as he shifts behind you. Then you hear it, a belt coming loose and buckle clattering to the floor with the jeans he was wearing and suddenly you feel him– heavy and thick as he nudges against you, the heat of it pressing right against your slick entrance.

Your whole body tenses, then melts, nails digging into his arm where it rests against your throat. 

Daryl lets out a slow, shuddering breath, nipping lightly at the edge of your ear before murmuring, “Christ, barely touched you and you’re all wet. This all for me?” His hips press forward again, slow, teasing, and you let out a quiet whimper, pushing back into him without thinking. His cock notches into you then, and you both let out a sudden gasp.

“That’s it,” he praises, lips pressing against the shell of your ear, his voice low and soothing and coaxing as his cock sinks deeper into you. “You’re so damn good. Feels good, don’t it?”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him talk like this before, soft and filthy all at once, like he’s pouring everything he has into the way he touches you, the way he holds you. You nod, swallowing hard. “So good, Daryl.”

His breath turns heavier, warmer against your skin as he pulls you back onto him, slow and steady, letting you feel every inch as he buries himself inside you. His grip tightens at your hip, steadying you, holding you exactly where he wants you, but the real weight—the one that sends a full-body shudder through you—is his arm, still firm around your neck. You back arches against him, leaning into the muscles of his forearm as he holds you into the crook of his elbow.

“There you go,” he rasps, his voice strained, wrecked. His hips rock forward again, sinking deeper, stretching you, and a ragged moan slips from your lips. His grip flexes, and he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, lips warm, tongue flicking against your pulse before he nips at it, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin. “Knew you’d take me so good.”

Your nails dig harder into his arm, fingers curling around his wrist where he holds you, your breath hitching as he starts to move. Slow at first, testing, drawing himself out before pushing back in, each roll of his hips deliberate, each thrust pressing deeper, setting a rhythm that already has you unraveling.

His arm around your neck tightens, just slightly, just enough to make your next breath stutter, to make the heat between your legs coil tighter.  His breath is hot against your ear, rough and ragged, the tension in his body coiled so tight you can feel it thrumming through his chest, through the arm braced around your throat.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans, his voice raw, nearly pained as he rocks into you. "You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me."

His hips move with slow precision at first, teasing, working you open, dragging out every sensation like he wants you to feel him, to know that he’s the one making you come apart like this. His fingers dig into your hip, pulling you back onto him, the blunt head of his cock pressing deep with every thrust.

"Been thinkin’ about this," he murmurs, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "Bout how tight you’d feel, how fuckin’ perfect you’d take me. You feel that, baby?" He drives into you harder then, pushing you flush against the counter, stealing your breath with the sheer force of it. "Feels better than I ever imagined."

Your nails claw at his arm, breath ragged as his grip tightens just slightly around your neck, just enough to hold you there, to keep you at his mercy. His hips snap into you then, harder and faster now that you’ve adjusted to the sheer stretch of his cock. 

"Shit," he groans, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your jaw, sucking at the delicate skin before biting down, his voice going strained. "You like this, don’t ya? Bein’ held like this? Wrapped up in me, nowhere to go."

You whimper, pushing back into him, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece.

His free hand slides down, dipping between your legs, his fingers finding you slick and swollen, rubbing slow, purposeful circles that make your knees shake.

"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, pressing his forehead to the side of your head, his breath coming harder now. "Gettin’ all worked up, takin’ it so damn well." His fingers flick over your clit, pressing just right, and you let out a broken moan. "That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Been dreamin’ ‘bout these sounds."

His thrusts grow rougher, deeper, and the tension in your belly coils tight, too tight, everything building.

Daryl feels it.

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how good you feel around him. "I know, sweetheart. Feels like your body’s beggin’ for it, huh?" His lips drag over your jaw, his hips pounding into you now, chasing that high. "Wanna cum all over me, don’t ya?"

The coil snaps at his words, white-hot and blinding as his arm tightens, stealing the breath from you completely. Your entire body goes taut as pleasure crashes over you, so sharp and overwhelming as your lungs scream for air. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight, and Daryl groans deep in his chest, his rhythm going sloppy, erratic.

"Shit, you’re milkin’ me, baby," he groans, his fingers moving to grip your hips, "Goddamn, you feel like fuckin’ heaven." 

He holds you, hips pinning you against the counter as he buries himself deep, shuddering against you as he spills inside you.

His hold around your neck finally eases, his hand smoothing over your collarbone, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses against the side of your neck as both of you come down together.

"You alright?" His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it, something real.

You exhale shakily, your body still humming from the aftershocks, a slow, blissed-out smile creeping across your lips. "Yeah. That was… that was so hot."

Daryl huffs out a small, breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss against the side of your neck. His hands keep roaming, slow and absentminded, smoothing over your waist, tracing lazy circles along your hips, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

"Yeah?" He nuzzles into your shoulder, his lips grazing your damp skin. "Ain’t never tried it before." His voice is warm, a little smug, but softer than before, like he’s still coming down from it too.

You hum, stretching slightly against him, still pressed chest to back. "Me neither. Somethin’ about you, Dixon."

Daryl makes a sound deep in his throat, something pleased, something almost knowing. His fingers tighten just slightly at your hip, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw before he murmurs, "Ain’t gonna be the last time, neither."

“Promise?” you chuckle, turning in his arms to snake your hands around his neck.

Daryl smirks, slow and lazy, his breath warm against your skin as he tilts his head, letting your fingers slip into his hair. His hands slide lower, resting at the curve of your back, holding you against him like he has no intention of letting go.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough but sure. "Promise."

His lips find yours again, softer this time, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he’s already thinking about the next time, about how he’ll take his time with you, about all the things he wants to do.

[notjustjavierpena]

Sundays

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Season 2 of The Last of Us ruined my life, so here is my attempt at fixing my eternal wounds. Lord knows that everyone deserves better. I spent four weeks trying to perfect this. It might be the best thing I’ve ever done. Please be kind and patient with me ❤️

Summary: Joel’s Sundays are for early morning patrol and making babies with you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Domestic fluff, soft but haunted Joel, banter, teasing, Star Wars reference, kissing, praise kink, dirty talk, pussy eating, fingering, breeding kink, one use of daddy, emotional and filthy sex, creampie, aftercare, cuddling 

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65911807

Sundays

On Sundays, Joel does the morning patrols while the rest of the town sleeps. When someone asks why he has volunteered to do them, he lies and grumbles something about nobody else wanting to get out of bed during the weekend so he has to. Yet he always wakes up at the crack of dawn without complaint, showers in the miracle of hot water, fixes himself a cup of coffee, and reads his book - they have recently emptied a library on an extensive supply run and they found The Shining on dry shelves - with his glasses perched on his nose. He likes it; the quiet time for himself while feeling your presence in the house as you sleep under warm blankets upstairs. His morning routine always ends with taking off his glasses to put them on their designated spot on his nightstand and kissing your beautiful hair, watching your body curl up contentedly underneath the covers or if he is really lucky, you turning onto your back and sleepily muttering a demand for a proper kiss. 

He goes back down, ties his well-worn leather boots on a dining chair, holsters his handgun, throws his rifle over his shoulder, and then leaves with a quiet click of the door. 

The Spring air bites slightly in the morning but he doesn’t mind, appreciates the way it wakes him up a bit more and sharpens his focus. He misses you the second he steps out the door, thinks about your warm and soft skin while he checks the front of Ellie’s house, and then walks towards the stables, the gravel crunching underneath his boots. He listens for anything out of the ordinary - can’t be too careful - and even checks the fences surrounding the horses, the weak spots he keeps meaning to patch up himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.

Patrol is as usual. He doesn’t expect any danger and thankfully doesn’t find any either, but he is a man of habits and old habits die hard. His free hand rests near the strap of his rifle in case of anything out of the ordinary, but the only time he needs to be on his guard is when Callus, his horse, gets frightened by a rabbit in the bushes along the trail. He calms the animal with a broad, soothing hand and kind words. He thinks about Sarah, about how she would have loved the nature here, and rarely anymore about how her blood felt on his skin.

He is gone for a few hours, three maybe but no more than four. He does all of his usual inner checklists and rides past each checkpoint, all the while thinking about your hair still messy from sleep, your bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.

On his way back, his thoughts continue circling around you. It’s almost dangerous how much he lets his mind drift; how easy it is to get lost in wondering what you’re up to on his way home. He pictures you in the sun coming in through the windows of the house he built for you with hands that have killed but now get to cradle your face too. He loves you most bathed in morning light that makes your skin glow. With a half-laugh, you said you’d be doing housework today, dragging your fingers through his hair last night whilst tangled up in his body. 

He wonders if you’re humming to yourself while mopping the floors or fighting extra stubborn dust bunnies underneath the couch. What are you wearing? What are you thinking about? Is it him? Are your souls really so entwined that your thoughts are full of him whenever his are so full of you? Joel doesn’t even know if he believes in that sort of thing - hearts beating in sync like that - but you don’t give him a choice sometimes, a feeling that not even Ellie has ever teased out of him.

When he arrives home, he smiles with his eyes closed at the twinkling sound of the wind chimes hanging on the porch ceiling. There is dust on his boots and his bad knee has started to ache from the slow change in temperature over the last few hours but he feels content. He removes the rifle from his shoulder to leave it by the door and then toes the boots off carefully. 

He inhales the smell of home deeply in through his nose before holding his breath to listen for any sound of you. His brown jacket comes off right after he has noticed the quiet movements upstairs that make the house creak just a little. However, it’s not the noisy floorboards but your soft curse that makes him climb the staircase.

A younger version of him - a version that was newer to you - would have first thought that you were up to something sinful and private but Joel now knows that the near-silent swear is one of quiet frustration. You don’t hear him at first, too busy muttering to yourself about the fitted sheet that keeps slipping from your fingers as you try to tug it down over the corner of your shared bed. 

“Shit,” you curse again quietly, bent across the bed in a kneeling position with one knee on the mattress and the other stretched out behind you. 

He knows he should announce his presence like the gentleman he is but he is too busy trying to catch his hitching breath from the sight of your gorgeous body. The swell of your hips and the dip of your back have his old ticker beating in his chest like a kick drum but it is, more specifically, the choice of your underwear that has him feeling downright lightheaded. Hugging your hips are a pair of lace panties and they’re see-through and barely there but most importantly cute. You probably picked them up from the trading center without much ceremony, drawn by their aesthetic rather than their practicality, and then forgot they existed until laundry day arrived. He can understand why; they are so impractical that they almost piss him off but it doesn’t outweigh the near-laughable way he is already hardening in his jeans.

“Hey baby,” he finally says from the doorway, his hands shaking slightly with how hard it is to not just walk up and grab at your hips as a greeting. 

“Joel,” you jump a little in your spot and look at him over your shoulder, the sheet still hanging between your fingers in a secure grip, “You scared the shit outta me!”

“What are you wearing?” He asks simply instead of apologizing, trying to act nonchalant as he walks to the side of the bed but you pick up on the strain in his voice. 

You glance down at yourself with a sigh but it just makes your ass jiggle, “Oh, these? They’re my last clean pair right now since I’m doing an epic pile of laundry today. Sun’s coming out. Perfect day for hanging it outside.” 

“They’re–” he replies, gaze fixed on your ass. His voice continues in the same strained tone but he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. 

“They’re awful,” you help him and start struggling with the corner of the sheet again, “Feels like my ass is being flossed by lace.”

Joel snorts at that, “Should take ‘em off then.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” You snort yourself, finally managing to pull the sheet over the edge. You flatten it with your palm, caressing it almost as if you’re apologizing for the roughness you’ve caused it and so it looks like it hasn’t been a battle to secure. Then you flop onto your back, stretching your arms out behind you to hold yourself up. The grin on your face is mischievous and sexy yet subtle, the position you’ve put your body in pushing your chest out so he can see your breasts through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. He thought he wanted you badly during his patrol but looking at you now, he thinks he might lose it if he doesn’t touch you soon. 

“You’ve got me. Take them off,” he murmurs with a smirk but when you playfully don’t follow orders, he starts leaning down over you slowly with his sore knee dipping into the mattress. You try to crawl back, squealing but he has taken on bigger things than you.

“Joel,“ you stop him by planting your bare foot on his chest but the way your leg bends at the knee just exposes that soft, intimate skin between your legs. He wants to dive into you but he’ll humor you for a moment.

He grabs your ankle to make you laugh but his mind betrays him by reminding him of how fragile his existence here with you is. Jackson remaining completely untouched by reality is a fantasy. He doesn’t tell you, never would tell you how easily it could all go wrong again, because you deserve the fantasy more than he does.

“Joel,” you repeat his name and he comes back to you if only briefly, watching your loving grin with a deep ache in his chest. He hasn’t felt this kind of ache since Sarah’s mother, a tell-tale sign that you are the real thing for him, that he built this house so you can fill it up with love and life. 

Life. It seems almost bordering on insanity to be thinking about children at his age in a world so broken but your eyes sparkle in the town square where mothers carry their babies in wraps while trading cartons of strawberries. You deserve to nurture someone other than him because your soul has so much to give. 

“If you’re not going to do anything but overthink,” you hum teasingly when time has passed and Joel feels embarrassed for having been lost to his own inner world. His thumb presses into the curve of your Achilles heel, tugging your body closer to himself by wrapping your leg around his waist instead.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like that,” he chuckles softly while his cheeks are slightly crimson. 

“It’s good for you,” you shoot back him and it is the truth.

“Was just thinking ‘bout how you do so much that I don’t deserve,” he says with his eyes roaming over your face and chest for a place to kiss. He chooses the column of your throat, “Cooking, cleaning… Lovin’ a man like me.”

“It’s not about deserving,” you muse and sigh at his stubble on your skin, “Do you want me?”

What kind of question is that? He wants you so much that it sometimes feels like it would be easier to live in your veins, to replace his tired and aching bones with yours if it meant never being without you. He sounds psychotic, sounds like something that he read in the string of horror novels he has gathered by now because they feel oddly comforting when there’s something worse on the other side of the gates. 

“Forever,” he replies simply. He would rather die than not have you.

“Not too much to ask for if you ask me,” you reach to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones until he closes his eyes at the feel, and then pull him to your lips. You kiss him gently for a moment but with how much Joel wants you, he quickly lets it drift into something else, something more. He kisses you with all that want in his body, needs it to stop prickling underneath his skin. 

“Have you had breakfast?” He murmurs against your mouth, checking in, the question heavy with care for you. 

“No,” you whisper back into another kiss, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, “I was waiting for you.”

“What if, after this, I take you down to the market?” Joel starts descending his lips on your body. He mouths over the mound of your breast, nipping at your sensitive nipple as it strains against the fabric of your top in its arousal, “Could get you fresh strawberries. Or blueberries we could throw in pancakes.”

You let out a soft moan that’s mixed with a breathy laugh, “I’m ovulating.”

“What?” Joel’s voice has gone scratchy. He stills his touch, moving to look up at your face to see what emotion is playing on your features. He didn’t even know you were keeping track. At first, he doesn’t understand your point but you’re quick to let him in.

“There’ll be babies all over the town square,” you grin down at him, cheeks warm with playfulness as you glow, “Just saying.”

“Maybe one of ours one day?” Joel tests the waters.

“Yeah?” Your grin turns into one of unabashed glee.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind it if we made a baby,” he answers quietly and moves his palm up under your top to lay it flat against your belly, “We could try. I mean, we’ve been dancing around it for months now, haven’t we?”

“Then don’t pull out,” the way you say those words, like honey dripping from your tongue, makes Joel swear under his breath and his cock jump. He watches the dizzying sight of you shimmying out of the lace underwear before spreading your legs to give room for him. Looking between your legs is like he’s been offered something holy by the devil himself, your slit already glistening and ready for him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he smooths his hand down your belly to grab the hem of your top again, easing it up your body. You lift your arms over your head to help him get it off, the movement of your body making your tits shake. He moves backward on the bed, kissing his way down your sternum while squeezing your right breast. You arch slightly into the touch, taking it with a soft release of your breath.

Joel revels in you, revels in the fact that you have allowed him something that he hasn’t thought about in decades because the world did not allow it. He wonders if he’ll be a good father again after all these years of never letting himself think of being something to someone so tiny and fragile, dependent. Ellie had already been a mouthy teenager when he got her, and while she had relied on him, she had had one hell of a survival instinct and hadn’t needed any cradling. A newborn will be different; they will need parts of his being that he hasn’t touched since Sarah was handed to him in the hospital. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself to cradle his newborn with hands that now only know how to pull a trigger. He doesn’t know if it is like riding a bike, that it will happen naturally the second he sees them, but he knows that he wants it. God, he wants it. 

“What are you doing?” You question when he is suddenly between your legs, his feet out over the edge of the bed, and it makes him stop dead. Maybe he should stop having these thoughts when he makes love to you. 

“What do you mean?” He asks as he is halfway down on the floor to get in position. He furrows his brows in confusion. 

“You do realize that this is not how babies are made, right?” You giggle in response, sweetly enough to make his cock twitch. Oh, that’s what you’re playing at.

“Ain’t it?” He smirks.

“No!” You snicker. 

“Then I guess I’m just doing this for fun,” he replies and swings your legs onto his shoulders. He yanks at your hips to pull you towards his mouth, “C’mere, you.”

You squeak with giggles and Joel’s heart dances to the sound. However, your laughter switches to a moan the second his mouth touches you and covers nearly the whole of you. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore, has learned what you like by now from the countless times he has eaten your pussy like it was his last meal on this godforsaken earth. 

“Shit,” you gasp towards the ceiling and cross your ankles on the broadness of his back. He swears that he can hear it in your voice how your eyes roll back when his tongue caresses you in soft strokes. You taste so good that he moans into you, lapping up every drop of sticky sweetness with his tongue. 

“I know, baby. I got you,” he pauses briefly to suck on two of his fingers to wet them, following it up by turning his hand toward the ceiling and then sinking the digits inside of you. He expertly presses them upward, curling them into the spot that immediately has your hips jolting. 

“There,” you tell him with a whine, twisting your hands in the freshly-made bed sheets with a curse that he doesn’t know if is directed at him or the stupid fitted sheets slipping from the corners again, “Joel— ah, don’t stop!”

You gasp as he rubs into that spot over and over again, pairing it with his mouth circling in on the place you need it the most. Your clit is hard and sensitive, perfect for wrapping his mouth around and sucking until his cheeks hollow. 

“Oh God… Oh God,” your pitch rises as he works you open on his hand. At some point, you lose yourself enough in it to start tightening your legs around his back and shoulders. It makes your pelvis lift off the mattress until your back is beautifully arched, makes your cunt press firmly into his mouth for any friction. He grabs your thigh with his free hand for leverage and groans softly into you, taking the reward of sinful pleasure shooting straight to his cock from the way you fuck yourself on his fingers and mouth. 

Outside, the heat can’t compete with the warmth coming off of your body. He can hear another gust of wind blowing through the wind chimes around the porch, mixing with the sound of the city waking up and coming to life. He could die right here, he thinks, between your beautiful thighs with skin that smells just faintly of your homemade lavender oil but right now mostly of sex. It wouldn’t be bad, hell, the whole town would say that he died doing what he loved. 

A hand tangles in his hair now. You have relented on the sheets in case you’ll rip them, and Joel takes each painful sting of his follicles with pride as you balance on the edge. He sinks his fingers deeper, works his mouth faster to get you to tip the scales and come so hard that the world fades away from the both of you. 

It happens a moment later. You hold your breath for just a few seconds, completely quiet as you concentrate while the anticipation within your body crackles like electricity he swears, he can feel. 

Then you cry out in relief, throwing your head back and squeezing your thighs around his head so the sound in his good ear blurs as well. He can feel your muscles clamp down on his fingers, near-arrogant pride swelling in his chest from how skilled he is in making you feel good. 

He keeps his mouth on you as long as you allow him, the tip of his tongue flicking over your sensitive and goddamn pretty clit until you protest with a whimper. When he draws back, he keeps fucking you through the aftershocks with his fingers and dares look up at you, heart beating out of his chest and his dick hard enough that it is aching. His fingers are wet with your come, making your cunt squelch in the otherwise quiet room. 

“Attagirl,” he breaks the silence with a praise in his easy southern drawl, letting his fingers slip out finally, “You liked that, huh?”

You hum approvingly in your afterglow and he can’t get close to you fast enough. He crawls up from the floor, grunting at the way his knees remind him of his age, and moves up on the bed. He slots between your legs again like he was made to fit there, kneeling between your thighs. You look soft and dazed, chest still heaving from your high. 

“I love you. Every damn inch of you,” he murmurs softly. He looks at your face, how you smile with your eyes closed and your nose is slightly scrunched up as the sun dances over your features through the window. You’re glowing. Simple as that, no other word for it, like you will when carrying his kid, and he should tell you that you’re the only peace he has ever found. He should say it to you but he cowers each time. It feels more weighted than telling you that he loves you. 

“I know,” you whisper back eventually, eyes blinking open and your hands reaching for his belt. The metal clinks as you undo the buckle, a smug little grin on your face. 

“Alright, Han Solo,” he rolls his eyes for show and then moves over you, the devil in his eyes. He wipes his slick chin and lips on your face, making you laugh in the way that is enhanced by dopamine. He bumps his nose into yours, “Think you’re funny, huh?”

“Little bit,” you smile and get the fly open. You reach inside and wrap your fist around him, the playful air in the room settling immediately when you stroke him lazily, “But I’m just trying to get you to take your clothes off.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groans while you run your thumb over the slit of his dick, “You’re killing me. Gimme a sec of this.”

You give in and let him have this for a moment, stroking him with practiced flicks of your wrist until his hips start to rut so he can fuck your hand. He moans as he stares down between you, the muscles of his neck and shoulders wound so tight from trying not to come that it is a miracle his old bones haven’t snapped in half.

When you feel him near the edge, you squeeze around the base to halt his orgasm. You’ve started to breathe hard alongside him, clearly worked up by the sounds he is making for you. 

“Fuck me,” you beg him, your voice stutters as you frantically try using your free hand to yank his jeans down over his hips, “Please, Joel, I need you inside me.”

He thinks about how worked up you must be between your legs after holding out for so long. Knowing how wet you get from touching him like this, you must be soaked for him and ready to be taken care of like you deserve. It means that Joel doesn’t need to be told twice, already tugging his jeans and underwear just far down enough for what matters. 

However, despite the rush of getting undressed, he still takes the time to reach for one of the newly-fluffed pillows resting against the bed’s headboard. 

“Up,” he says without further explanation but you know what he wants to do, would probably trust him with your life even if he just gave you a look. When you lift your pelvis in the air without question, he slides the pillow underneath you so your hips are tilted just right for him to reach deep. 

Your legs are spread, your cunt practically served on a platter for him with how it is raised slightly in the air, squeezing around nothing as if begging for him. He looks down at your face as he runs the head of his cock through your folds, coating the very tip in a mix of precome and your shiny slick. 

You aren’t watching him though, too busy chewing on your bottom lip with your eyes glued to how the head of his cock sinks into your wet heat. When he starts stretching you with his thick girth, your mouth falls open in a soft moan. 

He places a hand just above your mound, holds you there while he bottoms out with a growl. Then he rocks his hips once then twice, setting up a pace that gives the both of you time to indulge in each other. You are snug around his dick as he fucks you, slick heat that makes his skin tingle and his breath stutter. The remnants of a southern gentleman in him know that he shouldn’t compare, but no other woman has ever made him unravel so much during sex, has ever made him feel so powerful and powerless in bed. 

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he demands to regain some form of control, staring down at your face contorted with pleasure. 

“You,” you gasp feebly, “It’s yours.”

When he fucks you like this, you are his. He doesn’t need to second guess this fact, knows it just from the way your bodies are connected like they know it too. 

He reaches for your thighs, his knuckles going white as he lifts them onto his hips. You lock around him by instinct and force him forward, so he has to brace himself with a hand beside your head. The angle makes him go deeper, the thick head of his cock kissing at your cervix and your greedy cunt flutters like it wants to do the impossible and pull him further in. 

“Look at me,” he says in a voice that reveals just how good you feel to him, watches the way your tits bounce with each thrust, “Say it like you mean it.”

You stare up into his eyes, your brows furrowed as the tip of his cock drags along the front of your walls. He is in there deep, focused on coming just where it matters. Meanwhile, you have to concentrate on forming words, needing to start over several times with how close you are to babbling.

“It’s– ah, fuck. It’s your pussy, Joel. I’m yours,” you cry for him, your pitch close to, but not quite, the one of a wounded animal. The difference is the lack of hesitation; you are both so sure of each other that it makes him ache all over and ignore the sweaty strain on his old back. 

Your hands scramble to touch him but you make a noise of complaint when his chest is covered by his shirt, the barrier a nuisance when you want all of him. He shed the flannel earlier along with his jacket, but right now, it is the soft fabric of his t-shirt that you’re pulling at to get to his skin. 

He dips down to let you pull it over his head, it slipping down his arm unceremoniously until he can grab it with his fist and toss it over his back. Your trembling hands find his skin immediately and it makes you sigh with relief. Your nails drag through the hairs on his chest, leaving red streaks in their wake until you grab the flesh of his sides. 

He sees how your eyes roam over his torso, where scars tell stories of a life much more complicated than this. You have loved each one of them so many times that he doesn’t feel insecure about them anymore, have traced them with your fingers and kissed them enough to get him to believe that he is more than the events that brought them. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you say softly and settle a hand at the back of his neck, drawing him into your arms. He braces himself on his forearms, kisses you like he isn’t inside of you, and has missed you for a weeklong patrol, still taken aback when you say things like that. 

“Sweet girl,” he whispers against your lips and you whimper as his cock pulses inside of your body. You look at him with fiery love and lust, the stare so intense he knows that this will be over soon because he can’t hold back anymore. 

His next thrusts are slower but rougher, harder and insistent in touching the parts inside you that make you barrel towards the edge. He can feel the difference between all the other times he’s been buried in your cunt to the hilt and this time. While the air is still thick with labored breaths and whispered cries for a higher power he doesn’t know if he believes, this is not just sex; this is about taking the very best parts of you and mixing them with the leftover parts of him that he has found aren’t fatally broken because of you. 

The sound of his name pulls him back to you. His pelvis has aligned with yours with each rock of his hips, the spot just above the base of his cock grinding into your twitching clit. 

“I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna come,“ you choke on air, “Please, Joel. Don’t stop, baby.”

“I know, honey,” he moans at the way you flutter around his length, voice cracking at how you feel better than a Texan summer. You’re so wet it sounds filthy when he fucks you, barely pulling out anymore and letting you soak his dick while he switches to simply grinding. For a moment, he is even scared that it’ll set him off before you’ve had your second fill, “Jesus, yeah, I can feel it.” 

Your orgasm hits like a runaway train. The hand resting on the back of his neck slides down to squeeze his shoulder, fingers denting his skin as you seek something to cling onto in your state of ecstasy. You come so hard that air is knocked out of him from how tightly your cunt grips him, his whole body shuddering like he’s the one losing it.

He presses a lingering kiss to your gorgeous neck while your head is thrown back, feeling the rapid beats of your heart under his lips. Your free hand cradles him like you’re meant to be a mother already, making it irresistible for him not to inhale your scent of lavender from the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.  

“You feel too good, baby, ’m not gonna last,” he grits out against your sweat-slicked skin, his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“Don’t want you to last, want you to put a baby in me. Gimme a baby, Joel,” you beg him and bury your nose in his temple. You squeeze him tighter in your arms, whining from oversensitivity as his thrusts start to intensify toward the end, “Wanna make you a daddy, baby, please, I’m ready.”

Daddy. The word coming from your mouth makes Joel snap. He pushes his hips against yours and comes with a groan, the head of his cock flush against the very back of your cunt. In his life, he has witnessed wildfires and his climax spreads through his lower belly just as fast. His breath is stuck in his lungs as he fills you to the brim, his tongue wanting to say filth but only your name comes out. It’s good enough to make a grown man tremble without remorse in the embrace of his woman. 

After a beat, his body sags from exhaustion. When you let go of his shoulder to run your hand over your hair, your nails have created little crescent marks on his body. He grunts as he rolls off of you in fear of crushing you underneath his weight. You whimper at the loss, a few heavy drops of his seed landing on the pillow still beneath your hips. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs as a haze settles over the both of you, the sweat on his skin turning slightly chilly. He holds his arm out to invite you into the space that always holds you perfectly and you oblige without a word. He’d lay here forever with you if he had to, would embrace being trapped here with you until they had to send out a search party. 

He is still breathing hard when you lay your head on his chest, draping your arm across his body whose stamina isn’t what it used to be. You don’t comment on it though, simply hold him while the sheets get dirty again from the mess between your thighs. While the world fades away around you, Joel decides that he’ll help you do the extra load of laundry. 

Without thinking, his fingers absentmindedly start tracing up and down your forearm in a soothing motion. You swing a tired leg over his body in response, attempting to get impossibly closer despite already practically melting together with him in the post-orgasmic heat you share. 

Outside, a young child shrieks with excited laughter and Joel nearly tears up from how new the sound seems even though it is a daily occurrence in the little town. He must know if you feel the same. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks and breaks the quiet, still caressing your arm gently. 

“Just thinking,” you reply and splay your hand on his chest, brushing your thumb over his nipple without thinking. You kiss him where you can reach. 

“About?” He pushes, looking down at the top of your head as if he can read your emotions like that. You probably could with him. 

You crane your neck to stare at him with a little tired smile, “Babies. You. How much I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” he answers smugly, arching an eyebrow with a smile. He thinks another confession of his devotion might set his chest alight and right now, you don’t deserve to have his guilt winning.

“You asshole,” you dissolve into a burst of laughter while his smile turns wolfish, your body curling in on itself on top of his chest. He loves your laugh, the way you nearly snort and feel embarrassed by it. It makes him settle a hand on the base of your skull and drag you into the sort of kiss from a person who’s learning to trust joy again.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[flwrstqr]

✧ ENHYPEN WHEN THEY CHECK YOU OUT ╰—— "𝗂'𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾"

𝑜𝑓 · 𝖲𝖧𝖮𝖶𝓉𝖨𝖬𝖤 ⦂ bf!enhypen x f!r 17OOwc. ── est relationship, skinship, slightly suggestive ｡｡ ⠀fluff ✦ 𝓒ATALOGUE ♡ ◞

 DANi : hope you guys enjoy (> <)

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚 heeseung’s gaze lingers a little too long, a playful smirk tugging at his lips when he catches you looking back. “what? can’t a guy admire his gorgeous baby?” he teases. his hand finds its way to your waist, thumb brushing lightly against your side as he pulls you a fraction closer. “you know, you’re making it really hard for me to focus when you look this good,” he murmurs. he chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “seriously, angel, how am i supposed to keep my cool when you’re out here looking like that?” he winks.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚 jay’s fingers tap lazily on the steering wheel as he drives, the soft hum of the car filling the space between you. every now and then, you catch him glancing your way, but this time, his gaze lingers longer, shamelessly trailing over your face, down to your lips, and then back up again. “you’re really something else, you know that?” he murmurs, voice low but warm, like it’s a thought that slipped out. his free hand reaches over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the soft brush of his fingers against your skin, “how am i supposed to focus when you’re sitting there looking like that, princess?” he grins, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. the way he looks at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡 jake leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you fix your hair in the mirror for the third time. “you’re really trying to knock everyone out tonight, huh?” he teases. when you turn to look at him, he gives an exaggerated whistle, his eyes flickering over your outfit before settling on your face with a mischievous grin. “damn, babe, are you sure you’re not trying to ruin me tonight? ‘cause i don’t think i’ll survive seeing you like this all night.” he pushes off the doorframe and walks over, adjusting the strap of your outfit. “you know,” he adds, tilting his head with a playful smirk, “you might wanna take it easy on the rest of the crowd. i’m already struggling, and they haven’t even seen you yet.”

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡 sunghoon’s hand rests on your waist as the two of you wait for the elevator, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against the fabric of your dress. you’re too busy fixing your lip gloss in the reflection of your phone to notice the way his gaze lingers, flickering over you from head to toe. “you’re really trying to make it hard for me to focus tonight, huh?” he says, voice smooth, though the slight hitch at the end betrays him. when you glance up at him, raising an eyebrow, he only smirks, playing it off like he isn’t the least bit affected. “what?” he shrugs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple. “just saying, baby, you look so good it’s distracting.” the doors open, and he guides you inside.

𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗢𝗢 sunoo’s gaze is anything but subtle, eyes flickering up and down as a small, mischievous grin tugs at his lips. “looking good, baby,” he hums, leaning in close enough for his breath to tickle your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you do this on purpose, don’t you?” he teases, tilting his head to get a better look at you, eyes shining with playful affection. his hand slides down to give your fingers a gentle squeeze. “can’t blame me for staring when you look that good,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before pulling away with a wink. “come on, we’ve got places to be — unless you wanna stand here and let me admire you all day.”

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡 jungwon notices it before you do — the way a few passing glances linger on you just a little too long. his jaw shifts, but instead of saying anything, he quietly shrugs off his jacket. “here, love,” he says softly, draping it over your shoulders with gentle hands. “not ‘cause you don’t look perfect,” he adds quickly, lips quirking into a small smile as he adjusts the collar for you. “you just look too good, and i’d rather keep that all to myself,” he says with a playful tilt of his head. his fingers brush against your arm before slipping into your hand, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “ready to go, pretty girl?” he asks.

𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜 riki leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and a stupid grin plastered on his face as he checks you out. “who are you trying to impress, baby?” he drawls. you roll your eyes, smoothing the fabric down and refusing to meet his gaze. “shut up, riki. maybe i just want to look good for myself.” he chuckles, pushing off the frame and walking over to you, his hands casually resting on your waist. “uh-huh, sure. it’s definitely not for that guy who looked at you last week.” you glare at him through the mirror, smacking his hand lightly. “you’re insufferable.” he just grins wider, dipping his head to brush his nose against your temple. “and yet, here you are, stuck with me. lucky, huh?” you groan, but the warmth in your smile gives you away.

[sevsevteen]

Being the only girl in an all-male group wasn’t just physically exhausting - it was emotionally taxing too.

There were moments you felt like you had to work twice as hard just to be seen, moments when ypu quietly stepped aside when the boys shared laughter about things you couldn’t quite relate to, and moments swallowed by your own tears just so no one else would feel burdened.

But you was observant.

If not talking, you were watching. Listening. Learning.

Over the years, you picked up on things that no one else noticed.

You knew Seungcheol hated the silence after an argument - it reminded him of his own pressure as a leader. So you’d hum quietly while folding towels or play a silly video loud enough for him to hear when things got too still.

You knew Wonwoo comforted himself with routine. So when he was upset, you'd nudge his favorite mug into his hands and sit beside him without a word, letting him talk only if he wanted to.

Hoshi needed to move when he was overwhelmed, so you’d tug him into the practice room and dance with him, no matter how tired you were. Even if it was just ridiculous jumping around until both of you were breathless with laughter.

Jeonghan needed reassurance - not in words, but in effort. So you’d help him brush out his hair, straighten his jacket or fix his mic, quietly showing him that you always had his back.

No one really asked you to do any of this. You just… learned. Because while it wasn’t easy being the only girl, these boys were your family.

But knowing them inside and out could also have it's own disadvantages - especially when the others couldn't see what you saw daily. There was a sense of responsibility you held to keep the members grounded, and sometimes things just won't work out.

Just like today,

The practice room was louder than usual. Laughter echoed off the mirrored walls as the members collapsed over one another, teasing Minghao about a behind-the-scenes clip that had gone viral.

“Come on, you were kind of stiff,” You watched Seungkwan chuckle, nudging Minghao with his shoulder.

“Stiff?” Soonyoung snorted. “Let’s just replay it, shall we? For educational purposes.”

The video played again - Minghao in rehearsals, looking a bit off-beat and dazed, clearly tired. The laughter grew louder, piling on, but you sat at the edge, smile fading.

Minghao laughed too, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He kept his head slightly down, jaw tight, and though the corners of his lips were curled, you could see his fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie—an old habit you knew well.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you said softly.

“Relax, it’s just a joke,” Vernon waved off, still grinning.

“No, really. It’s enough.” Your voice was firmer this time.

You stood, looking directly at them. “He’s tired. He’s been practicing just as hard as everyone else.”

The room went a little quieter, tension flickering in the air. But before anyone could say more, Minghao stood abruptly, grabbing his water bottle.

“I’m gonna get some air,” he said, still smiling, but his voice was rough—like he was holding something back.

The door clicked shut behind him.

No one moved.

You let out a quiet breath, staring at the door.

“You didn’t have to snap,” someone mumbled.

“I didn’t. But he did.”

And that silence? It said everything. Because they all knew she was right.

Behind a joke, sometimes there’s a line—and tonight, they crossed his.

-

[gojosk]

The look of love

\\Synopsis— It’s slowly getting harder and harder for Megumi to get you out of his head..

\\ This is my first fic so sorry if it’s kinda bad

No matter what, Megumi just couldn’t get you out of his head.

All he knows is he’s scared annoyed. Why did you always seem to bother him? Even if you aren’t near him, you’re still bothering him.

He could feel his face heat up slightly when you move near him, and it’s hell when Itadori or Kugisaki notices. Sometimes he wishes you weren’t so oblivious.

Like one day, you were sitting in the courtyard with Itadori, laughing about something stupid—something that wasn’t even funny—but your smile made it unbearable.

He can remember Itadori’s words. “Just tell her; the worst she can say is no!”

He wishes it was that easy.

He knew it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just being kind, like always. Laughing too loud. Sitting too close. Looking at him like you didn’t see the way his whole body locked up when you smiled.

And Megumi hated it.

Hated that he noticed everything. That he cared.

He hated that when you said his name, just casually in conversation, it echoed in his head like a curse.

He hated how he wanted to hear it again.

You noticed how he’d ignore you. Always did. You never understood why though. Did you do something?

Until one day, your curiosity peaked, you just had to ask him..

“Fushiguro.” You spoke.

Megumi froze.

He knew that voice like a reflex. He didn’t even need to turn around—you always said his name the same way. Steady. Like you weren’t afraid of him, even when he wanted you to be.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” You sighed out, staring right at him, waiting for him to look at you.

He blinked, then turned to face you slowly, careful to keep his expression blank.

“No, I haven’t.”

“You absolutely have.”

You stepped closer. Not accusing. Just… curious. And Megumi hated how that was worse.

“You used to at least pretend to listen when I talked. Now you just look like you’re bracing for impact every time I say hi.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Megumi.”

That was the problem. You never said his name like everyone else did. No sarcasm, no weight. Just… gently.

And it made his chest feel like it was about to fold in on itself.

“I’m not mad,” you said, tilting your head. “I just want to know if I did something wrong.”

That—that made him flinch.

“You didn’t,” he said, his voice low, almost annoyed. “You’re not the problem.”

You gave a tiny smile at that, like you’d heard more than he meant to say.

“So what is?” you asked with a slight tilt of your head, like you’re trying to figure him out.

He looked away. Shadows stirred faintly under his feet. “I don’t know.”

“Liar.” You scoffed, but left it at that. And just like that, you left him again—walking away with that damn smile, the one that kept showing up in his dreams.

Megumi ran a hand through his hair and stared at the spot you’d just been.

You weren’t the problem.

You never were.

He just didn’t know how to look at you without giving himself away.

[fairestwriting]

Hii! I love your writing! Not sure if you did this yet, but could I get headcanons of what Leona, Jamil, Vil, and Lilia would call their s/o? (Other than herbivore on Leona’s part) Thank you so much <3

THANK YOU!!! this is a little (just a little) different from the way i usually write hcs but i hope you like ittt

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

Leona didn’t really intend for it to be his personal nickname for you or anything, but yeah, Herbivore does stick — at least for a while — and yeah, he’ll still use it even if you’re also a beastperson, regardless of what you truly are. He actually thinks it’s extra funny to use it if it doesn’t suit you.

The nicknaming is going to evolve with time, though. He does like using the occasional baby or babe, just casually, and probably not in public, but it won’t be the main thing he’ll call you. His preference very much is in giving you a specific, fitting nickname. Something no one else could call you, at least not in the way he does.

Since he’s started out with Herbivore, he’s most likely to keep following that animal theming route. It feels right, anyway. He’ll think about it, going through many, many working titles until he finds something that feels perfectly customized. It’s a significant amount of time until he just springs your brand new nickname on you, grinning all proud of himself... And after that day, that’s basically your second name.

𐙚 Jamil Viper

Jamil likes using your first name, and he’ll mostly stick to that. When you’re around others, it’s basically a given that he won’t be calling you darling or sweetheart or anything like that, since he prefers to keep your relationship away from the prying eyes of strangers. PDA is just not his thing, and it will never really be.

Part of why he sticks with using just your even in private is just the comforting familiar feel of it, but he also does genuinely love your name. If you listen closely, you’ll notice that the way he says it now is just a little different from how he said it before you got together…

On the rare occasion he calls you something other than your name, you can pretty much be sure it’s always going to come after a ”my”. Something like my love or my dear, which, fittingly, is more likely to slip out when he’s feeling more possessive than usual. But it’s pretty much reserved for that, plus whenever he’s comforting you for any somewhat serious reason. If you ask him to say it more often, he gets all flustered.

𐙚 Vil Schoenheit

Like Jamil, he also really enjoys using just your first name, said in this way that’s just slightly softer than how he says everyone else’s names. What distinguishes them is that Vil does that intentionally, in this specific way that’s clear enough for you to maybe pick up on, but not everyone else.

He really does like using petnames in private though. Vil is a little hesitant at first, because he’s definitely said the words before in some production he acted in. He didn’t think much of it then, they were just words for him— But now that he’s doing it for real, he can’t help but notice just how different it feels. He knew it would feel different, he just wasn’t expecting it to feel that intimate…

In these moments, he finds himself being particularly fond of the more domestic-sounding kind. Honey is a common one, darling is used but a bit less so, it’s mostly for when he’s feeling particularly affectionate. Silently expects you to return the gesture, but it still makes him blush a little whenever you do.

𐙚 Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia brings out the petnames pretty early on. Just around the time when he realizes his interest in you, which comes with the decision that now, his flirting is going to be intentional. The first one he uses will probably be something simple, easy to sprinkle into his usual speech, like dear.

He kind of likes the more “ambiguous” sounding names— That kind of stuff you might hear from the nice old lady who lives down your street. Hun and sweetie are other two favorites of his. Needless to say, he not only keeps it up even after you two start dating, but also specifically focuses on using whatever gets him the biggest reactions from you.

Despite having clear favorites, though, his approach to petnames is almost like he’s going down a list. One day you’re love, then the next you’re sweetheart. He likes to switch it up, see how you like different names, how you react to them. Very much encourages you to return the gesture, and if you do, he’ll copy whatever petname you call him, so you two match.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[gldrushh]

GUILTY AS SIN? | JK | PART 𝐈𝐈

"Jungkook remembered how to make his feet stay put and you learned that some things are worth the mess, that love sometimes comes too late, but longing never does."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut, fluff

→W.C 17.10k

→ Warnings oc is going through it, Jungkook is a flirty menace, ceo jk, lovesick jk, simp jk, possessive Jungkook, jealous Jungkook, rich people lunch time!!, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of drinking, yoongi makes an appearance, he has no lines, namjin, yearning?, bathroom escapdes, silly banter, sexual tension kissing, making out, explicit sexual content, fingering, an almost handjob, penetrative sex, dirty talking, soft Dom jk, praising, creampie, bathroom sex, fluff (you don't even wanna know my definition of fluff), hoseok is a victim, minho is haunting the narrative as he should, angst (sorry girls It’s my brand 😝), doomed siblings

→ Playlist dress by Taylor swift, I can't be more in love by the 1975, in the woods somewhere by hozier, I can see you by Taylor swift, last words of a shooting star by mitski

→A/N Hii! Hello!! First things first: THANK YOU. Like, thank you in all caps lock. The love you all poured into Guilty as Sin honestly made me giggle to myself more than once. Every comment, message, share, and heart, It meant the absolute world to me. You’ve made this messy little story so much more than just words. You made it matter. And it was just so disrespectful of me to keep you waiting so long for a part 2 that wasn't really in my plans but yeah. Life got a little too unbearable, the plot bunnies misbehaved (you know how they are). But I really hope it’s worth the wait and not me just reheating my own nachos 😅😅 This is also most probably the last thing I'm gonna write for this story, at least for a long while. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being patient and most importantly,thank you for being kind. I love you and please do let me know your thoughts. Message me. Tell your plants. I'm all ears.

| PART 1 | PART 2 |

Mellow is the companion of church. Some would conclude that the church is composed for the quiet even.

They'd argue that it's different from sitting in the silence.

Silence is one thing and quiet is another. silence is an absence, they'd say. Quiet is presence, they'd add. Here more precisely, it's heavy and arcadian and holy.

There was something about the air inside here. Perhaps the solemn, how it was colossal, drenched in allegiance that made the world outside feel far-flung. It could be the height of the towering arches, the glow of candlelight flickering against stained glass, the low murmur of prayers threading through the smother.

The light is softer here too, filtered through the glass. Deadwood of crimson and gold painting benches and pressed shoulders. Candle flames sway slightly, flickering like they know secrets. Maybe they remember everyone who ever sat here in search of something they couldn't name.

You tell yourself this stillness is what you needed. That this space; sacred and slow would help clear your head. But the truth is, the quiet here doesn’t comfort. It exposes. Peels you open from the inside out.

You hear too much in it. Feel too much in it.

Even on days when you could still hear easy synchronicity. Hands clasped, laughter spilling into the cool air. Especially on days like these.

Or maybe you're mixing that up with something else. Something that has been coloring your days blue for a while now.

Something that doesn't pauses for holidays, doesn't make exceptions for birthdays, doesn't even bother to step aside for just one evening and let one breathe.Does not give way to leaded glass windows or the allay of a congregation. No, it lingers, seeps into places meant for worship, curls around the edges of pews and prayers alike. Certainly doesn’t soften on afternoons like these. Even though the flowers hadn’t wilted.

You hadn’t given it much thought.

Or rather, you had avoided thinking about it altogether.

Perhaps that is why, sitting here now—hands folded neatly in your lap, shoulders drawn tight—yet you feel it, heavy as ever.

Your mother-in-law had insisted you come, refusing to leave you alone, her soft-spoken request leaving little room for refusal. Mira had chimed in too, linked her arm through yours with a smile that tried to coax you back into the land of the living, or like she was letting you in on some joke only the two of you shared.

And so, here you were.

Church had never been a place you frequented, even when Minho was alive—he hadn't been particularly devout, preferring to spend bargaining his way through the sunday market and believing in the way the sky could shift from blue to violet in the span of a single evening—though you both had come when his mother had asked you to, of course, had sat beside him in these very pews, but never like this.

Not without him whispering some irreverent joke about heaven’s waiting list, about how maybe angels got bored too.

But now, you found yourself here more often.

If only because there was no reason not to because what waited you was a quiet apartment, a neatly made bed you hardly slept in and a day untouched by plans, by purpose, by anything remotely significant.

Also because you thought he wouldn’t be here.

Your mother-in-law had told you he wouldn’t be able to make it, had mentioned something about work, something about how he's not big on religion, much like his brother and oh, how you’d clung to those words. Let them blanket your nerves in fragile relief. One more hour. One more day of—knowing you wouldn’t have to see him today, that you could go on one more moment pretending you weren't aware of the inevitable, that you weren't unraveling at the seams every time you so much as thought about him.

That, that's why you had been skirting around him.

Maybe not consciously. At least, that’s what it looked like (You knew. Deep down, you knew.) But ever since that night—God, you really don't want to think about that or him in front of.. God without feeling like you're going to burst in flames. But its not exactly easy.

Not here, where the quiet literally wangles you into the deepest darkest of your thoughts. Thoughts that you're sure would.

Because the quiet here curls around your memories like smoke, drawing them out from where you’d hidden them. It coaxes them up your throat and behind your ribs until they’re a dull, burning pressure you can’t shake off.

You shift slightly in the bench. Mira breathes beside you, soft and steady. You press your palms flat against your lap, grounding yourself.

It hardly works. Especially not when he arrives. That strange, electric knowing. Like the air knows him. The space is an old convenient accquitance and adjusts around him.

The low creak of a door, the faintest hush falling over those nearest the back.

Late, quiet, slipping into the back like a ghost who had learned how to walk among the living, embodying every bit of the word 'handsome' in the most tailored of ways. Hair laid out in perfect symmetry. A ironed, muted blue suit hugging every bit of his perfect posture. Eyes so probing, so demanding of attention that you wonder why you ever got confused when everyday a new number of girls would approach you at school, especially at university for his number.

Then he had just been your doe eyed friend who you wanted to spare from heartbreaks. Not aware of the term-"heartbreaker" that had been given to him. Ironic, really.

Now you feel like you understand. You feel like you sense him before you see him. Sense every bit of his presence that you maybe had overlooked before. A shift in the air, the faintest murmur of acknowledgment rippling through the congregation.

Both Mrs Jeon and Mira are turned towards the figure, thier expression brightening in recognition, waving small hands at the figure that is approaching your way, pulse quickening with the footsteps.

No.

He said he doesn't do church.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t sit—

The soft creak of the seat behind you made your breath hitch.

The older woman only smiled, a pleasant suprise. For her, atleast. "Jungkook-ah! You came! Oh, how lovely!"

She's sure the reason is that he is finally letting divinity in, you're sure you're losing yours.

You don’t turn but Mira does as she shifts beside you, knees bumping against yours to smile in greeting. Saying something about how her husband should learn a thing or two from him and give this a try, accompany her once in a while. A deep, warm chuckle in reply hits you square in the back of your head and your shoulders tense.

Low, rich, like warm amber poured over ice.

It lands like a bruise.

Pulses through, that gives away just how real and impossible and close it is.

You swallow hard, keeping your eyes downcast, determined not to react any more. You fix your gaze on the marble altar, on the golden flicker of votive candles.He’s behind you. Of course he is.

Because where else would he be, if not the one place you prayed he wouldn't?

Even as the sermon continued, voices rising in unison for prayer, you could barely hear them, could barely not feel your dirtiest secret behind you, close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you might brush against him.

The service moves forward, and you try to focus. You try to listen. Tried to will your ears to listen, to stay anchored in psalms and promises and the choir’s distant swell. Just get through this.It couldn’t possibly be so difficult. No one knows. No one suspects a thing. The polished congregation kneels and stands with pedriocity and faith, unaware that your spine was stiff with a secret, that your breath refused to calm. Only you knew. Only he does. And that truth grips your tounge so hard there’s no way it’s ever slipping past your mouth.

But then a touch happens. As if maneuvering. A whisper of movement behind you, so faint it could just be the atoms you are made of shifting, a trick of your mind.

Light. Fleeting. Not direct. Not quite.

Just the faintest brush of fingertips against the ends of your hair that spilled over your shoulders, the softest, most cursory pull. Just a teasing pass, like he’s testing the silk of it between thumb and forefinger. There’s a pause, then the strand is gently looped once, slow and idle, as though he’s turning it over in thought.

Then released.

You freeze because what even is happening?

The answer to that is that it happens again. A lazy twirl of a strand, a slow release of the said strand.

Not enough for anyone to notice. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for you to feel it. Enough to make your skin prickle, your heartbeat stutter. He's been doing a lot of that recently.

You shift in your seat, pressing your hands tighter into your lap, back rod-straight, lungs stuck in a breath that wouldn’t come. The sensation was too distinct now, too exact to mistake.

It doesn’t stop. Another strand. A drag of fingertips. A near-caress.

What the fuck is he doing?

You don’t turn. You don’t react when you should have thrown him a warning glance—but that would mean acknowledging him. That would mean facing him.

And you didn’t know how to look him in the eye and not think about it.

His mouth. His devouring, worshipping mouth. The dammable sound of your name said like orison and profanity.

Didn’t know how to hear his voice and not remember the way how his lips shaped against your skin. Venal. Hungry.

Didn't know how not to follow the tattoos that ran through his sleeve and pretend that you haven't took your time exploring them. Aversly. Teasingly.

Didn’t know how to feel the weight of everything you weren’t supposed to want pressing down on you like a second heartbeat.

The way he had tugged your shirt up with reverence and bitten down like he wanted to leave a mark not even salvation could scrub away.

Do not react.

Do not move.

But he kept going. And the sermon blurred.

Gods, you were going to burn. You were going to hell. And he'd be there already, waiting with his hands in your hair.

When the sermon concludes, you stand too quickly, push your hair forward and Mira shoots you a look, her fingers grazing your wrist in question. You shake your head, offering her a quick, brittle smile before stepping toward the exit. You walked. Out of the stall. Out of the building. Out of your goddamn mind.

To your relief—you were still a perfectly coordinated bundle of cells when you were out. The sun hit you outside, sharp and sudden, dragging long shadows over the stone steps. You sucked in fresh air like someone who had been underwater too long.

The relief lasted long enough until Jungkook spoke under the sun casting long shadows against the stone steps. “I’ll drive.” Voice cutting through the polite chatter.

“Oh, that would be great, dear. Y/N, Mira, come on.” Your mother-in-law, oblivious, beamed, completely unaware that you had just spent forty-five minutes debating if setting yourself on fire in the house of God would be less painful than what had just happened.

The car ride should be easy.

It should be nothing. A short drive. A forgettable stretch of road between church and the Jeon family estate.

Should be.

But as you are pressed against the window, your coat bunched beneath you like a failed barrier, you want to either open the window for air or bolt from the moving car, with every inch of your skin crawling with awareness, tight and buzzing and flushed in ways that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The cabin is too quiet. Too warm. The low hum of the engine does nothing to drown out the sound of your heart, which feels like it’s beating directly into your throat.

And then there’s that scent again.

The scent of leather and something distinctly Jungkook curling in the closed space. A mix of his cologne—something dark and woodsy—and the faintest trace of laundry detergent, clinging to his shirt like it had no intention of leaving. It shouldn’t be so familiar, but it is. And that’s the problem.

“That sermon was lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Jeon’s voice is light, warm, like freshly baked bread. The kind of voice that belongs in a home, not a car filled with tension so thick it could choke you.

Mira hums in agreement beside you. “It was.”

You blink, only now realizing how little of the service you actually absorbed.

“Of course,” Mrs Jeon continues, turning slightly in her seat, eyes alight with something rebuke, “not everyone was paying attention.”

You tense, breath catching, even when the accusation isn’t aimed at you. You feel it anyway.

“What?” He finally speaks, voice even. A little hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like his vocal cords were dry from silence and prohibition.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know, Jungkook-ah." his mother huffs, shaking her head. “You join for the first time ever in a while, sit in the back, and then spend half the time looking like you didn’t even knew where you were." she finishes with a scolding tone.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, hand tightening against the steering wheel. He doesn't argue.

Because It did seem so.

Mira, ever the enabler, bites her lip to stifle a laugh, glancing at you with barely concealed amusement.

You do not look at Jungkook.

You absolutely do not.

Mrs. Jeon, unbothered by the quiet tension thickening in the car, continues, “You know who else was praying a little too hard?”

Silence. No one answers with whatever self preservation they have.

Not because they don’t want to. But because they know better.

Because when Mrs. Jeon starts on church gossip, there’s no stopping her because apparently it's what it's best for.

She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal something sacred. “Mrs. Kang.”

Mira gasps dramatically. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” A firm nod. “She was crying, dear. Again. Right in the middle of the third hymn.”

You blink. “Why?”

The older woman tsks, as if the answer should be obvious. “That husband of hers. You know how he is.”

You makes a thoughtful noise, tilting your head. “Didn’t he… move to Seoul?”

“Yes, but does distance stop a man from causing stress? I don’t think so.” You didn't think so too.

Jungkook exhales, long-suffering. “Why do you know all of this, eomma?”

His mother waves a hand dismissively. “Please, son. I hear things.”

Mira leans in. “Did she cry last week too?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeon replies. “But last week was because he didn’t call her for three days. This week, I believe he’s dating someone half his age.”

Mira sighs. “Men.”

You let out an involuntary snicker before you can help it. You don’t even know if it’s a real sound or something your soul exhaled out of disbelief.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing toward the front.

Because Jungkook’s eyes are on you.

Not on the road.

Not on his mother, who is still detailing the tragic love life of a woman you barely know.Not at the red light blinking in the distance.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, barely hooded, like he’s watching you and also thinking about the last time you were under him, gasping. Like maybe he’s remembering the way your nails looked against his neck. Or the way you said his name like a prayer, far more pledged than anything the pastor could conjure.

And every so often, you caught him.

The first time, you looked away immediately. The second time, you stared out the window so hard you gave yourself a headache. The third time, you stared back, even as something molten and dangerous simmers in the quiet between you.

His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary before shifting back to the road.

Every part of you was aware of him.

Of the way he adjusted his grip on the wheel. Of the way the veins along his forearm flexed when he turned. Of the way he never looked away fast enough.

Mira nudged you gently. “You okay?”

You nodded through the lie. "Fine."

Your mother-in-law again turned in her seat, smiling warmly. “I hope you’ll stay for lunch, Mira. We have invited the kims too. It’s been long overdue." The word ‘lunch’ doesn’t quite capture what’s waiting at the Jeon house.

Because it isn’t just lunch.

It’s crystal glassware, centerpieces too elaborate for a midday meal, and courses that require cutlery you don’t know how to use properly. It's a show that barely masks the subtle flex in it. A performance even, if you will, wrapped in linen napkins and wine pairings. And if you had to guess, this lunch isn’t just a friendly catch-up.

It’s Mrs. Jeon doing what she does best—playing politics with a smile. Maybe it’s her way of returning the favor after that party the Kims threw. Maybe she’s angling for something else entirely. But it’s definitely not casual.

She then adds as an afterthought. “We thought it would be nice to host something a little more intimate after such a wonderful service.”

“Oh, I’d love to.” Mira grins, relaxing against the seat. “Y/N, you up for it?”

You forced a small smile. “Uh-yeah. Yeah, of course!”

It’s automatic. Reflexive.

Because you can't say what you really want.

Which is to get out of the car.

To breathe. To clear the fog from your chest that smells like leather, and cologne, and fire.

From then, from the backseat, you had counted the moments until you could step into open air again and feel the crisp edge of early spring, the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming jasmine lacing through the quiet garden. The table was set beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak, where dappled sunlight filtered through on the delicate porcelain plates, silverware so polished it reflected the light, dishes, conversations lively and layered with subtext in the way rich families knew how to be.

You, too used to know the dance.

Used to let the brezzy hum of conversation wrap around you, used to nod along at the right moments, used to catch the way Minho would kick Jungkook under the table just to make him crack a smile.You remembered that.

Now, Mira sat beside you, her elbow jolting against yours as she reached for a serving spoon, her plate already filled to the edges.“Try this one,” she whispered, already loading her plate still like she hadn’t eaten in days. And then there was Yoongi—her husband—sitting with a plate he barely touched, scrolling through something on his phone until Mira shot him a look. He cleared his throat and slid it away.

Across from you, your mother-in-law delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin before resuming conversation about Mrs kang with a woman- namjoon's mother- who had grayer streaks in her hair that only painted the greater picture of elegance, her voice carrying that effortless ease of someone used to commanding a room. Someone who had enough money to command at all

Then there's Jungkook who sits two chair away from you, separated by separated only by a stretch of linen and eating irons. Jungkook who could barely catch up to Namjoon's enthusiasm about his dad dying, something about the shifting board members, something that should require Jungkook’s full attention."And now that my father’s out, the balance is shifting," Namjoon said. “We’ve got a chance to pull things clean, finally. The new proposal’s solid.”

Especially when his father speaks. "You’ve seen the numbers, Jungkook," His deep voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “The deal’s been in discussion for months now. The board expects your response by next week.”

“I’ll look it over.” He acknowledged it with a slow nod.

"Not look over, son." His father’s tone was measured, but firm—the kind of voice that had always left little room for negotiation. "Confirm."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, setting his wine down. "I won’t confirm anything without making sure it’s solid first."

He pauses. A glance. His father’s sharp gaze flickered over him, assessing. Not questioning—no, never questioning. Because Jungkook had earned his place, had spent years proving himself, had molded himself into the kind of son his father could rely on, because Minho never did.

Not that Minho ever needed to. Not that he ever wanted to.

Jungkook had understood that early on. That Minho had been different. That Minho’s place had always been elsewhere—with paint on his fingers and art in his head, with you curled into his side, laughing in a language he had willed himself to forget. And so it had fallen to him.

And Jungkook—Jungkook hadn’t minded. Not really.

Not when he could see the relief in Minho’s eyes every time their father skipped over him in business conversations, every time he looked at him liked he had birthed a catastrophe. Ambition morphed into inheritance and starry eyes jaundiced. Jungkook realized that this was what he was born for. That his older brother was a fool for denying everything that had been laid on a silver platter for him.

And because it had been easier than actually admitting that maybe he wasn't a fool at all. That maybe it wasn't the legacy he was born for.

Because every waking moment he finds himself tangled in the thoughts about what was right in front of him.

It had been days, yet it remained, stitched into him like something permanent—like the ink on his skin, like the weight of his own name.

It wasn’t just the memory of it. Not just the way you had felt beneath him, the way his name had left your lips in shuddering breaths. It was everything else—the before, the after. The way you had looked at him, wide-eyed and hesitant in the dim light of that unfamiliar room, as if realizing for the first time that he was capable of something like this. That he had spent years knowing, wanting.

Jungkook, who had spent years perfecting restraint, found himself breaking under the weight of it at only the sight of you that brought the memory of the night where he pretended you were his, like fever rushing through.

Because you would not look at him.

Because your eyes had skimmed past him all afternoon, slipping over him like he was nothing, like he hadn’t once been pressed against you, groaning into your skin.

And fuck if it didn’t drive him insane.

His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white as he brought the wine to his lips, stealing glances of you reaching for a pitcher of water at the same time as Mira, your fingers brushing, the smallest of startled laughs escaping you.

Soft. Effortless. Rivaling the intoxicity of the drink in his hand. He couldn't remember when it was the last time he heard it, only the withdrawals that came with it.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, setting down his glass before he did something reckless—before he let himself stare too long, let his thoughts slip into something visible, something impossible to ignore.

And then, as if the universe were intent on pushing him closer to the edge—you left, something he used to be best at.

You pushed back your chair, the scrape of wood against stone barely registering above the conversation which started with Mrs Kim going- “I should probably head home soon,” she said. "Joon's father probably running the househelp ragged by now.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh beside Jungkook, reaching for the hand resting on his thigh. “Let him. Maybe they’ll finally get him to stop redecorating the library every three months.”

Seokjin, seated beside him, shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll burn the place down and finally have an excuse to build that ‘modern masterpiece’ he’s been threatening to commission.”

Mrs. Kim sighed, exasperated but fond. “I wouldn't put it past him. He’s been threatening that ‘modern masterpiece’ since 2003.”

Mrs. Jeon clapped her hands together. “Oh, nonsense. Stay for tea at least. Mr Kim will be fine. Yoongi, you’ll take another pour, won’t you? Y/N, dear, why don’t you grab the set from the kitchen?”

"Of course. I'll be right back." you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to catch, save for the ones listening too closely. Save for him.

Jungkook watched as you stepped away, disappearing through the doors of the house, something tightening in his chest.

The moment his hand closed around the stem of his glass again, Jungkook knew what he was about to do.

Would it be too obvious? Too stupid?

He doubted it.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. But as his grip tightened and the glass stem cracked beneath his palm, sending shards of glass and a sharp jolt of pain through his hand, he felt something darkly satisfying settle in his chest.

The table fell silent.

And all eyes fell on him. "I-I'm sorry. I didn’t realize." He cleared his throat and started to rise up from his seat.

Namjoon, the closest to him, attempted to reach for his hand and he instantly flinched. Just because the wound was intentional, didn’t mean it didn't hurt.

"What the hell, Kook? Are you okay?"

“Its nothing,” he muttered, jaw clenched as he pressed his uninjured hand to his palm, watching the thin trickle of crimson bead against his skin.

“Jungkook?” His mother’s voice came next to break through the quiet, sharp and immediate, her chair scraping against the stone as she pushed back. “Oh my god—what were you thinking? Do you need me to—”

“No,” he cut in, firm but even, already standing. “I’ve got it.”

Seokjin, looked up from beside his boyfriend, a just as suprised and bewildered expression taking over his face. The same one that mimicked every other person's that sat around the table, with Mira looking like she was going to choke on her food as she met his eyes before her husband smoothed a hand down her back.

"Are you sure? You don’t need any hel—"

"I'm okay, hyung. I said I got it." He said it with perhaps too much irration shimmering beneath his words and the table fell silent again.

Jungkook ignored them all.

He was already moving.

Already following.

Through the hallway, past familiar frames on the wall.

He finds himself checking his reflection in one, taking note of his hair that seem tousled and runs a smooth hand over them.

He finds you in the kitchen.

The afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden lines across the marble counters, across the soft fabric of your dress. You stood with your back to him, your hands grasping something—kettle, tray? Don't know.

You just know that you feel him before you hear him like you always do, the weight of his presence shifting the air, settling around you like something impending. You pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re too preoccupied with the cups in your hands, as if arranging over the same sets of cups for the fourth time will make it any more legible. It’s pointless, really—You had always known Jungkook, even in silence.

“Gonna keep avoiding me?"

It’s not exactly a question.

Not accusing, but certain. Because yes, you have. Not because you’re angry, not because you regret it, but because it scares you how little you do.

You swallowed. Still not looking. “I’ve been busy.”

He drawls out. “Have you?"

That makes you look up.

By this time you should have realized that it's always a mistake when you do that.

Because he’s leaning against the counter, a hand tucked casually in his pockets, sleeves still rolled up, collar slightly undone. And he’s watching you.

Not like at the table, where his expression had been smooth, unreadable or like that one time where you had been exactly where you are now and he was exactly where he was. Just then, it had been the same illegible look.

Here, in this quiet, his eyes are darker. He looks at you like he knows.

Its in the way his gaze dips, taking you in and how the amber light fluidly danced across your hair that framed your guilty face. So fucking adorable. "So busy you won't even look at me."

You hated how your breath hitched. Hated how you had no answer that didn’t sound like a lie.

You forced a slow breath and placed the napkins in the space left in the tray. "I've had a lot to do."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No you didn't, Y/N."

You force yourself to move, to wrap your hands around the tray, to act as if this conversation isn’t happening. “What do you want me to say?”

Instead, he pushed himself off the wall and came closer, close enough that the warmth of him touched your spine, close enought that you could see everything—the way his jaw tightens, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers twitch at his sides and when he finally spoke, it was low, just for you.

"Tell me you don't hate me. I can't go on like that." Has no idea how he has done that for years and has no intention to relive that ever again. He's a buisness man now. Buisness men learn from their losses and never give up profit.

Heat curled in your stomach.

Minutes passed. Too many, too few.

And he waits. He’s patient like that. He always has been.

But your eyes were drawn to something else entirely.

His hand.

The sharp contrast of crimson against his skin, fresh and glistening, pooling at the edge of his palm before dripping onto the tiled floor in slow, schemed drops.

You inhaled sharply, setting the tray down with a quiet clatter, your pulse kicking up. “What the—Jungkook, what happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even glance at the wound. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on you, dark and unreadable, watching the way you reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist, your touch careful and instinctive. Maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea, he thinks.

You turned his palm over, assessing the damage. A deep cut, but nothing catastrophic. "You're bleeding."

His voice was slow, aforethought. “I noticed.”

Your head snapped up, irritation flickering behind your concern. “What do you mean, you noticed? Why didn’t you say anything? You should’ve��”

Your breath catches, shifting your weight, as he steps closer, the space between you dwindling.

You try to ignore it. Try to recoil from it. Try to do anything but this. Because you recognized it now. This wasn’t about his hand.

Not really.

Not when his gaze flickered down to your lips in that moment.

Not when his fingers twitched at his side, like he was waiting.

Not when the air between you suddenly felt too thick, too warm, too charged. Too much like that one hallway.

You swallowed, cursed under your breath and forced your eyes away from his wound to take hold of the abandoned tray. You didn’t trust yourself enough with his. With him.

He seemed to revel in that fact.

His fingers brushed against your wrist in protest, dwadling, intentional. His head leaned in, lips grazing the curve of your jaw, just the lightest touch, just enough to rattle the glasses on the tray, just enough to summon a maelstrom of sensations.

Your hand flexed beneath his grip, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside of it ceased to exist.

No. No. You reminded yourself of the straight stuff.

“Jungkook, let go. Everyone's ou—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Jungkook’s breath ghosts over your cheek, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of him—sylvan cologne, something faintly sweet—pulling you under, drowning you in it.

He turns you, presses you back against the counter. His eyes are dark, searching of the surroundings for a moment before they are back on you. Then, so is the unrelenting heat of his mouth, catching your lips with his, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to corrade you.

His lips moved against yours, insistent, beguiling you to open up, to give him what he wanted. Because it had been days. Days since he had his first taste. Days since you have deprived him off it.

And so you did.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling against the handle of trays, gripping, steadying yourself. He groaned at the way you responded, at the way you always responded, despite every calmour, despite every attempt to put distance between you.

You didn’t know who reached first, who needed more, who ached better—only that neither of you pulled away.

The kiss deepened, his uninjured hand slipping beneath the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging against your cheek, his teeth grazing against your bottom lip. The wounded one curled around your waist. You gasped at the contact—at the warmth of his blood seeping through the fabric of your dress, staining the pale church blue with sin. You felt it against your ribs, hot and sticky. You didn’t care. You whimpered into his mouth, heat pooling low in your stomach, and that was all it took to prouduce a low, guttural noise in his chest, his fingers flexing against your waist, gripping, needing, wanting

And suddenly, the counter is the only thing keeping you upright. Your mind is spinning, lost in him, lost in this, in the fact that this is happening—

Here.

Now.

Where anyone could walk in.

“Y/N?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook froze.

Your mother-in-law’s voice was distant but getting closer.

Your breath hitched, panic flaring in your chest, but before you could pull away, Jungkook caught you again.

Pressed his lips to yours, stealing another kiss, this one shorter, sharper, like a punishment, like he was branding you with it as if he hadn’t already stained you with his blood, making sure you’d feel it long after he let go.

But he didn’t.

“Please” he breathed against your mouth, he kisses you deeper, hungrier. He drinks you in like he’s been starving, like he wants to ruin you.

Like he already has.

His tongue brushed against yours, hot and sure, and your stomach twisted, heat

licking at your spine. “Tell me you don't."

A voice—your mother-in-law’s, calling your name grows closer and semblance slams into you like a freight train.

Yet Jungkook stands untouched, refusing to let go, refusing to understand what's he doing, how it could end.

"Jungkook, stop—mhmm—Mom's coming!"

Your resolve is slipping.

Falling.

Falling.

Gone.

And then, when you finally find your voice—

You don’t tell him to stop.

You whisper—breathless, aching, a confession and a surrender all at once.

“I don’t.”

Jungkook groans a curse and he's swift in the way he pulls away because it's only in a second away that another figure breezes into the space.

Your mother-in-law stands in the doorway, looking between you and Jungkook , her brows pinching in mild confusion.

“What was taking so long, dear?”

Jungkook is the first to move, straightening, rolling his shoulders back like nothing happened. Like his tounge wasn't down your throat.

You, though, find it hard to hide the compact it had on you. You're sure everyone in the room can hear how your heartbeats, can hear how it wants to get out of your constructing chest. Your wide blown pupils gaze roams everywhere and stops at the tray in your hands.

Yeah, right.

You start to speak. “I was just—”

But before you can finish with whatever you come up with, her eyes land on his still-bleeding hand that's making a mess on the once polished clean floors.

“Why haven’t you cleaned that up yet, Jungkook-ah?” she scolds, sighing. “You’re going to get an infection.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, and swips his tounge over his kiss bruised lips. “I was going to."

“I’ll help him, mom. Why don't you take this?” you blurt out, too quick, too loud.

Your mother-in-law’s eyes flicker to you. Something unreadable passes through them.

Then, after a long beat, she nods, smiling. “Youre a sweetheart, Y/N. I'll take this.”

She steps forward, plucks the tray from your hands, and turns toward the dining room without another word.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the weight of everything crashes into you.

Your pulse was still erratic, your lips tingling from his kiss, your hands shaking as you turned to him.

You whirled on Jungkook, eyes blazing at his audacity.

"What were you thinking?"

You wanted to kill him.

Your fingers curl into a fist before you can stop them, and you swat his chest, your palm colliding against solid muscle.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away.

And before you could yank off, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker down to meet yours, dark and knowing. His expression pleased. Deliciously so. Almost resembling the look that crossed over his face after he had made you come on his mouth for the second time, saying something along the lines of how he could stay buried—

Oh, shit. Uh, scratch that.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” you heave out.

His lips quirk. “Likewise.”

You inhale sharply, snatching your hand from his grip, grabbing his unsullied wrist instead.

“Shut up and come here.” you mutter, tugging him toward the hall.

Jungkook lets you drag him to the bathroom, silent, unresisting. He thinks if it's you he has to follow, he will, even to the ends of the world. Wherever you want.

For now it's the bathroom that was silent, except for the soft drip of the faucet and the sound of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. The space was impossibly small with him in it, the air thick with something that hadn’t dissipated even after your mother-in-law had nearly caught you both in the kitchen.

And the moment the door closes behind you.

You realize two things.

One: His hand is still shaking, still bleeding, still a mess of raw skin and recklessness.

And two: You really don’t trust yourself to be alone with him.

Yet you always found yourself in closed rooms. Closed bathrooms, for this instant. Only places you can afford being this close.

You turned the tap, watching as the water rushed down, steam curling into the air. Jungkook stood behind you, leaning against the sink, his injured hand still cradled in his other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, tendons shifting beneath inked skin as he flexed his fingers experimentally.

The sight shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it did.

“You’re a idiot." you muttered again, reaching for the first aid kit tucked behind the mirror cabinet.

Jungkook hummed, the sound deep, amused. "So, I've been told."

You turned, finally looking at him, and immediately regretted it. Because he was watching you. Again. Not passively, not carelessly—but like he was memorizing something, like he was still thinking about the way you had whispered I don’t against his lips only minutes ago.

Your throat tightened. You gestured toward the sink. “Hand. Under the water.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, his head tilted slightly, a slow smirk ghosting at the edges of his lips. “That an order, angel?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could make another smart remark, forcing his injured hand under the warm stream. He hissed at the contact, fingers twitching, but otherwise didn’t complain. Blood swirled in the sink, a diluted pink that spiraled down the drain.

You repeated, biting the inside of your cheek. “What were you even thinking?”

Jungkook’s voice was ceaseless, unfaltering. “That I wanted you alone.”

Your hands stilled, fingertips just barely brushing against his palm. His words lingered between you, weaving into the steam, settling into your bones.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted his hand out of the water, watching as droplets slid down his fingers, over the sharp lines of his knuckles. The cuts were shallow but jagged, the skin angry and raw, small flecks of glass still embedded in his palm.

Your chest ached.

You reached for a towel and dabbed carefully around the wounds.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But he was also In pain and a part of you has never liked him In pain. It reminded you of nights where he'd think too much about where he actually belonged. Something very candid. Something very raw. Something a child shouldn’t have to think. You had known how to bandage scraped knees and scuffed elbows. Knew nothing about those nights.

You refocused on his hand, plucking a pair of tweezers from the kit and leaning in, carefully pulling out the slivers of glass still buried in his skin. Your breath brushed against his wrist, your fingers gentle, your focus unwavering. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

But he watched.

Watched the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, the way your hands trembled just slightly when his thumb twitched against your palm.

He inhaled deeply. "You're good at this. You always have been."

You ignored him, reaching for the antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

Jungkook smirked. “You sure you don’t want it to?”

You pressed the gauze down harder than necessary.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, his good hand gripping the edge of the counter. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“A little,” you admitted, pressing again just to make a point.

His laughter was quiet, but it was real.

You forced yourself to focus, wrapping a clean bandage over his palm, fingers tracing lightly over his knuckles as you secured it in place. His skin was warm beneath yours, solid, alive. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was hammering.

You sucked in a breath, finally, finally releasing him, stepping back like distance could fix what had already unraveled.

"This is reckless." You spoke, not knowing yourself if you meant his hand or him following you to the kitchen. "We need to stop doing this." You finished and looked up to gauge his reaction to your words, only to find that he was already staring.

Too close. Too secure. Too much.

You weren’t sure what you were excepting. Hurt? Regret? Guilt?

Definitely not the recap of what happened in the kitchen. Definitely not his good hand lifting. Again.

It’s imperceptibly, resolute. His fingertips brush your hip first, featherlight, a touch so barely-there that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Until he grips.

Until he tugs.

And suddenly, you're slamming right against his unmalleable frame,

Your eyes fly up, locking onto his.

Jungkook’s gaze is unreadable, filled with something that makes your stomach clench. His hands plant themselves firmly on either side of you, caging you in.

“You tell me to stop,” he said quietly, “and I will.”

Your fingers tighten around his forearm.

You should.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he shifted, tilting his head slightly, the smallest movement—one that said he’d do it again.

Kiss you.

Undo you.

His gaze flickers down, lingering on your parted lips. "Yet all you do is look at me like you want me to fuck you on this damn counter. And Jesus, angel, if it doesn't make me rock hard."

The crude words leave him like there’s no consequence to him. To you they rise goosebumps all over your body. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that it's a warning sitting heavy on your skin.

It shimmers through your mind, something about distance, about lines, about how you’ve already crossed too many. You could still say it.

You could still put an end to this before it tattered beyond repair.

But then Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightened, and suddenly, the ground wasn’t beneath you anymore.

Your breath caught as he lifted you. Effortlessly, hands firm, unwavering. The air shifted around you, heat rolling off him in waves, and before you could catch your breath, the cool press of marble kissed the backs of your thighs.

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt. He settled between your parted legs, the warmth of his body bleeding into yours.

Your pulse thrummed, a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

"That," you breathed, trying to sound firm, trying to anchor yourself in reason, "sounds like a bad idea."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "It does."

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t fair, the way he kissed.

Like he knew exactly how to disentangle you.

Like he knew that every time his mouth met yours, resistance becomes a footnote.

His tounge moved with yours, fingers traced the edge of your knee, palms gliding up the sensitive skin of your thigh before finding its mark at your hip with a confidence that says its his anyways. A soft ache that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to.

The space between you is already non existence.

But his hands need to be closer. Preferably, inside so one of his hands slides higher, disappearing beneath the hem of your dress. Unhurried, exploring, teasing.

Your thighs tensed against his hips, heat coiling in your stomach, something familiar and overwhelming pressing at the edges of your ribs. His bandaged hand then found the small of your back, fingers splaying against your spine as if mapping you, tugging you still until you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the outline of his bulge against your thigh.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, anchoring yourself, gripping onto something solid as his touch grew more confident, more certain when he found the wet spot forming on the lacy white material—so thin, so damn easy to tear—and something primal glinted in his gaze.

His lips dragged along the planes of your chin, the corner of your mouth, before he exhaled against your skin, voice hushed, but steady. "Still want me to stop?"

His answer was you pressing into his hands instead of pulling away, your breath catching when his fingers brushed higher, thumb pressed bolder and stroking slow patterns against your clothed fold, dragging his knuckles along the delicate fabric.

Your head tilted back slightly, your breath uneven, and Jungkook watched you—watched the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers dug into his biceps, the way your body responded to him, even without words.

He knew.

And he liked it.

His lips found your throat, his voice low, rough. "You should." A kiss, slow and deep. "You really should." Another, this one firmer, teeth grazing over your pulse.

A shiver rolled down your spine and desperation rolled on.

"Don't stop. Want your fingers." His cock twitched in his pants and he bit harder onto your neck. He thinks he's again gonna make a wreckage in his pants at the realization of you trembling for him.

"Good girl, angel. Already so wet for me." he breathed, and eased down your soaked panties from your thighs. His eyes glinting again when the thin white late is revealed to him. And god, when it slipped down, revealing glistening skin beneath, he exhaled something broken. "Fuck—have you been waiting for this? Is that what it is?" He wantons and bunches the fabric in his hand to tuck it in his pocket. You flush at the implications, at what he just did, at what he might do.

"Have you?" You dodge the question and he grunts, parting your folds with his thumb and forefinger.

"You have no fucking idea." His forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched. "The idea of having you like this again consumed me. You consume me."

A soft whimper slipped from your throat, and he grunted again at the sound, his fingers pressing more firmly now, tracing, exploring, teasing you apart. "Did that charming mouth used to get you a lot of girls out there?" The question sounds like a taunt but tastes like lemon on your tounge. You don’t know why you ask it—why you let the thought slip past your lips when you could have buried it like all the others. Maybe now, with his hands on you, with the past and present colliding so violently in the space between breaths, the thought worms its way in.

If he had kissed someone the way he kissed you. If his hands had crammed the shape of someone else’s body. If, somewhere across an ocean, he had found something that didn’t taste like longing.

His fingers stilled. A sharp breath. A pause thick enough to drown in.

Then—he laughed. A low, disbelieving sound that sent a shiver curling up your spine. Not amused. Not really. More incredulous than anything, roughened at the edges with something else.

His bandaged hand tightened around your thigh, dragging you closer. "You think I’ve wasted this mouth on anyone else?"

His voice was low, velvet-soft but weighted, pressing into your skin like the heat of an open flame. Your stomach clenched.

"I don’t know." You swallowed, pulse fluttering against your throat. "I never heard anything, but—"

"But what?" His thumb dragged along your folds. “You think I’d let someone else have what’s yours? Thought I’d put my hands on someone else and think of anything but you?" The pads dig into your skin, his grip an demand for honesty because this is all he plans to give you now. The honesty that every time he tried to want something else, it was your voice in his head. Your name on his tongue.

Your lashes fluttered, the words sinks into your bones, pools at the base of your core. It terrifies you how much you like the way it sounds coming from his mouth—low aching, like it had been a curse, like you had ruined him without ever meaning to— how much you like the way him stressing every word with press of his fingers.

“I want things with you,” he said, the words dragging out of him like they’d been kept in a vault. “Not just this. Not just your body—though fuck, I’ll worship it until I’m in the ground.”

His hand stilled again, the stillness worse than movement, because now he was looking at you. Really looking. Voice softer now. Like he was afraid to let it live in the air.

"I want it all." He whispered. "I want every morning with your hair on my pillow. Every night with your hands on me." Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just breath, shallow and stunned.

His fingers moved again, slow and reverent, his touch suddenly less about taking and more about giving. "Your clothes in my closest." Showing.

Promising.

Your head fell back against the mirror, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pants, every flick of his wrist sending another spark of pleasure shooting through your limbs.

"Jungkook," you gasped, barely able to form his name.

"Your name on every piece of paper that has mine." he kept going, his voice low, yet the way two of his digits slipped inside, slow, stretching, filling, setting a rhythm that had your thighs trembling wasn't exactly something you could keep quiet for. "Your moans in my ear that I'm gonna keep just for myself."

Your cunt clenched around him and head dropped to his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Mhm. Fuck." Your body arched into him, chasing the fire that threatened to consume you whole. His pace quickened, his touch growing rougher, more desperate, as if he needed this just as badly as you did, as if he needed to become a devotee of the way you fell apart in his hands.

"Say it." He curled them just right, making a consistent squelching sound that bounced off the walls. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me." His mouth was scornful when it spoke but affectionate when it peppered kisses on the crown of your head.

"You know I do." Your voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper against his skin, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

"Not enough." He growled, voice thinned by impediment, fingers curling again, slow and deep and your grip on him was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I—Jungkook—I" You broke off, a cry catching in your throat as he pressed and flicked. A merciless rhythm of knowing.

"Come on. Be my good fucking angel." He murmured against your hair, fingers pushing in and out of your slick hole with practiced ease, working you open, watching every shift of your body, every tiny gasp and shudder.

"I feel it," you breathed. "God, I feel it—I want you."

He too could feel how you seized against his fingers, how your breath started to come in short pants. "More." He husked. "I want you to lose it for me," his voice took a pleading note, his head dunking down, lips finding the curve of your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the bite with his tongue. "Fall apart. Come on my fingers knowing what I want with you. Knowing you're it. Let go, baby."

And then he found that spot—the one that drove knuckles deep into your quivering cunt, curling and flicking, shattering you, the one that had your eyes rolling back, your breath catching in a sharp, broken cry as teeth dug unconsciously into his shoulders, hips shifting, chasing his touch, needing more and he felt the urgent need to bury his cock into you the next second.

“Right there, fuck—Jungkook,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, lashes damp.

“Don’t stop. I’m—god, I’m gonna cum. So close. So fucking close.” Eyes stayed fixed on your face like it was a masterpiece made for him alone. The heat of your slick coated his fingers, the way your body clenched down around him driving a ragged curse from his throat.

Your orgasm hit with brutal force, crashing into you like a wave breaking at high tide, leaving you boneless, trembling, and Jungkook caught you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing into the side of your neck, as if searing the moment into your skin.

As if he had no intention of letting you go. As if he never had.

"Beautiful girl." He mummered. "So fucking perfect when you come for me." He praised and pulled his two digits drenched with your essence out of your pulsating pussy to slide them into his mouth. Eyes closing when the taste of you settled on his tounge, reacquainting himself what has been taken hold of every inch of his mind. The appreciative hum that starts to leave his mouth gets lodged in somewhere in the middle when he feels your thighs wrapping around him, your front pressing against his cock that throbbed with the need to be lamented inside your salivating warmth.

He cursed under his breath, his control fraying at the edges. "Needy little thing." he growled, half in awe, half in torment. "Still aching for me?"

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but your hips shifted again, grinding up into him in a way that had his jaw clenching, his breath turning ragged.

“I can feel how hard you are,” you whispered, voice barely there. “What if I want more?”

"Fuck," he gritted out, "I need to be inside you." He needs and his hands gripped your thighs, clutching you closer with the intention to rub against your bare, soused pussy. You felt the heat of him, the weight of the orgasm he had wrung from you with nothing but his fingers, the sheer presence of him pressing against you, and your pulse fluttered, a mix of nerves and overwhelming want.

His hand that you mended, hooks up your chin. You barely registered his words at first, too dazed, too lost in the lingering ache of pleasure still pulsing deep within you. But then—his voice, low and thick with something rekt, something wanting.

"Think we've got enough time?" He asks, shrugging a glance at his rolex. His hands traced over your thighs, palms spreading against flushed skin to bunch up the silk material of your blood stained church dress, the delectable longness of his erection pressing against you. And though it was phrased like a question, it sounded rather possessive and certain, as if the answer had already been decided.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, torn between reason and the undeniable heat pooling low in your stomach. "We'll have to find out." You whispered, teeth biting onto your lip as you grinded in response, letting you feel him—hard and urgent, straining against the fabric that abstracted you—until it didn’t.

Your fingers moved without permission, trailing down his stomach, feeling the taut muscle beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. Lower still, to the belt that had been teasing you with its presence, the polished metal of the buckle cool beneath your fingertips.

Jungkook inhaled sharply when you undid it, the sound rough. His hands around you clenched, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t want to.

You took your time, savoring the way his breath hitched as you worked open the button, the zipper, how his body tensed beneath your touch. And then—when you pressed your palm against him, feeling the full length of his need—his head fell back, his throat bared in a perfect, aching display.

God.

Your breath stilled in your chest.

He was beautiful like this.

Not just in the obvious way—not in the way the world saw him, sharp-suited and composed, the perfect image of a man in control. No, this was something else entirely.

You traced your gaze over him, over the column of his throat, over the way the muscles in his jaw tightened as he swallowed. Over the way he looked like he was waging a war against himself.

“Y/N,” he gritted out, his voice tight, strained, as if he were warning you.

Or begging.

But you only pressed a little firmer, fingers teasing, tracing, thumb swiping over his swollen tip that leaked with pre cum.

With a growl, his hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements, dark eyes snapping open to meet yours. "Fuck, baby. I'm not patient enough for this."

And then he was lifting your hips, guiding you against him, his tip poking at your entrance, making you let out a shuddering  breath. He leaned in, his lips brushing over your cheek, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way his hands gripped your thighs.

"Let me feel you," he hiss, more plea than demand, his voice thick with restraint. "Let me have you all of you, angel."

And when you nodded—when you let him pull you to the very edge, let him replace his fingers with something hotter, heavier—your hands fisted in his shirt, nails biting into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

Jungkook groaned against your ear as he pushed himself all the way to the hilt, sworeing how he would never get enough of you, his fingers flexing at your waist as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden intrusion of his massive length, letting himself revel in the feeling of you wrapped around him like you always would in the sweetest of his dreams, like you did a certain night away. And from that moment he had wondered how had he ever functioned without this? How will he ever function without you if you keep yourself away from him?

Your hands slipped up, cupping his face, tilting him toward you until your lips brushed. “Move,” you whispered, voice barely there.

Slow at first, rolling his hips into yours, his mouth catching every broken sound that left you, his hands never stopping their worship of your body.

And when he felt his willpower leave him, when slow became desperate, when his name spilled from your lips like a prayer—he answered.

He met you in every way you needed.

It was urgent—messy and desperate and filled with everything neither of you could say out loud. Could only afford in hushed whispers and lips tracing sin on skin. Something he'd taken pain from you if it meant he'd get to kept this. Because it was better than nothing, better than those years when he wanted you with a desperation that should’ve dulled with time, with grief, with regret.

But it hadn’t.

It had only grown sharper.

It was too much. It was not enough.

The way he gasped softly as he pushed himself inside you—inch by inch, stretching you around him, your hands fisting his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He pressed you further onto the counter, knocking over something ceramic that shattered on the tile, neither of you caring. The pace of his cock driving inside you turned desperate, driven by something raw, something that tasted too much like loss but felt too much like home.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, closer, closer. "Oh yeah! Fuck, just there!" You panted, hips snapping against his, encouraging him further as he outright pounded into you.

"You’re—fuck—so tight,” he rasped. “So warm. I knew it. You were made for me.” He highlighted with a squeeze to your boob, rolling your pebbled nipple between his digits. Your walls fluttered around him, still so tight, still taking all of him like you had been made to, eyes fluttering close when he gave it a pinch.

And fuck—he wanted to see that again.

“Eyes, Y/N.” he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

Your lashes lifted, glassy and unfocused, your lips parting around a soft gasp as he rolled his hips again, hitting deeper this time.

He smiled, dipping his head, lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Let me see you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers pulling into his hair. “Jungkook I can't—Too much!”

His grip on your waist tightened, his pace faltering slightly. “Shhh. I've got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take me.” He cooed, his head falling to the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed over your pulse, tongue following, lips dragging along heated skin.

The sensation sent a shiver rolling down your spine, sharp and electric.

Your back arched, pressing further into him, your thighs tightening around his waist. You could feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips, every deep, mind blowing thrust.

You felt full.

Overwhelmed.

Like you were going to break apart any moment.

Jungkook must have felt it—the way your nails dug into his skin, the way your breath stuttered against his ear—because his grip shifted, one hand slipping between you, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

Your body jolted at the added sensation, a sharp cry tumbling from your lips that he caught in his own.

And he smirked.

“My angel's so close, hmm?" he murmured against your mouth.

Your breath hitched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. "Yeah—shit—yeah. Wanna come again. Want come so bad, Jungkook."

Jungkook groaned, his cheeks hollowing, brows furrowing like he was barely holding himself together. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you do that.”

You were right there.

Jungkook felt it.

And he wasn’t about to let you go without making you fall apart for him.

His thumb rubbed faster, tighter circles, his thrusts rougher, deeper, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice low, wicked.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he promised, panting. “Right here. Around me. Look at me when you do.”

The coil snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body tightening, then releasing all at once. Your vision blurred, your entire body trembling, your nails raking over Jungkook’s back as you moaned his name, breathless and undone. "Shit, that's right." He heaved.

His thrusts started to get sloppier, trying to constraint the sound of his hips slapping against yours in the tiled bathroom only while he pursued his own release. More urgent—less about control and more about instinct. He could only last so long with your pussy milking him for all he's worth.

"Fuck—baby," he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling. "I’m close… fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

You found yourself nodding mindlessly, relating with the wretched appetite in his voice to be warmed up to within.

“Such a needy girl,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “So desperate to be filled, huh? You want all of it, angel?” His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb swiping your lip like he was trying to soothe something uncontainable.

Jungkook's thrusts slowed into something deeper, deliberate, chasing every inch of you as he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, full-bodied and guttural, like it had been torn straight from his chest. His release hit him hard, cock twitching deep inside you, thick warmth spilling in hot waves as his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise like he was trying to memorize you, like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trying to memorize you in ways he had never deserved.

He didn’t stop—just kept grinding into you, riding it out, chasing the feeling of being so deep inside you that the world didn’t matter. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut as he emptied every last drop, as if he could carve his name into you from the inside.

Like the years had never carved a distance between you, like nothing—no one—had ever come between this pull, this thing that always seemed to exist between you and him.

And yet, reality was creeping back in.

You could hear it—the soft murmur of voices beyond the door, the distant clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation that you were supposed to be a part of.

The world you were supposed to return to.

You exhaled shakily, body still trembling in the aftermath, shifting against the counter, trying to gather yourself, trying to think. Your fingers curled weakly into his shoulder, and you felt it—his chest rising and falling against you, his breath warm against your temple, the quiet steadiness of him as he held you there, as if neither of you were quite ready to move just yet.The sweat cooling on his skin glistened where the low light caught it, and his nose nudged softly into your hairline, inhaling you like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

"Still with me, angel?"

You hummed a airy "barely" and he kissed one, featherlight and sweet, dragging his mouth lazily toward your jaw. He was taking his time. He didn’t seem to care that your clothes were halfway off or that you were still tangled around him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in the quiet. You sighed, resting your head back on his shoulder, content and warm and glowing all over. The mirror behind you was fogged with breath, the air still thick with the scent of heat and sweat and him.

“We should go back now," you whispered and when you moved to slip away, his hands curled against your thighs, halting you in place. Not tight, not forceful—just there, just asking.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin where he adjusted the hem of your dress after wiping the remnants of him with a tissue, doe eyes giving away the look a kicked puppy would have. “Not yet. Give me a minute."

Not yet.

Not don’t go. Not stay.

Just not yet.

And maybe that was why you didn’t move.

Maybe that was why you let yourself linger for just a second longer, your fingers smoothing over the collar of his shirt, tracing a wrinkle that your own grip had left behind. A pointless action, an excuse to touch, to feel the warmth of him for just another moment before you had to pretend like none of this happened. "Fine. I mean I wouldn't want to walk back smelling like sex and you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. His hands slid up, brushing over the curve of your cheekbone, his touch slow and sharp like satisfaction curling under his tongue.

“That right?” he murmured. “You smell like me?”

The question caught you off guard.

Too late. He was already drunk on it. He ducked down, nosing along your throat, breathing in deep with a groan like the idea physically did something to him. “Fuck. You do. You smell like me, angel."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against his shirt, your breath hitching in your throat.

Something darker lit his eyes—satisfaction painted in shadow. “Good.”

Your breath caught. “It’s good that I reek of you?” And definitely not the hottest scandal the neighborhood will get their hands on. Right.

He dipped his head, nose brushing your neck, lips skimming your pulse. “You should smell like me,” he whispered. “You should walk out there with your thighs dripping and my scent all over you. Glowing because you took every inch of me." he murmured, voice low and reverent. "Let them wonder."

You whimpered, helpless under the press of his mouth, the press of his words.

“I—” you started, but your thoughts tangled as he sucked gently at your neck, just above where your collar would hide it.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Still want to go back?”

"Yes."

Jungkook studied you for a second longer, his eyes searching, tracing every inch of your expression, as if he was looking for something, as if he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So he only exhaled, pressing his lips to your head. And then, finally, finally, he let you go.

You breathed out, fingers curling at the edge of the counter before you shifted again, moving to slide down—to plant your feet back on the ground, to leave but not before letting yours eyes drift to him for a second where he tucks himself in his slacks.

“Y/N.”

His voice was softer this time, but it stopped you all the same.

You barely had time to react before his fingers found your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

Your breath stilled.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed against your bottom lip, slow, lingering. And then, so softly, so quietly he asked—“when you walk out from here will you start avoiding me to the next Sunday again?"

Your brows scrunched up and you attempted to look away.

"Please don't, angel." He pressed his lips to where the crease formed for a brief moment.

And god help you, you wanted to listen.

The evening (6:25, you noted from your wrist watch) was quiet, the sky yawning open into a stretch of velvet dark, the stars distant pinpricks of light like secrets kept at a distance. You had always known the halls of the university to be full—full of voices, of conversations that layered over each other, of common stories and repeated gestures. Even today, it had been the same.

The evening air carried the last remnants of warmth, a hesitant shift between winter and spring that clung to the pavement, to the air, to you, you could feel reprieve take hold instead of a sort of suffocation.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your breath curling in the cool air. The once-busy campus had emptied out, leaving only a handful of cars scattered beneath the flickering glow of overhead lights.Your heels clicked against the pavement, hurried, purposeful, as you wove between the cars, searching.

Hoseok was ahead, his figure easy to spot—relaxed posture, a casual sway in his step, his tan coat catching the dim light. It wasn’t hard to catch up with him. He moved like someone who never rushed, even when he should. But you still called his name, breathless from the rush.

“Professor Jung—Hoseok, wait up.”

His tailored blazer was unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms, his usual crisp attire softened by the slight ruffle of his hair, undoubtedly from running a frustrated hand through it after a long day. His dark eyes lifted at the sound of your approaching footsteps, and when recognition flickered across his face, his lips curled into an smile.

"Ah," he mused, had just reached his car, one hand already on the door handle when he turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curved into an easy smile as he leaned against the frame. "To what do I owe the honor of you sprinting across the lot?"

You huffed, coming to a stop beside him, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “I think some of my test papers got mixed up with yours. I noticed a few of my poetry essays were missing, and I have a hunch they ended up with your psychology midterms.”

Hoseok made a thoughtful noise, rubbing his chin. “That… would explain why I was grading a sonnet on existential dread instead of cognitive behavioral theories.”

You sighed. “I knew it. I must have switched the stacks when I was in a rush earlier, I'm sorry."

“Don’t worry about it," he assured you, resuming unlocking his car. "I’ll check when I get home. Worst case, I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

You nodded, relief sagging through your shoulders. "Thanks, Professor Jung. You're a life saver. I planned to finish grading them tomorrow."

Hoseok made a mock grimace. “You work too hard.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Says the guy who spent last night preparing an extra credit seminar.”

“That was different. That was for the kids who actually care about my class,” he countered, before nodding toward the nearly empty lot. “You’re headed home? Want a ride?”

It was harmless. A casual offer from a friend, from someone who had sat across from you in faculty meetings, who had lent you his pen more times than you could count, who had laughed with you over shared frustrations about students turning in assignments late. There was no reason to hesitate.

It had been a long day, longer than you realized. You would actually prefer it rather than waiting for the bus that always seems to be running late by minutes.

Yet the answer that came was.

"She's already got a ride." The voice wasn't yours. It had been the one you had come to realize that avoiding was futile, that whatever admissions it breathed into your ear ran deeper that you would have assumed, affected you more than you'd liked and you have started to come terms with it. The words weren’t sharp either, weren’t cruel, but they cut through the quiet with the ease of something unquestionable.

Hoseok’s brows lifted slightly as both of you turned toward the voice, towards the faint crunch of footsteps against pavement.

The raven haired man who had once been standing a few feets away, watching, was now stepping forward, minimizing the distance until he was right beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat that was as dark as the night, the sharp cut of his jaw illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. His eyes didn't lock with yours as they usually would, instead they zeroed In on the psychology professor who was unaware of the sudden tension buzzing through the air.

What the hell?

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had someone waiting.”

You swallowed, grounding yourself. “Uh—yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Hoseok, this is Jungkook. My—" You cringed at how visibly you struggle to come up with words when the ardour of the man beside you pressed into your side. God, he was always so warm.

When Hoseok, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow you snapped out of it and continued. "Minho's brother."

Hoseok glanced between the two of you, and his mouths part in understanding. Dots connect. His eyes glance at you with a look that says 'That Jungkook?' And you blink, 'That Jungkook.' All that you've ever told him about Jungkook making it clearer.

"Ohhh." He grins and extends a hand without hesitation, always one for politeness. “Well, nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I'm Jung Hoseok. I first met Y/N at a masters program. Been friends since then."

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to the offered hand before he shook it, firm and brief. Just a little tighter than necessary, enough to make Hoseok chuckle under his breath.

“Oof. Strong hands,” he said, raising an eyebrow but otherwise unfazed.

"Nice to meet you." There was nothing outright hostile in Jungkook’s voice. Nothing overly tense but you still felt like you were caught between two frequencies—one warm and familiar, the other crackling with something dangerously unspoken.

Hoseok seemed to pick up on it. He glanced between the two of you again, the corners of his mouth tilting into something unreadable before he shifted his weight.

“Well, I won’t keep you if you're settled then,” he said easily, flashing you a small smile. “See you Tomorrow?”

You nodded, grateful for the out. “Yeah,

see you.”

Hoseok gave Jungkook a small nod before slipping into his car, headlights flashing on as he pulled out of the lot.

You exhaled slowly, shifting on your feet, resisting the urge to lean into him. No, you were supposed to question him first.“What was that? And what are you doing here?”

“What was what?” He hummed, his mouth no longer set in that stern shape, his hand slipping from his coat pocket to brush a stray strand of your braid that barely seemed to hold its own away.

You narrowed your eyes, looking around instinctively before back at him. “You know what.”

Jungkook took a slow step forward, not even bothering that you were out in public, the space between you shrinking, charged. His head tilted slightly, voice deceptively light, tounge pushing against his cheek; That little tell of his, a habit you learned and found more attractive that it should have been, a habit he did when he was displeased with something. Maybe even pissed. Or both. "Didn’t know you were that close with Hozook, angel."

You blinked, thrown by the sudden turn in conversation. “It’s Hoseok.” You scoffed. “We work together, Jungkook. I’ve known him for years."

His lips pressed together, as if that information did absolutely nothing to quell whatever had flickered across his face moments ago.

Then—he opened his mouth, about to say something else, when you cut in, tone flat, unamused, every word sharpened.

“You’d know that if you hadn’t ghosted me for years.”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved right there on his tongue. His jaw twitched once. His brows dipped slightly, something unreadable passing through his gaze—but he said nothing. Good.

After a beat, he exhaled, shaking his head before motioning toward his car when he noticed the thin layers of your clothing, a dress shirt paired with a half sleeved sweater. “Come on.”

You frowned, your feet hesitating. You should be walking the other way. Should be dealing with public transport, going through the motions of an evening that should have belonged to you alone. He wasn’t obliged to be a part of this. “You didn’t have to come pick me up.” you say, smoothing down the strap of your bag.

He shrugs and his hand reaches you, or most specifically your bag, fingers curling around the strap and taking in his fist. “I was in the area.”

You snort, unimpressed. “Right.”

Still, you don't protest when he opens the door for you for reasons you don't want to analyze. And when you slide into the passenger seat, you don't mind how natural it's starting to feel.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. The city hums past you in streaks of gold and red, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re inside a dream you once had and forgot the ending to. The faint murmur of the radio filling the space between you.

You’re both quiet for a while.

Then—“How was work?” he asks, without looking. His tone is mild, almost too careful, as if the question isn’t just about your day but about the right to ask.

It’s a simple question, casual, but the way he says it slows your thoughts. Like he’s trying, like he wants to know you again.

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Fine. Uneventful. Spent half the day grading, the other half convincing students that deadlines actually mean something.”

He hums in amusement. “They don’t.”

You glare at him. “They do when I say they do.”

“Terrifying,” he muses, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You roll your eyes but it does little to conceal your own smile. “What about you?” It feels like you owe him the same curiosity.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a slow, measured thing. “Had a meeting. Went as expected. Some numbers that needed fixing. Boring stuff.” You had always understood your husband's disdain for a life that was a repeat of listening to some guy talk too much, lose his temper when his ego would be on the line. But you had never known why Jungkook would prefer this or even why he wouldn't.

You look at him then, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the city lights flicker across his skin in intervals—light, dark, light, dark—like the world couldn’t quite decide how to hold him. You weren’t sure you could either. Maybe you never asked enough questions, never studied every crease on his face liked you'd with minho and inspect it to hell.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He steals a glance at you, quick, assessing. “Less exhausting now, though.”

But now that you do, now that you want to, you understand what he means.

It’s easy, this. Talking like this. Falling into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you still knew, one that had been untouched for years but still existed, waiting beneath the veneer. The intimacy of nothing in particular.

Jungkook has to force himself to focus on the road, fingers flexing again as he shifts gears.

If you scrutinize deeper, you'd also find that this—this slow glide through streets neither of you had named, the soft murmur of the radio, your shoulder nearly brushing his in the dark. This is what he’s always wanted. Not the secrecy. Not the stolen minutes behind doors that you had to double check if they are locked.

But this.

A ride home after a long day. A quiet conversation. The sound of your addictingly sweet voice in his car, in his space, in his life in a way that feels so woefully unpolished that it almost hurts.

“You’re not driving to my place.” Your voice pulls him back, your gaze sharp now, watching as the streets grow less familiar.

He doesn’t even pretend to be surprised at your realization.

“No.”

Your brow furrows. "Can you for once just drive me to my apartment without taking me to some place I don't want to go?"

"No."

That alone makes your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap.

You had spent so much time trying to untangle your own thoughts about him, about whatever this was turning into. Picking at it. Trying to name it. But Jungkook had been the picture of certainty. Unflinching. Unbothered. Like none of it had touched him the way it had touched you. Like he had already made peace with something you were still trying to name.Like he’d walked back into your life not to ask if he could stay—but to decide that he would.

Tonight, he seems different.

Its in the way his jaw tightens every time you shift in your seat, like he’s bracing himself. The way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip before he speaks, only to change his mind and stay silent. The way his gaze flickers toward you like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t know what to do with that.

Jungkook and hesitation have never belonged in the same sentence. At least, not since he came back.

You try again. “Where are we going, Jungkook?”

His mouth pressed into something unsure. Jungkook, unsure. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing now. It wasn’t something he looked when he pressed you against the kitchen counter, hadn’t sounded like this when he whispered his most cordial of dreams into the corner of your neck.

When he finally speaks, his voice is even, controlled. “Somewhere I want you to see.”

“That’s vague.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach pull tight.

Because you’ve seen Jungkook confident. You’ve seen him arrogant, smug, amused. You’ve seen him angry, cold, unreadable. But nervous? No. Not since he came back from a different life, not since he became the man that no longer fit into the spaces you had once saved for him.

And yet, right now, here he is. Inside, the space, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers drumming idly like a song he hadn’t decided to play yet. It was a small thing, a habit from when he was younger—back when he used to tap against the wooden desks in class, always restless, always itching to move.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Some things had.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. “You’re being weird.”

"I’ve always been weird, angel."

"No you haven't." There's something defensive in the way you phrase these words. "Don't change the subject."

This time, he smiled—brief but real. It softened something in his face, something he so rarely let slip anymore.

“You’ll like it,” he murmured after a beat, voice softer now, like he was almost convincing himself of the same thing. “I think.”

Just turned down a street you didn’t recognize, the road quieter here, the buildings spaced apart, until he finally pulled up in front of a modest, modern structure with floor-to-ceiling windows and a single light illuminating the entrance.The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice if you didn’t know what you were searching for.

You couldn't help but ask again. "Where are we? What is this?"

Jungkook cut the engine, but he didn’t move right away. His fingers tapped against the wheel once, twice, before he finally exhaled and turned to you.

"I bought this place," he said simply.

You blinked up at the building again. "What?"

His lips pressed together, eyes flickering away before he cleared his throat. "Just—come inside."

You followed him out, your steps slow as you took in the building, the way the large glass panes mirrored the stars. The sky leaned against the windows like it, too, wanted to press closer, to see inside. There was a sign by the entrance—simple, elegant script, almost shy in how little it asked to be noticed. You don’t recognize it, and that alone makes you reconsider.

Jungkook said nothing as he unlocked the door, the quiet snick of the key turning loud in the stillness. He held it open for you like always, but this time his eyes didn’t meet yours.

You stepped inside and the push of the door revealed —A gallery.

Not just any gallery.

Paintings. Everywhere.

Paintings stretched across every wall, soft pools of golden light falling over their frames. Each piece breathed color—bold, bruised, aching with emotion. Blue melted into umber, ochre kissed the edge of crimson. Every brushstroke pulled something raw from your chest.

You moved forward, like your body remembered the path before your mind could catch up. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling as they traced the lines without touching them, as if the act of reaching alone might wear you.

All of it look like what had been painfully dear to you.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew this work.

You knew it. Not just the style, not just the way the colors lived together in layered silence—but the soul of it. The way it looked back at you. The way it knew you.

You knew the hand that had created it. Been the first and last one to hold them close to you.

You reached for the closest canvas, your vision blurring at the name signed at the corner.

Jeon Minho.

The name cleaved through you like a wave, cruel and kind in equal measure. Your heart twisted. Your fingers hovered over a piece, afraid to touch, afraid it might slip through your hands if you weren’t careful. It was his—all of it, the way he saw the world, the way he translated it onto canvas.

It was like standing inside his head again, like hearing him laugh through color, like stepping back into a time where his presence still existed beyond memory.

Your breath shook.

“This…” Your voice wavered. “This is his.”

He was watching you instead, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he was waiting for you to feel it before he explained it.

And you did.

God, you did.

In the farthest corner of the room.

Your feet carried you again, before your mind could catch up, before you could brace for the impact of what you were about to see.

The world blurred at the edges.

The painting was soft, muted in color, like it had been caught in the golden hour of a fading summer. Three figures sat at the edge of a dock, backs turned, feet dipping into a painted lake that rippled with every brushstroke.

Two boys who's curves of smiles you would know even from behind.

One girl who knew.

It was them.

It was you.

Your throat tightened painfully, a memory rising unbidden, curling at the edges of the canvas, spilling into the quiet of the gallery until it was no longer just a painting—It was then.

You were twelve the summer Minho decided that the best way to survive the heat was to sit at the edge of the lake until the sun stopped trying to kill him.

Jungkook had been the first to follow, feet kicking idly at the water, arms propped behind him as he leaned back, his oversized t-shirt damp from an earlier splash war that he had definitely lost.

You had been the last to sit down, cross-legged between them, tossing small pebbles into the lake just to watch the ripples expand.

It had been quiet, warm, easy. The afternoon smelled of earth and sun, of laughter spilling into the open air.

“Stay still, Minho!” you giggled, reaching over to press another blade of grass into his already messy hair.

“Why?” he huffed, cracking one eye open. “You’re ruining my masterpiece.”

“You’re ruining my masterpiece,” you shot back, grinning as you tucked another strand behind his ear. A few away, Jungkook sat cross-legged, watching the two of you with quiet fascination. He was younger then, still round-cheeked, his dark eyes wide and serious as he curled his fingers in the grass.

“Are you gonna put grass in my hair too?” he finally asked, tilting his head.

You paused, considering, then reached over and plucked a small daisy from the ground.

“Not grass,” you said, leaning closer. “But hold still.”

He did.

Even then, Jungkook had been good at that—at waiting, at being patient in a way that seemed too big for his age.

Carefully, you tucked the daisy behind his ear.

“There,” you murmured, sitting back.

Minho snorted, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Now he looks really ridiculous.”

But Jungkook only blinked, reaching up to touch the flower gently, like it was something delicate, something that had been given to him and him alone.

He didn’t take it out.

It stayed there like the three of you—trapped in summer light, forever twelve, forever laughing, forever somewhere time could not reach.

A quiet exhale broke the silence behind you. But the deep ache stayed spread through your chest, slow and unforgiving.

"He never showed me this," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He painted it the year before he…" Jungkook hesitated, the words catching. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Minho’s signature. "Before he passed."

Your chest constricted. The truth never stopped feeling like a knife.

From the first time since you stepped inside, you finally turned to Jungkook then, eyes searching, waiting for him to tell you why.

Why he had done this.

Why had he crushed that one devastating voice in your head that would make it's appearance timely—you are forgetting him. You are forgetting the exact way his laughter curled at the end. The domesticity of how his step fell beside yours. Those were slipping with every sunrise you surived without him. Dissolving like fog under the sun. You are forgetting your min min.

And one night, you'd wake up desperate, breathless, trying to recall the way he said your name but you wouldn't. And the guilt—God, the guilt—would sit on your chest.

Until now that Jungkook had gathered every fragment of Minho’s soul and brought it back to life. Not as a ghost. But as something immortal. As something known. Someone someone will always know. A hundred things rise to the surface. None of them make it past your lips.

Jungkook exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into his coat pocket. His shoulders were drawn tight, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke. "I started looking for them a while ago. A month before I came back, maybe longer. They were scattered—some in old studios, some with collectors. A few were in storage, collecting dust. I tracked them down, bought back what I could."

He hesitated before continuing. "Hyung's anniversary is next month." The words felt heavy, like they were scraping raw against the throat of a boy who had never quite come to terms with losing the only man he's ever looked up to. "And I—" A pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully. "We—never really did anything, did we?"

You blinked hard, trying to push back the sting behind your eyes.

"No." Your voice was barely there.

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw ticked. "I didn’t want this year to be like that. I wanted to do something. Do you like..this, angel? We could open this to the public too if you want. Show mom and dad."

Something rises within you, vast and unnameable—less a feeling, more a tide. It isn’t just the gallery. It isn’t just Minho.

It’s the echo of affinity stitched into every frame. The invisible thread that leads back to Jungkook.

It’s the fact that Jungkook did this. That he spent God knows how long making this happen, gathering Minho’s work, making sure his art wouldn’t just sit in forgotten portfolios, lost in the quiet corners of time.He unearthed what time tried to bury. Preserved what you feared was lost.

And the immensity of it—the quiet significance of what he’s saying, of what he’s not saying—hits you harder than you were prepared for.

The gallery holds its breath. Your pulse does not.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for his hand like you would in the dreamiest of dreams.

Jungkook stills.

His fingers are warm beneath yours, rough at the knuckles, tense. But he doesn’t pull away. Not from you. Never from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all you have. Like gratitude too big for language. Like grief softened into approbation. “This is—” Your throat closes, a breath hitching past your lips, eyes blinking away tears that had nothing to do with sorrow and everything to do with love."This is beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Jungkook doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his face, something almost imperceptible. In a way that made him want to take this moment where you're looking at him like he had hung the stars back in the sky and bury it deep inside his ribs, somewhere no one could ever touch it.

And when he does speak, his hands intertwine with yours, eyes holding yours like gravity. "You're beautiful."

Your lips parted, caught off-guard.

A muscle of his cheek clenches. “I meant—your face is all red. It’s distracting.”

You smiled, watery and gentle, and he swore if he if he had even a silver of the talent his brother carried in the cradle of his hands, he would’ve painted you too.

With your face flushed from crying and the faint glimmer of laughter still clinging to your lashes. With your fingers looped between his like you didn’t even realize you were holding on.

He would’ve painted you in soft oils and pale light, your presence the only subject, the only truth. And maybe he’d leave a smear of color just beneath your eye where your tears had dried, like a signature only he could understand. Not even someone who could’ve looked at it years from now would have understood.

But Jungkook couldn’t paint.

Couldn’t even draw a straight line without it wobbling under pressure. He had no brushstroke to offer you, no canvas that could carry the weight of this feeling blooming in his chest like it had always belonged there.

So he squeezed your hand instead, pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, repeating how you're so beautiful, how he wants to spend the rest of his life telling you so, how he will lay the world on your feet if you only just smile like that for him.

What he doesn't say is that he came back for this. He stayed for you. He'll always stay.

And how still, in the soft lull that followed, his mind—traitor that it was—pulled him somewhere else.

Back to the night he first listened to Minho’s voicemail.

He hadn’t planned to.

It had sat in his inbox for two weeks after Minho passed, unopened. Just a little notification bubble, small and silent, like it knew it wasn’t ready to be heard.

But that night, something in Jungkook had split.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the way the world kept turning like nothing had happened. Maybe it was just loneliness.

He’d climbed up to the roof of some rented building in Daegu, drunk off something cheap, the stars sharp above him, the world far below.

And he played it.

"Jungkook-ah." Minho’s voice cracked a little. Old, soft, raspy. Too gentle for someone whose lungs had been fighting him for years.Too familiar, too. The kind that had once read bedtime stories and yelled over bicycle crashes.

“I figured you’d be too pissed to pick up. Can’t blame you.” A soft chuckle, winded.

"I know it’s been a while. Years, actually." He waited, if considering whether it's worth a try or not before resuming. "Too long, huh?"

"I saw your name the other day. Don't even remember where. But it made me stop. Not that I got too much going on for me." Another shaky chuckle followed. "I don’t know what kind of life you’re living now. Maybe something busy. Maybe something brilliant. But if you’re hearing this… I want you to know I was proud. I am proud. Even when I was angry. Especially then, maybe. Even when I didn’t understand you. I watched you become your own person, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t wanted to see you turn into our father."

His voice wavered, raw and fraying.

"But you didn’t become him. You didn’t. And I wish I’d told you that sooner."

“Because you're my little brother. You always will be and I'm sorry I forgot that for a moment and I..I don’t know how much longer I’ve got so I had to tell you this." He paused, and Jungkook could almost hear the way Minho looked up at the ceiling when he was thinking. Like there was something celestial about regrets once they’d been said out loud.

"They don’t say it, but I can tell. I can see it in the beautiful brown of my wife's eyes."

Jungkook remembered pressing his palm against his chest like it could stop the ache. It couldn’t.

"Though it has dulled a shade ever since the coughing starting hurting worse. I suppose, I should be sorry for that too, but I don't want to die drowning in sorrys. I don't want to die regretting. Even if it kills me that I'll never hear your name in the news again, that I will never see her in morning light and think that heaven’s not far off."

He cleared his throat, like it hurt to speak. Maybe it did.

"I want to be content with all that I've had. With all that I've become. I want to be hopeful that the world will be kinder to her. To you. That you'd not spend your whole life outrunning ghosts."

Minho’s voice lowered, like it was just the two of them now. Like it had always been.

"I hope it’s not too late." I hope I'm not too late. "I hope—when the dust settles—you’ve still got something to hold onto. Someone. And I really hope she forgives you."

Silence stretched, one last time for minho, perhaps. For his little brother, it was the sound of his own breaking. He tried to hold his breath. Tried to stay still. But the pain didn't stay quiet. It raked up his throat, rude and coarse, until the first sob slipped out, ruptured and helpless. His hand, the one holding the phone, trembled violently. The other curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm like that might stop the shaking.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be somewhere soft. Don’t rush. Just… be good. Remember your hyung. I love you, Jungkook-ah."

Static.

He pressed the phone harder to his ear, like if he clung to it tightly enough, Minho might speak again. That maybe—somehow—he could rewind, could stop it, could change everything.

Only static.

"The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that." — Salma Deera, Letters from Medea (2015).

[lexirosewrites]

Day One: Courting Rituals

for @stmarchmm

Before Eddie officially starts courting Steve, they’re together nearly every day.

Steve tends to hang at the trailer and watch movies with the alpha. Sometimes they go to the arcade with the kids or they host a DnD night at Steve’s place.

Everyone can see that they’re inseparable.

Robin even lightheartedly complains about how Robin and Steve time became Robin and Steve and Eddie time.

Steve wants to be around his new friend constantly and Eddie seems to want the same thing.

So they’re always together.

The funny thing is that Steve doesn’t even recall it becoming more than a friendship.

One day, they’re goofing off, cracking jokes, and getting high on Eddie’s rooftop.

The next, they’re holding hands at the movies and sharing milkshakes at the diner.

It’s an easy transition.

When people start asking about labels (Joyce keeps prodding Steve, reminding him that dating an alpha without clear intentions is a dangerous affair), Eddie beats him to the punch with a traditional bouquet of flowers.

Wildflowers. Hand-picked, colorful, and unique just like Eddie.

He’s received many attempted courting presents before, but these are Steve’s favorites.

Of course he agrees immediately to the unspoken request and that makes things between them official.

They can spend all the time in the world together now without speculation or judgement!

Only… now Eddie is barely around.

It makes no sense to Steve (or the other half of his brain, Robin). They’d been attached at the hip when it was casual and now that it’s serious, Eddie just up and disappears?

Steve is more than a little hurt, but he tries to be reasonable.

Maybe Eddie saw their official courting as a victory and he no longer has to work so hard to get Steve’s attention. Now he can put some space between them.

Or…

Maybe Eddie changed his mind.

Maybe Steve isn’t what he wants anymore and he’s delaying the pain of breaking it off by avoiding him entirely.

The uncertainty eats away at Steve. It’s one too many cancelled plans, dropped calls, and flimsy excuses.

Steve storms into the Munson trailer at 9PM, beyond panicking when Eddie didn’t answer his phone call they’d agreed to have at 8:30.

Eddie’s van is in the driveway.

In his rush to check for Eddie’s vehicle, he’d apparently missed Wayne’s truck.

“Evenin’, Steve. Eddie expectin’ ya?”

Steve’s anger deflates slightly in the face of the man he assumed would be as good as family soon.

Wayne has always been kind to him.

“No, I guess not. He was supposed to call me half an hour ago. I even tried ringing, but nobody picked up. I got—”

Paranoid. Angry. Hurt. Devastated.

“Worried. I was worried about him,” Steve explains truthfully.

Wayne pats the free spot on the couch next to him.

He hesitates.

If Eddie’s in his bedroom and willfully ignoring his calls, Steve would rather get this break-up over with.

The quicker his hearts breaks, the quicker he can start repairing it.

He sits anyway.

“I’m sure he lost track of the day again. Been happenin’ more and more lately.”

Wayne’s never lied to Steve before. It’s hard to imagine he’d start now.

“I just thought Eddie would want to be with me more since we started courting. It feels like he’s too busy to even see me anymore,” Steve confesses, a little shocked at his own honesty.

Wayne has that effect on people.

The old man hums thoughtfully, not outright agreeing or disagreeing.

“If there’s one thing I know about my boy, it’s that he’d give anything to spend every moment of every day with you, kid. He may not always do it perfectly, but Eddie loves you, Steve. Trust that much.”

He snorts.

“Well, he has a funny way of showing it these days. He used to at least make time for me, Wayne. Now, he’s practically avoiding me entirely. How else am I supposed to interpret that?”

The wrinkles of Wayne’s brow furrow deeper.

“Have you… really talked to him recently?”

Steve shakes his head briefly, trying not to let the tears fall.

“That would require him to pick up the phone for anything other than cancelling our plans.”

“Ah. I see.”

Wayne lets out a hearty laugh and Steve has to wonder whether Eddie’s uncle has lost his mind entirely.

“You should go see your alpha,” Wayne advises him with a smile. “Ease your troubled mind, omega.”

“What?”

“Go on, Steve. Just try not to startle him. That silly boy hardly sleeps as it is… I’ve got the night shift, but I trust you two won’t start on grandpups if I leave ya alone here?”

Steve nods frantically. His face is more than flushed at the idea of starting a family right now.

He’s not sure Eddie likes him anymore, let alone loves him enough to do that with him.

“Yes, sir.”

Wayne stands with a reassuring pat on Steve’s back, heading for the door after a pitstop for his keys.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Wayne.”

He stays on the couch by himself a little longer, working up the nerve to go confront whatever is waiting for him in Eddie’s silent bedroom.

Steve would rather face another demogorgon than deal with Eddie’s incoming rejection.

Still, he promised Wayne.

He treads lightly on the creaky floors until he reaches Eddie’s bedroom.

It used to be a place Steve loved being. Full of Eddie’s personality and warmth. Smelling strongly of his loving alpha. Music always playing on the radio or turntable.

He turns the handle slowly, heeding Wayne’s advice to not startle Eddie.

It ends up not being an issue since his boyfriend is completely dead to the world, deep in sleep.

Weirdly enough, he’s still dressed. On top of the covers and wrapped around a box that Steve’s never seen.

Steve doesn’t flip the lights on, but he leaves the door open enough to light his way so he can come further into the room.

His hands move of their own accord, reaching for Eddie despite his brain saying it’s a bad idea.

Instead of a t-shirt, he touches a collared button down.

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eddie in anything so formal.

It’s a short sleeve shirt, but looks like nothing the alpha would ever choose to wear.

His fingers continue to wander until he finds a patch on Eddie’s chest. It’s ironed haphazardly.

He gets close enough to read.

‘Eddie.’ A name tag?

Steve continues to search Eddie’s shirt silently. He finds more words. Embroidering on the pocket states ‘Dan’s Auto.’

Dan’s Auto Shop is a garage in the next town over. Steve’s taken his own car there before. It’s decent, if a little rundown.

Does Eddie… work there?

Eddie has never held an honest to god job. Selling drugs to locals? Sure. But never a 9-5 blue collar hourly rate.

Why would he get a job and hide it from Steve?

Steve’s heart can’t take the suspense. He reaches for the strange box without care.

What’s inside makes him freeze.

A handcrafted brown leather collar with Steve’s name burned into it. And a ring. Simple, beautiful, elegant.

It matches Steve’s tastes exactly.

It has to be for him.

Steve lets out a shriek of surprise when an arm appears around his waist.

He’s pulled down onto the bed, Eddie’s strong hold tucking Steve right back against the alpha and keeping him in place there.

“Hi there, sweetheart.”

“Hi alpha.”

Steve doesn’t mention the missed phone call. Or the cancelled dates.

He’s missed his alpha too much to hold a grudge over such silly things.

In the morning, they’ll have a long and important conversation about proper communication and how Eddie doesn’t need to buy Steve any more fancy courting presents in order to impress him because he’s already in love.

Tonight, they just sleep peacefully in each other’s arms as (almost) mates.

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 2 | 4 | 5

Chapters: 3 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: HOLY HELL BEEN COLLECTING THEM MOMENTS LIKE RHINESTONES. Btw, if ya wanna follow me on instahgram and wanna learn more with what is going on with my situation: scar.lunaa

The next morning, Y/N walks into the office, feeling the weight of yesterday still lingering in the back of her mind. She wasn’t sure what to expect from Jungkook today, but when he arrives, he does something odd. His eyes scan the room lazily, skipping over everyone else as if they don’t exist, and then he greets only her.

“Morning, Y/N,” he says, his tone casual, but something about the way he looks at her feels… off. Like she’s the only one in the room.

The rest of the office barely notices, but Y/N does. Her stomach tightens as she gives a small nod in return. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t start a conversation—just acknowledges her and moves on.

The day progresses, but somehow, they keep gravitating toward each other. Coffee breaks turn into casual chats, stolen moments between tasks stretch longer than necessary, and their smoke breaks? Those become something else entirely.

“You’re late,” Jungkook mutters as Y/N steps outside for their second cigarette of the day.

“I had work to do.” She rolls her eyes, lighting up.

Jungkook smirks, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Tch. Excuses.”

Their conversations are easy, but there’s an edge to them now. A push and pull. Y/N feels bolder today, maybe because she’s growing used to the way Jungkook just… is. The way he leans against the wall, the way his lips curve around his cigarette. The way he says things without saying them.

So she asks, “Do the girls you sleep with ever catch feelings for you?”

Jungkook glances at her, amused but not surprised. “Yeah.”

Y/N expected that. What she didn’t expect was how casually he says it, like it’s a simple fact, like he’s completely detached from it.

“I’m always upfront about it, though,” he continues, flicking ash to the ground. “They know not to expect anything else from me.”

Something about the way he says it makes Y/N pause. It’s honest, blunt. Almost cruel, but not quite.

Still, she keeps going. “Have you ever caught feelings?”

Jungkook takes a drag, eyes flickering to hers. This time, his answer takes a beat longer.

“Yeah,” he admits. “But it was different. It wasn’t about her, it was about the sex.”

Y/N’s breath catches, but she keeps her face neutral. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook exhales, gaze darkening just slightly. “She made me fall for her. She got on top, took control. It was like…” He trails off, tilting his head as if searching for the right words. “Like she melted me. I couldn’t get enough of her.”

Y/N’s cheeks burn. Not just from his words but from how easily he says them, how shameless he is about his own experiences. Meanwhile, she hasn’t even had her first kiss.

But somehow, she doesn’t shrink back. Instead, she presses on, confidence bubbling up from nowhere. “What happened to her?”

Jungkook’s smirk fades a little. He glances away, tapping his cigarette. “Got into a real relationship. Lost contact with her after that.”

There’s something final in the way he says it, but Y/N doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he still remembers. Like maybe, in some way, she still lingers in the back of his mind.

And for some reason, that makes her feel something she doesn’t quite understand.

Y/N takes a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she side-eyes Jungkook. “You know, if I become your personal therapist, I’m gonna start charging you.”

Jungkook chuckles, tilting his head. “Good thing I already have one then.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And how’s that going for you?”

“She’s good,” he admits, tapping his cigarette to flick the ash. “I’ve been seeing her for a while now. Helps clear my head.”

Y/N nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “That’s good. Therapy helps.” She pauses, then casually adds, “I’ve been going for seven years now.”

Jungkook glances at her, something shifting in his expression. It’s not pity, not surprise—just understanding. A quiet acknowledgment. He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t push, and Y/N appreciates that.

They finish their cigarettes in comfortable silence before heading back inside.

-

Back in the office, the workload slows down, leaving them with time to kill. Jungkook pulls up YouTube on his screen, clicking through random videos. Y/N, bored out of her mind, leans over. “What are you watching?”

Jungkook smirks. “Something stupid.”

“Perfect. I love stupid things.” She pulls her chair closer, watching along with him.

As the video plays, she barely notices Mina watching them from across the room. That is, until she catches the knowing smirk on her colleague’s face. Y/N rolls her eyes playfully but doesn’t bother acknowledging it.

Mina doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough. Y/N knows what’s going through her head.

She ignores it, choosing instead to focus on the video playing in front of her, though she’s keenly aware of Jungkook’s presence beside her.

-

Later, they step out for another break. The air is cooler now, and the office lights glow against the darkening sky.

Jungkook suddenly starts humming a tune, his voice effortlessly smooth as he moves to the rhythm. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he starts playfully dancing—small, exaggerated moves that are meant to be ridiculous.

Y/N watches, amused. “Are you—?”

Before she can finish, Jungkook grins and walks toward her, his movements slow and teasing. When he reaches her, his fingers brush against her elbow, gliding down to her wrist in a light touch.

Y/N feels it instantly. A warmth that spreads up her arm, a static charge that makes her freeze. Her breath catches for a split second, and when she lifts her eyes, she finds his already on hers.

The moment is brief—just a second, maybe less—but it’s enough to send her mind spiraling.

She quickly tries to laugh it off, shaking her head. “Jungkook, please. Don’t give me a lap dance in public.”

He snorts, amused, but Y/N’s insides are a mess. Because in all the time they’ve spent together, he hasn’t once touched her. Not like that.

And now she doesn’t know what to make of it.

She stepped back, beath hitched, cheeks flushed a little as she cleared her throat, silence between them for a few minutes. He suddenly huffs out a sigh and says, “Man, I feel like going out to a bar tonight.”

Y/N glances at him, unimpressed. “So go out.”

Jungkook smirks, tilting his head at her. “I don’t have a girlfriend to go with.”

Y/N snorts, flicking her cigarette. “Then go with one of the girls you sleep with.”

He laughs, the sound deep and genuine. “Damn. You really said that without hesitation.”

Y/N shrugs, amused at his reaction. “Why not? You have plenty of options.”

Jungkook shakes his head, leaning back against the railing. “Nah. That’s different.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

Jungkook looks at her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a small smirk, he says, “Going out drinking is… I don’t know. More of a ‘spend-time-with-someone-you-like’ thing.”

Y/N blinks, momentarily thrown off by his words. It’s the way he says it—so nonchalant, yet there’s an underlying weight to it.

She recovers quickly, scoffing. “You ‘like’ a lot of people then, huh?”

Jungkook chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. “Touché.”

But for some reason, the conversation lingers in the air between them, unspoken questions hanging in the space they don’t dare to fill.

-

Their last break of the day comes with an unexpected drizzle, the sky dark and heavy with rain. Y/N and Mina stand under the small roof outside the office building, watching as the streetlights shimmer against the wet pavement.

“I swear, this weather is just depressing,” Mina mutters, hugging her arms.

Y/N exhales, leaning against the cold wall. “Yeah, well, at least it’s not snowing.”

The door creaks open, and Jungkook steps out, hands stuffed into his pockets. He takes one look at the rain and clicks his tongue. “Tch. Of course, it starts raining now.”

He moves closer, joining them under the tiny shelter. The space suddenly feels smaller with him there.

“What are you two talking about?” he asks, looking between them.

“Just complaining about the weather,” Mina says with a small smile.

Jungkook hums in response, then turns to Y/N with a smirk. “Bet you hate it even more, Miss I-Refuse-To-Bring-An-Umbrella.”

Y/N scoffs. “Excuse me? I don’t need an umbrella. I thrive in the rain.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah? You’re telling me you don’t look like a drowned rat when it starts pouring?”

Mina stifles a laugh, watching the two of them go at it.

Y/N places a hand over her chest dramatically. “Wow. The disrespect. Just say you think I’m ugly and go.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Jungkook sighs, rolling his eyes before suddenly blurting out, “You know what? I’m gonna eat you up.”

Silence.

Mina’s jaw drops. Y/N’s eyes widen.

The rain is the only sound between them for a few seconds before Y/N quickly recovers, laughing. “Well, too bad. I’m poisonous.”

Jungkook shrugs, completely unfazed. “Been told that before.”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “I mean it, though. I’m actually toxic.”

Jungkook tilts his head, studying her for a moment. Then, with a smirk, he says, “We’ll see about that.”

The air is thick with something unspoken, something electric. Mina stays quiet, eyes flicking between them like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t.

Jungkook flicks his cigarette, then stretches. “Alright, I’m heading back in.”

As soon as the office door swings shut behind him, Mina immediately bursts into laughter, hitting Y/N’s arm. “What the hell was that?!”

Y/N groans, covering her face. “Don’t start.”

Mina is relentless, grinning like a madwoman. “He said he was gonna eat you up. Y/N. What is going on?!”

Y/N shakes her head, laughing despite herself. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Mina wiggles her eyebrows. “Well, I do. And I like it.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can’t ignore the way her heart is still beating a little too fast. “You know who calls he he is gonna eat me up? My husband.” Mina confesses and Y/N stiffens a little. “It’s just a friendly banter!” “That’s not what his eyes told, for a second I felt a third wheel, you two looked at each others eyes, like damn.” Y/N frowned and took a drag from her cigarette, not being able to say anything else for a few minutes. “Let’s go back up, I am freezing.” Y/N mumbled and Mina agreed, both climbed the stairs and got back into the office. -

Later that evening, Y/N finds herself sprawled out on her bed, phone pressed against her ear as she vents to her best friend, Luna.

“I swear, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore,” Y/N groans, rubbing her temples. “Jungkook is just—ugh. He’s so confusing.”

Luna hums on the other end of the line. “Okay, slow down. What happened now?”

Y/N sighs dramatically. “We spent the whole day together. Like, literally, from morning to our last break. And the way he acts sometimes—it’s like he’s flirting, but I don’t even think he realizes it. He probably just treats all the girls he sleeps with the same way.”

There’s a pause before Luna responds. “And that bothers you?”

Y/N huffs. “It’s not that it bothers me. It’s just… frustrating. All the men in my life have been so indecisive, and I’ve lost hope that Jungkook is any different. He probably just thinks I could be one of them.”

Luna stays quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Okay, first of all, let’s break this down.”

Y/N groans. “I knew you were gonna get all psychologist on me.”

“You called me, Y/N.” Luna laughs. “Now shut up and listen.”

Y/N rolls her eyes but stays quiet.

Luna continues, “Jungkook is naturally playful, yeah? He’s charming, flirty—some people just are like that without realizing it. But here’s the thing: if he really treated you like he treats the girls he sleeps with, don’t you think he would’ve made a move by now?”

Y/N opens her mouth, then closes it. She hadn’t considered that.

Luna presses on. “And if he only saw you as an option, don’t you think he’d already be trying to take you home? Instead, he’s spending time with you. He’s making you flustered. He’s testing the waters.”

Y/N frowns. “Testing the waters?”

“Yes! He’s trying to see how you react. And from what you’ve told me, he doesn’t just treat you like some random hookup.”

Y/N groans again, flopping onto her stomach. “Then what the hell does he want?”

Luna chuckles. “That’s for you to figure out, babe.”

Y/N groans dramatically, dragging a pillow over her face. “I hate men.”

Luna snickers. “Sure, sure. Keep me updated when he flirts with you again tomorrow.”

Y/N doesn’t respond, but deep down, she knows she’ll have plenty to tell.

[cherrylibby]

Unspoken Words

The Hard Deck was alive with the usual chaos—a mix of laughter, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional clink of billiard balls. But Jake couldn’t focus on any of it. His eyes were locked on you, sitting at the bar with a drink in hand, seemingly lost in thought.

He sighed as Bradley’s voice buzzed in his ear, growing more frustrated by Jake’s lack of attention.

"I’m listening," Jake lied smoothly, his gaze darting back to you, his smirk deepening when he caught you stealing a glance his way.

Bradley groaned. "No, you’re not. You’re staring at her again."

Jake ignored him, already halfway to standing as he grabbed his beer and started toward you.

You noticed him immediately, and a wave of annoyance washed over you. "Great," you muttered under your breath, pretending not to see him as he slid up beside you.

"Hey, sweetheart," Jake greeted casually, leaning one elbow on the bar as he turned his full attention to you.

"What do you want, Jake?" you sighed, barely sparing him a glance.

"Ouch." He chuckled, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "Not even a hello? You’re killing me here."

"Hello," you said flatly, turning back to your drink. "Goodbye."

Jake chuckled, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masked with his usual charm. "You know, you don’t have to play hard to get. I already know you like me."

You turned to him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. "Excuse me?"

He smirked. "Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention."

"Wow," you deadpanned. "The ego on you is truly something to behold."

Jake laughed, but the sound was softer this time, almost vulnerable. "You say that, but you’re still talking to me."

You rolled your eyes, setting your drink down with a little more force than necessary. "Only because you won’t leave me alone."

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "What if I told you there’s a reason for that?"

"Let me guess," you said, crossing your arms. "Because you think you’re irresistible and I’m just another name on your list of conquests?"

Jake’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, something raw flashed across his face. "You really think that’s all you are to me?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

"Isn’t it?" you shot back. "You flirt with everyone, Jake. Why would I be any different?"

"Because you are different!" he snapped, surprising you with the sudden intensity in his tone. "God, do you have any idea what you do to me? I can’t even sit in a room with you without losing my damn mind."

You stared at him, momentarily stunned by his outburst. "Jake, I…"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, stepping closer. "I flirt because it’s easy. Because it keeps things light and stops me from getting in too deep. But with you… it’s not easy. It’s terrifying."

"Why?" you asked, your voice softer now.

"Because you matter," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "Because you’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like this, and I don’t know what to do with it."

"Jake…" you started, but he wasn’t done.

"I know I’ve screwed up," he continued, his eyes searching yours. "I know I’ve given you every reason to think I don’t care. But I do. More than I can put into words. And yeah, maybe I flirt too much, and maybe I’m an idiot, but I’m your idiot if you’ll have me."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, but your walls were still up. "And what about the brunette? Or the one before her? How do I know this isn’t just another game to you?"

Jake exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "They didn’t mean anything. None of them did. I was just… trying to distract myself. From you. From how much I want you and how scared I am of messing this up."

"You’re scared?" you asked, a hint of disbelief in your tone.

"Terrified," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because you’re not like anyone else. You see through all my bullshit, and you still manage to get under my skin. And the thought of losing you before I even have you? It kills me."

The air between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken tension. Jake stepped closer, his hands hesitating before settling on your hips. "I’m not asking you to trust me right away," he said quietly. "But I’m asking for a chance. A real one. Let me prove to you that I’m serious."

You looked into his eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity. "Jake…"

"Please," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Say something before I embarrass myself even more."

You took a deep breath, your resolve wavering. "You're such an idiot," you whispered, your voice barely audible. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

Jake's hands found their way to your waist, gripping gently at first, then with more certainty as he kissed you back with fervor.

His lips moved against yours with an intensity that made your heart race. When he finally pulled away, both of you were left breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

Jake cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle but grounding. His soft laugh broke the silence, warm and relieved. "Yeah," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I'm your idiot."

For the first time, you didn’t correct him.

[queenshelby]

Playing Doctor

Pairing: Tommy Shelby (Stepfather) x Reader (Stepdaughter)

Warning: DDLG, No-Plot

Requested: YES! P.s. sorry anon it took me so long!

It was your 20th birthday a few weeks ago and your stepfather, Thomas Shelby, whom you have been calling 'daddy' for some time now, insisted on having a little chat with you after everyone else had retired for the night.

Just like every other night, when you walked into his study, you noticed that it was dimly lit, the faintest glow seeping through the heavy oak furniture inside.

"Close the door, and lock it sweetheart," he ordered you as you stepped into the room and you replied with a simple "yes daddy" as you had learnt. 

He sat facing you, the chair groaning softly under his weight, hands folded on his lap. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked the seconds away with a solemnity that filled the room.

"Good girl," he murmured, a hint of a smile flickering on his lips before gesturing for you to have a seat. "Always so well behaved ."

You nodded meekly, suppressing a shiver as his eyes swept over you, taking in every detail of your appearance. 

Thomas Shelby was not an easy man to read. He held the world in a tight grip, his ruthless intelligence driving his criminal empire ever forward.

Beneath that rough exterior, though, a darkness festered, a secret that he took great care to keep hidden. His home was a castle, sealed from the outside world, and inside that castle you were his most prized possession.

"Now sweetheart, do you remember when daddy said that, after you turned twenty, there would come a day where you would have to take care of daddy's needs sometimes?" he asked , eyes searching your face.

You lowered your gaze, nodding nervously, unable to keep your voice from betraying your anxiety when you said, "Yes daddy," not knowing what this would entail.

"Good girl , I knew you'd remember," he replied with a ghost of a smile.  "Now tonight, I think, daddy just wants to play a little game with you. You like games, don't you?"

Thomas said, rising from his chair and approaching you slowly. The tension in the air was palpable as he stood over you.

"Yes daddy," you said, smiling. "What kind of game do you want to play? Do you want to play cards ?" Your question was barely audible, but he heard you nonetheless.

"No sweetheart," he said, running his fingers over your hair, playing with it. His hands then wandered down to your neck, leaving you slightly short of breath. "No cards tonight."

The way his fingers trailed up and down the nape of your neck sent shivers down your spine, making you tremble in your seat. Despite the fear creeping in, you held Thomas' gaze.

"Tonight, daddy wants to play doctor and patient," he explained, his tone softer than ever, lips curling in a smile that sent another chill down your spine.

"Doctor and patient?" You whispered, not entirely certain where he was going with this, but feeling the weight of it settle heavily on your shoulders.

"Yes, darling, you see, there are some things daddy needs to check. Just like a real doctor would," he assured you, eyes gleaming mysteriously in the dim light. "So you will pretend to be the patient, and I will be the doctor. Alright?"

Your heart began to race, your breathing shallow.

"I'm not sure if I know how to do that, daddy," you admitted, swallowing hard.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll show you," he cooed, stepping closer to you until he stood right in front of you. "But first, daddy needs his good little girl to take off her pretty panties." 

You blinked, taken aback. "Right now?" you asked in a small voice, eyes wide with fear and confusion.

He nodded faintly.

Slowly, you pulled yourself up to your feet and reached under your gown to remove the only barrier between him and his exploration. You felt a shiver of embarrassment, even shame, as you dropped them on the floor before stepping out of them.

"That's a good girl," Thomas murmured approvingly, his hand reaching out to gently touch your cheek. "Now remember, darling, we are just playing a game here. Nothing more, nothing less," Thomas reassured, though the words did little to comfort you.

Despite his attempt at being gentle, there was a hint of steel in his eyes that reminded you of who exactly was in charge here. The tension in the air had grown unbearable, the oppressive silence of the room weighing heavily on your shoulders.

"Now I am going to put a towel here, so that we can be clean and comfortable," Thomas told you, pointing to the sofa in the corner of the room. He picked up a towel folded neatly on a cabinet, placing it on the bed. Then he looked at you, giving a reassuring nod before walking towards you.

You stood still, waiting for his instructions. He approached you slowly and met your eyes, his gaze piercing. With a steady hand, he guided you towards the sofa.

"Up on the towel, baby girl," he whispered impatiently. You complied, sitting on the fluffy towel, legs shut tight.

"Lean back and lift your feet up onto the couch. Then let your knees fall apart for daddy," he said. His instructions came out as if he was talking about the most normal thing in the world. 

"But daddy, you will see my private parts," you said, your voice shaky with worry.

"That's the idea sweetheart," he murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "We need to make sure you are ready down there for daddy to make you a woman."

You shuddered, but slowly lifted your feet onto the couch like he instructed. Then, you let your knees fall apart. You could feel a profound chill in the room, like it was waiting with bated breath for what would come next.

"Good girl," Thomas said soothingly, stroking your hair as he kneeled down in front of you. 

You watched as he placed a bottle of lubricant on the table next to him, along with some tissues.

"Keep your legs open for me, sweetheart," he murmured, gently shifting your legs apart.

"But daddy," you whispered, gripping the edges of the couch, as his hands made their way up your thighs.

"Shh, good girl. Daddy will just have a look inside your little hole now, okay?" He asked gently, his thumb now tracing the outline of your opening cautiously before using two fingers to open your labia.

You couldn't find words. You stared at the books lining his shelves, watching the dust particles glint in the dim light as he opened you up.

"Daddy's girl is so nice and pink inside," he commented, seemingly pleased at the sight of your insides.  "And I can see that you have been a good girl and have not been fooling around with any boys yet, haven't you sweetheart?"

"No, daddy," you replied weakly, glancing away from the intimate scene unfolding before you.

"That's good. Just like you promised me. Good girl," he said in a low voice, before leaning down even closer to you.

"And now daddy's going to put one of his fingers inside your precious little hole, okay?" Thomas murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could respond, he pressed his index finger gently against your opening and pushed it in slowly, making you gasp.

"Shh ," he urged you, his voice soft and low as if he was trying to soothe a frightened kitten. "Daddy's is going to be gentle. Promise."

You bit your lip and nodded, unable to find your voice in the turmoil of your thoughts. The feeling of his rough finger inside your slick warmth was alien, unwelcome, yet not entirely unpleasant.

Thomas's gaze remained fixed on his hand between your legs, and you could see the corners of his lips pull up in a slight smirk. "You're doing great, honey. I'm going to try and move it around a little," he said soothingly, as if trying to encourage a frightened animal.

He gently moved his finger in and out, his thumb pressing against your clitoris.

As uncomfortable as the intrusion was, something changed in you as he explored and touched you. A strange, hot sensation bloomed in your belly and spread downward with each of his movements. You felt yourself growing wetter and tried to squirm away, but Thomas held you steady.

"Shh, sweetheart, don't be scared," he whispered. "This is okay.

This is just a game," you told yourself, trying to convince yourself that the feeling in your body was not real. But the truth was, your bodies had a language of their own and the way Thomas touched you, the way he moved inside you, seemed to speak louder than any words.

"You're a natural, sweetheart," Thomas said, his voice still soothing. You swallowed the painful lump in your throat and nodded, not responding as you listened to the sounds of his finger slipping in and out of your hole.

"I am going to add another finger now, okay sweetheart?" he said, inserting his middle finger beside his index one carefully, stretching our your small opening.

Your body tensed at the sensation, but Thomas kept you calm with soothing words. "Relax, sweetheart. I know it's strange, but you need to relax so I can check everything," Thomas assured you, and you tried your best to oblige.

"It feels funny down there , daddy," you admitted, wincing slightly as his fingers probed deeper.

"That's normal, my sweet girl. You're just not used to it yet," Tommy whispered as he began to move his fingers in and out of you with more conviction. "Your body needs to get accustomed to these new sensations, to daddy's touch."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. But then, you nodded silently, closing your eyes and submitting to his touch. From the way he moved his fingers inside you, you could tell that Tommy was definitely an experienced man, which shouldn't have surprised you.

"Daddy 's fingers are quite big, aren't they?" Tommy said nonchalantly, grinning at the look on your face.

You could only blink at him, feeling an odd sort of excitement mingling with the discomfort. 

Tommy then pulled his fingers out, allowing a trail of wetness to run down your inner thigh and, suddenly, the room was heavy with tension, and he looked at you as if he were about to reveal some great secret.

"Oh look how wet you are

, baby girl. Does that feel good?" He asked in a hushed voice, like it was just between the two of you. 

"I think so daddy. It hurts a little but it feels nice and tingly too," you said as you squirmed under his gaze and the soft tugging of your thighs as he gently separated your legs a little further.

Thomas let out a low chuckle as he unbuckled his belt and began to undo his trousers.  "That's good. That is how it is supposed to feel, sweetheart," he teased, his eyes never leaving your face as he traced the outline of his penis through his briefs.

You swallowed nervously, glancing away from his growing bulge and focusing instead on the faint patterns of the tapestry that graced the wall opposite his massive wooden bed.

" Now, I want you to keep those legs open nice and wide," Thomas told you, his voice a low rumble in the dimly lit room as he pushed his trousers and underwear down to his kneed before kneeling in between your legs.

"Daddy,  I don't know about this," you said in a trembling voice, staring at the slightly curved, swollen head of his penis as he moved closer.

"It's okay sweetheart," Tommy said, smirking as he grasped his manhood and continued to approach you. "It's just another part of the game."

"Daddy is just using his special tool now to open up your little hole as it is supposed to be. That's all," he said, trying to reassure you with a gentle tone.

His manhood glistened in the soft lighting of the room, and you couldn't help but feel a knot of fear twist in your stomach as you watched him slowly guide himself towards your entrance.

"Good girl," he said once more as, finally, you felt the tip of his hardness nestled between your labia . He paused for a moment, letting you adjust to the unfamiliar feeling before slowly exhaling and pushing himself inside you just a little.

"Just a little pressure now, sweetheart. I know it hurts your cherry, but daddy will take it nice and slow," Thomas murmured as he inched further inside, drawing hushed gasps from you.

"Daddy 's little princess is doing so well," he reassured softly, with tenderness flickering across his face. With measured thrusts and slow withdraws, Thomas slowly pushed deeper into you.

You bit into your lower lip hard to wrestle back a whimper, gripping the towel beneath you as waves of discomfort danced down your spine. It felt as if your flesh were stretching tight around his shaft, an intimate intrusion that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. 

"I feel really full , daddy," you gasped, your breath hitching as he continued to slowly thrust himself in deeper, your slickness helping to ease his passage.

"I know." Thomas nodded solemnly, placing his hands gently on either side of your hips. "Daddy's special tool is almost all  the way inside you now, darling. It gets comfortable soon, I promise."

You nodded hesitantly, feeling a strange mix of apprehension and intrigue as your body started to adjust. It wasn't exactly painful anymore, more like a heavy kind of fullness that you found difficult to comprehend.

He leaned forward a little and asked, "How are you feeling now princess?"

You squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to deal with the unfamiliar sensation, before finally managing to stammer, "It's... different, daddy. I feel so full."

Thomas smiled, caressing your cheeks. "That's good , sweetheart. When daddy's inside you, it's just the two of us in our own little world."

He began to move slowly, inching farther inside you while his arms wound around your waist, pulling you even closer to him.

"Now daddy will move his special tool around slowly, okay sweetheart?" he asked gently as he readjusted his position and began to rock back and forth.

"Relax and let daddy take control, just like always," he whispered soothingly in your ear, the warmth from his voice making you more at ease than before.

"O-okay daddy," you said softly, trying to keep still and relax the muscles that clenched around him.

Soon, his pace picked up and your breath came in sync with his as he penetrated you with more force, his chest heaving with exertion as he took you.

The familiar scents of leather, tobacco, and aftershave enveloped your senses as he moved deeper into you.

"Daddy isn't hurting you, baby, is he?" he growled out, his rhythm picking up as he lost himself in you.

"No, daddy. It feels . . . weird, but good too," you breathed out, letting go of the last of your reservations.

"Good," he growled out, his rhythm picking up even more rapidly.

"That's my good girl," he said before running his thumb over your clit while thrusting in and out of you.

Your breath hitched, your heartbeat spiked, and the warm sensation in your tummy blossomed once more.

"Daddy," you gasped, the feeling coursing its way through your veins as you tried to stifle your moans.

"Shh, don't worry, sweetheart. Just let it happen," Thomas assured you between breaths.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back, giving yourself over to the tide of pleasure that washed over you.

The room was hazy around the edges, and all you could focus on was the feeling of Thomas's body moving inside you, the slide of his pole in and out of your warm depths.

"Daddy,"  you murmured, unable to form a complete that could possibly convey the maelstrom of emotion and feeling tearing through you when you finally reached your climax.

The waves of pleasure were so immense and so absolutely consuming that even the word "daddy" seemed to fall short.

But for Thomas, "daddy" was the most important word of all. It was his favorite name to hear pour from your lips, and as he felt you tighten, pulse, and shudder around him in the midst of pure unbridled ecstasy, it was as if the walls of his castle had come crumbling down.

"That's my good, good girl," Tommy murmured earnestly, as he continued to thrust into your tight, wet heat, his hands sliding down your slick flesh to caress your curves, trace your shapes, and drink you in.

"Daddy is going to put some special medicine in your little hole now," he groaned, chasing his own climax now. "It will feel nice and warm when it goes in."

The room was seconds away from exploding, and you closed your eyes tightly as Tommy thrust one last time into you, the walls of your sex contracting around him as he stilled completely.

"Here you go. Fuck," he cursed as he released a torrent of  hot fluid into you.

You could feel him throbbing and pulsing inside you for a moment. It was an odd sensation, something you couldn't quite put into words. It spread through your body, muddling with the remaining echoes of your own climax.

The look on his face was indescribable. His eyes were half-lidded, lips parted in a silent cry, and the lines of stress on his face seemed to melt away for that brief moment.

He stayed there, motionless, for what felt like an eternity. The heaviness of his limbs atop you was oddly soothing.

Some part of you wanted to hold on to that moment, while another part screamed to be let go.

Thomas leaned in close, his lips brushing your cheek. "I'm going to pull out now, baby," he whispered.

You whimpered softly as he carefully slid himself out of you and felt his warm essence dribble down the insides of your thighs. 

"You're daddy's good girl, aren't you?" he murmured proudly in your ear. "Now lets check if everything went well."

He looked into your eyes as his fingers gently explored your entrance. You shivered slightly at his cold touch, both physically and emotionally as a feeling of shame washed over you. You couldn't help but feel embarrassed that moments earlier, you had welcomed this very same intrusion with pleasure.

Thomas started sliding his fingers in and out softly, observing your reaction. It wasn't long before a slight flush crept up your cheeks. "It looks perfect," he told you. "Just a tiny bit swollen." Thomas approved, smiling warmly as he tucked his fingers away before planting a tender kiss on the tip of your nose.

[rcmclachlan]

8x15 spec fic (like, how does tommy get involved with the big emergency? but also i just want tommy to have people, too.)

+

Once Buckley starts begging for help—"please, please, if there's a-anyone out there, if anyone's listening, I'm... please, they're my family"—over an open channel through deep, heaving sobs that sounded like they're being dragged out of his belly and drawing blood on their way out, Dana figures Kinard's probably already in the air and halfway to where they're holding the rogue scientist at Fort MacArthur. But to her surprise, he's still on the ground, standing apart from everyone currently clustered around Captain Melton's desk. He's aging fifteen years before her very eyes, looking like someone's stuck a pitchfork in his gut and is starting to turn it.

Kinard values privacy more than anything and would be mortified if anyone saw feel a single emotion that wasn't humor, so she looks away.

The entire crew has been glued to the radio for the last twenty minutes as though Orson Welles is the one delivering the dramatic relaying of the 118's impending doom and how it's the only thing keeping them from being charged with domestic terrorism. For the life of her, Dana will never understand how it's always them getting into these situations. There are 106 fire stations in Los Angeles; 105 of them somehow manage to avoid getting caught up in Armageddon on the regular. She's dying to know what their insurance premiums look like.

Movement out of the corner of her eye startles her into looking up again just in time to see a large, tall flash of blue storm out of the hangar and onto the tarmac.

She has to give Kinard credit. He lasted much longer than she'd expected: almost a full minute.

Dana is at least a head shorter than everyone else on the team, so it's easy for her to slip away without being noticed. Although Lucy does, of course, and Dana gently taps her fingers against the small of Lucy's back as she goes, tilting her head a little at Nico, who's standing to Lucy's left.

Lucy has always operated on Dana's wavelength, which makes working with her a genuine pleasure, because Dana never has to waste time with talking, with explaining her reasoning for anything. Lucy just seems to know what Dana needs from her. Nico's convinced they're able to speak telepathically, and sometimes Dana can't argue against the possibility.

Even now, Lucy just inclines her head slightly and disguises it by acting like she's leaning in to hear the radio better. Before Dana leaves the office, she sees Lucy nudge Nico. 

They've been grounded ever since Captain Nash disobeyed the order, and the silence that has befallen the hangar fills Dana with dread as she walks out onto the tarmac, because a quiet base means trouble. A quiet base is death.

By the time she reaches the Bell 505 that Kinard's apparently chosen for whatever he's planning, he's strapped in and about to shut the door, but she slides into the doorway before he can.

Kinard opens his mouth, most likely to tell her that she can't stop him from what he's about to do, which is patently untrue, but she beats him to the punch.

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean? Of course I'm—"

"I mean are you sure."

She puts a little firmness into her voice, which is hard. She's not soft-spoken by choice. Her vocal cords were already weaker than normal before she joined the LAFD and fighting fires has certainly not helped. 

"It's—" Kinard swallows. "It's him. I have to."

She thinks of the Tommy Kinard from last October, who walked in every shift with a literal bounce in his step and smiled for no reason when he thought no one was watching, and how a different Tommy Kinard started coming to work mid-November. It took him weeks to start eating normally again, to lose the look in his eyes that reminded her of dead trees in standing water, to trust himself enough that he was comfortable being back in the air. 

He'd finally been on the upswing, and everyone on the A-shift had breathed a collective sigh of relief, and then last month it all seemed to come crashing down again. He'd gone home one day smiling and making jokes, and then he was back in Melton's office at the start of his next shift asking to be grounded again. 

"You'll know they'll take your wings for this," Dana says, and he nods. "Is Buckley really worth losing the sky over?" 

Dana had never been a fan of Evan Buckley's even before he took up with Kinard. He was so desperate to be liked by everyone at every scene that it made him impulsive and, quite frankly, annoying. She'd worked with him on two calls and it was like trying to wrangle a very competent puppy. 

When Kinard finally admitted he was seeing the 118's very own walking, talking billboard for Murphy's Law, Dana had been the only one at Harbor who didn't slap him on the back or offer their congratulations. She'd known exactly how it would go, and she didn't relish being right. 

Early on in the new year, she saw Buckley in Vons. He'd been loading an enormous bag of flour into his cart, and although she's certain she didn't make any kind of noise, Buckley had looked up and spotted her. After a moment that felt like a decade of staring, he lifted a hand and attempted a smile that looked painful even from where she'd been standing. She thought about returning the gesture, if only to be the polite lady her mother had desperately tried to raise her to be. Then she thought of how Kinard hadn't so much as glanced at the sky in weeks, and she turned her cart around and walked away. 

Evan Buckley has fought against his own house, the LAFD at large, and seemingly the world for everything he's wanted. The fact he didn't bother fighting for Kinard tells her everything she needs to know. She's certain about Evan Buckley.

"He is." Unfortunately, Kinard is more certain. "I'm sure."

"You will be charged with something none of us will be able to get you out of."

At that, he turns a bewildered smile on her. "Dane, why would you—I'd never expect any of you to try."

Apparently working and defying death together, not to mention countless trivia nights and dinners out, don't make a friendship. It hurts to hear.

"I know you're very attached to your whole lone wolf thing, but you do have people in your corner, Kinard." She holds his gaze and refuses to drop it. He's not going to happily walk into a federal jail cell without hearing what she'd thought was obvious all this time. "You have people who will go to bat for you."

He swallows and jerks his eyes down to his lap, then huffs a wet laugh. "Dane—"

"Which is why Nico's starting a fire in the locker room." 

That gets him to look up. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed. "He's what?"

"Or setting off the sticks of dynamite he keeps in his glove compartment. Whatever he comes up with. Aiding and abetting domestic terrorism necessitates a distraction." She lets a reassuring smile sneak out. "You've got one."

Kinard's lip trembles a little as he stares at her with something like awe, like he's been given a gift he never once expected, but she watches him visibly bite it all back in favor of reaching for the skills and fearlessness that have helped make a name for him at AirOps. She steps out of the doorway and backs up as he turns on the Bell. The explosion of air tries to ruin her hair, but the snood she put her hair into this morning holds firm. 

Through the tint in the windshield, she can see him lift a hand at her. She doesn't hesitate to lift one right back. 

When he's at least 500 feet in the air, she goes to the other Bell and gets on the radio, tuning it for the right frequency. When she lands on the same channel the call had originally come from, she patches in. 

"Firefighter Buckley, please be advised: help is on the way. Keep an eye on the skies." She thumbs off the speaker and watches as Captain Melton comes storming out of his office. As he gets closer, she clicks back in. "And let me be clear, Buckley: if you fuck things up with him again, your very talented medics at the 118 won't be able to fix what I'll do to you."

Satisfied, she places the radio back into its charging port and slides out of the Bell, then heads in the direction of the hangar. It's been quite some time since she's been in the kind of trouble that ends with being put on leave, which she most certainly will be once her voice is identified.

As Captain Melton approaches, she thinks of all the shows clogging up her Hulu queue that she'll finally be able to get to, and smiles.

[beneathashadytree]

LOVE YOU TO DEATH - SYLUS QIN X READER

Warnings : slightly suggestive, making out, alcohol consumption, allusions to “sinning”/religious imagery, reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns!

Genre : domestic fluff with lots of tension!

Word count : 4.5K words (oops…)

Additional notes : This has been a seriously long time coming🙏🏽 It was a commission made by a friend here on Tumblr, based off Type O-Negative’s song “Love You to Death”, and may or may not have gotten carried away with it (hence the delay and the absurd word count😭). Hope you like it!! And let me know what you think of this guys🫶🏽

Commissions are open!

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Masterlist

“Madame!”

The frantic call came from behind her, and with a practiced turn, she faced the red-faced man who’d been running up to her. Keeping her facial expression as placid as possible wasn’t as easy as she was trying to convince herself it was—and especially not after having spent 3 hours in a bedazzled ballroom, head splintering already from the wine and the rapid-fire conversations she’d had to entertain—but she somehow managed it. Coolly, she arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

And though she eyed him with no disdain, her indifference was intimidating enough to force the man to swallow thickly and shift in his place. A flush had settled on his face, fueling her amusement as he took a hesitant step forward. “I… you said you were waiting for something. If… if you don’t mind, would you, well, care for a dance?”

Poor thing. He probably had no idea. She felt a little sympathetic, but her resolve was still hardened. After all, she was well aware that the only possible reason he’d deemed her fitting to approach in the first place was the fact that she was inarguably the most powerful person in the room. This was only mere exploitation, not actual admiration. His hesitation could be chalked up to intimidation. “Thank you, but I’ve got an escort.”

“But, please, you were talking about the firearms deal—!”

A rich chuckle resounded in her ear, followed by the soft smack of lips against her cheek in a kiss. Fond as that gesture was, the upwards flicker of crimson eyes was no less sharp as his gaze became directed at the overly-ambitious upstart. “I see you’re feeling rather bold tonight, Richter. Directly going for such business talks when asking for someone’s hand… a rookie mistake.” Punctuated by the hand settled on her waist, stroking over the silk, it was made more than apparent who her ‘escort’ was.

The young man’s face paled, and she couldn’t deny the twinge of enjoyment she felt as she played along with Sylus. “Indeed. Anyone else would be put off by such open exploitation.”

“But you’re not anyone, are you? I’d even say you like it when I bring up these things,” he quipped back, bringing her in closer by the waist and tucking her against him, before turning to the wide-eyed, speechless man whose trembling seemed to amuse him even more. “We’ll be off now. Be more careful next time.”

And though he said nothing more, it was clear that Sylus’ warning wasn’t just about being tactless. It was a reminder that the most poised, fanged woman in the room stood by his side, and no one else. The only secrets she’d divulge would be to him, in the confines of their own bedroom, and Richter would do well to remember it. Next time—if there ever were to be one—he’d make sure to remember it, or else he wouldn’t be as lenient.

Arm in arm, they left the stuffy ballroom together, and as soon as they were out in the open air, she heaved a sigh in relief. “Gods, I was about to suffocate. Everyone was going on and on about that deal.” Rolling her eyes, she stopped on the sidewalk to slip out of her heels, stretching her toes as they settled against the gravel. “Approached by ten different people, no less, all trying to butt in and include themselves to ensure some profit or the other.”

Within a second, Sylus had already kneeled down to take her heels, carefully twisting her ankle this way and that to try and soothe the ache of the long evening. She sighed again, and his gaze was hard as he looked up at hers. “You shouldn’t have let them bother you. You’ve got enough influence to prohibit them from ever mentioning it in front of you. And I wouldn’t mind exacting punishments in your stead.”

“A privilege I won’t be using any time soon, thank you very much.” With her heels in one hand, he began to steer her by her back with another. Frowning, she looked away from where she’d initially set her sights. “You didn’t let Luke and Kieran bring the bike around tonight for us to go on a joyride after?”

Sylus gave her a pointed look, slightly exasperated but still dyed in fondness. “Given the dress you’re wearing, I’d have to be particularly stupid to force you to hike it up to your hips to ride on. It would’ve been an entirely different thing if you’d worn one of your velvet suits, though.” Maybe he hadn’t noticed it, but his hand on her back was leaving fluttering touches and strokes over the small of her back, right where the fabric started. And maybe that was his little give-away that he enjoyed seeing every inch of exposed skin with that dangerously low-cut back.

It wasn’t long before they were sliding back into their respective seats in his sleek car. The fresh smell of new leather, cooled wine in the compartment, and something a little heady—a little him—made her grow dizzier with each second. Barely a few minutes had passed with her legs crossed when his own rough palm slipped through the slit of the dress and between her knees, gently prying them apart and gliding over the soft skin, before settling on her thigh right underneath the lace edge.

And though he’d done nothing else at all, save flicker his eyes back to her in the rear view mirror and quirk the corner of his lips upwards, squeezing her thigh before turning his attention back to the road, she felt like he’d bared a fraction of his mountain of carefully-hidden desires. And that was one mountain she knew only she had the ability to watch tremble and shake. Perhaps that was another privilege she had, standing by his side.

***

Sylus’ hands on her feet felt like a small piece of heaven made perfectly with her tired self in mind. After he’d carried her out of the car like she’d weighed nothing with her heels dangling from two of his fingers, he’d let her unlock the door with her fingerprint and quickly settled her into the couch without so much as a grunt. And soon his deft fingers were kneading at her soles, earning a hiss or two here and there that let him know he was definitely doing the right thing.

“I take it you failed to break into these new shoes,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he felt out another small knot that had been killing her the entire evening.

Groaning, she clutched at his wrist, the sudden pain sharp and unyielding. “Wasn’t exactly my priority, with so much going on. I was more preoccupied by the fact that Denise fucked up in the middle of the information chain. Had me cleaning up after her.” Despite her twitching, he went on massaging their tendons and muscles, until the frown on her face slowly morphed into a relaxed expression.

“Why do I have to keep telling you not to concern yourself with what’s beneath you?” Again, he sighed, as though it truly pained him to hear her putting herself through this, and then went on to reverently stroke at her calves, gently lifting her legs up for a second so he can take a seat in her place. “You shouldn’t have to do the dirty work. We’ve got lackeys for that.”

“You say that, but you’re really just pushing more work onto Luke and Kieran,” she scoffed, flicking his fingers away, instead pushing forward and draping herself across his lap, the slit on the side of the dress revealing more of her thigh as she did. A not-so-small part of her absolutely reveled in the way his eyes tracked her every movement, following the fabric as it slipped away and darkening with every inch of soft skin it exposed to his gaze. “And besides, I kind of like letting everyone know that I’m aware of everything going on, now and then.”

“An ego trip then?” Sylus teased, before bumping his nose with hers, hungrily taking in the catch in her breath. “Mm. Well, it’s a highly deserved one, sweetie.”

With her heart hammering in her chest, it was a wonder she could even come up with any sort of reply, let alone one with her whole heart and snark in it. “Flatterer,” she breathed out, eyes betraying her to glance at his lips, perfectly curled and awaiting her every beck and call. If she wanted to regain her senses any time soon and not completely surrender to the gaping maw of his desires, she had to pull back for a second.

And that she did, though her entire being protested to it. No disappointment marred his features; in fact, if she could call it that, she could detect a glimpse of deeper yearning burning behind his ruby eyes. “You know I don’t. Flatter, I mean. You’re just that good.” His words were double-edged. Her power in the position she held was undeniable, but neither was the fact that he never needed to win her favor to have her feelings in his palm.

It’s just that Sylus always did like the chase, more so than the ever-so-pleasant rewards he reaped afterwards. Part of him always urged her to let him earn her affection, and the wickedness within her wanted to see him grovel for it, just a little. And with how utterly infatuated he was—if those all-consuming eyes of his were anything to go by, in their blazing glory and darkened depths—he’d have no qualms with that. If he truly didn’t like going down on his knees for her, then why did he look so sinfully good doing it?

And why was that image of him imprinted in her mind, playing in an endless loop, tempting her to indulge more and more in his attentions?

Still at what she felt was a safe distance so as not to get devoured by him, she gently patted his cheek, her thumb stroking in rhythm with his own fingers wandering to caress her waist ever-so-tenderly. “Then, why not reward me for my proficient skills?” she coyly asked, nodding her head slightly to the rack so conveniently placed beside them.

“Isn’t it too late for that, sweetie?” he asked, though his arm was already reaching over to the assortment of wines he’d so carefully picked out and left to cool in their chilled compartments. Though Sylus had never said it outright, it was no secret to anyone around that he was a wine connoisseur of his own right. The fact that his darling only wished to indulge in the sweet, sweet aftertaste of ludicrously expensive alcohol with him only made him more eager to have it ready at hand—particularly for moments like these, when the sultry look in her eyes paired with her fluttering touch drove him half to insanity.

It wasn’t so absurd to say that he would do anything to keep her so pliantly perched on his lap, every bit as demanding of his attention as he was willing to give her all of him. And the saccharine smile that grew on her face as he reluctantly pulled away from her waist to uncork the bottle was proof that she knew just how desperate he was for her hands all over him and her eyes solely focused on him.

Expertly, he began to pull out the decanter, only to be stopped by her fingers snaking around his wrist, tugging it back. “Not feeling very patient. I’d rather not wait for it to be aerated.”

He chuckled—a deep, pleasant sound straight from the depths of his chest—clearly pleased by her brazenness. “Straight from the bottle and to the glasses it is. I like it when you demand what you want.” Maybe a few years ago, she would’ve flushed deeply at the manner in which she put herself on the line. But with him, she knew that there was no line, and there was no ‘out there.’ For he was a part of her, nestled between her breasts and buried deep inside her, dormant and yet so awake.

Hadn’t they both willed it to come this far? Hadn’t they both wished to be so entwined that all possible lines blurred and faded? And wasn’t this complete and utter surrender to one another only natural after such implicit involvement with each other? She didn’t mind it one bit, if it meant that he was as much as hers as she was his in every meaning of the word. Perhaps that’s why the prospect of being so bare in front of him wasn’t at all daunting. In fact, part of it even felt somewhat exhilarating.

“You make it a habit to bring out my most selfish traits,” she breathed out a semblance of a laugh, watching as he pulled out the two most luxurious crystal glasses he owned, reserved only for their late night wine-entrenched conversations. “I suppose you’ll have to do as I say then, to make up for ruining me like that.” Her voice dipped into a low purr, and she grinned at the flush that colored the tips of his ears, despite how focused he seemed on the task at hand. Like clockwork; like it was some sort of muscle memory he’d acquired over the years he’d spent enamored by her and the words spelled out by her tongue and coated in an almost-innocent tipsiness.

“I’m already bartending for you now. But you can have three more wishes before the night’s done,” Sylus lazily said, stoppering the bottle once again as the sweet scent of his favorite Merlot enveloped her senses; a scent dipped in promises and secret whispers of devotion.

Part of her wondered when she’d started finding drinking so enjoyable, particularly when with him. She couldn’t really think of a specific point in time when his lavish lifestyle had started imprinting itself on her, but somewhere down the line she’d begun to wait for quiet nights of winding down like this. Wrapped up in his embrace, her body heating up with every single one of his achingly tender caresses, both with his practiced fingers and his gaze full of intent… more often than not she ended up sprawled all over him, clothes in various states of disarray as he ravished her—heart, body, and soul.

Leaning further into him and hooking her leg around his waist, the fabric of her dress completely exposed her leg hip-down. She pretended not to notice how he faltered in his actions, momentarily distracted by her as he always was. After all this time, it still left a pleasantly bubbling feeling in her chest to see him react that way to her; like he was being bewitched by her silhouette for the very first time. Laughing, she asked, “And will that power over you vanish at midnight too?”

“It depends on whether or not you play your cards right,” Sylus simply said, after having topped off their wine almost right to the brim, splurging over her just like he always did.

He knew all too well that she could manage him just as expertly as she handled every extravagant ballroom, every meeting hidden in the shadows, and every viciously-worded deal. There were no wrong cards in her deck.

Remorse was something she should’ve been feeling at least a twinge of; engaging in Sylus’ hedonistic lifestyle wasn’t something she’d have been proud to admit a while back. But then again, everything was a whirlwind of passion and earnest intensity when it came to him. Getting caught up in the eye of the storm was no surprise. And when the storm had eyes that twinkled over twin glasses of red wine that matched it, and a smile so wicked and yet so unbeguiling as she was handed one to sip from, then there was nothing to stop her from hurtling towards the edge and accepting the devil’s hand.

Maybe she’d have to beg for heavenly forgiveness for indulging in all her vices, unabashedly. But Sylus had far too much to atone for, and if she knew anything about him, it was that he’d much rather get on his knees to please her than to plead for mercy from divine powers. And though he wasn’t below her at the moment, looking up with lascivious want, he made sure that his palm drawing shapes at the small of her back let her know just exactly how much he craved the closeness of her body.

She carefully sipped on the wine, savoring its tang and sharpness paired with its sweet warmth in the way she’d grown to enjoy, all without breaking eye contact with him. It was a calculated move; almost devious of her to do that when she knew that no matter how much he feigned being collected in front of her, it was no more than a front—one that quickly collapsed after she pulled the glass away and daring to lick drops of Merlot off her lip for a few more seconds.

She could practically feel him groan before she could hear it, and she wickedly flashed him her canines, intently pressing the inside of her thighs against his hip, soft flesh flush against his suit pants, the fabric between them not stopping him from feeling every inch of her. Still, her movements were languid and relaxed. It couldn’t have been the wine; she’d barely had a few sips, not even half the glass, and her drinking habits in public weren’t known for being excessive. But perhaps she was drunk on him and on this moment, and she could feel her body easing into that relaxed state that only he’d ever witness her in.

To the entirety of the N109 Zone, she was unmatched in power, with or without Sylus by her side. To be able to command a room with so much refined and perfected grace, she’d have to have already long demanded respect with her presence alone. But in his arms, playfully peering into his eyes and watching how they roved over every inch of her, and how his Adam's apple bobbed with his thick swallow, she was just a lover who’d stripped away all her inhibitions—and his. A lover he was clearly too entranced by to properly function, if the slight tremor that shook his hand and spilt a few drops of wine onto his throat was anything to go by.

And gods, just seeing the rouge staining his skin and slowly trickling down to his clavicles was enough temptation to drive her insane. Impulsively, she placed a hand on the broad planes of his chest, leaning in so close that she couldn’t escape the scent of his cologne and slight musk. Her tongue darted out, licking a stripe up his neck, and earning a sharp hiss of their name. “Spilled some wine,” she mumbled into his skin, as though that were enough of an explanation, lips sucking a deep red mark onto him. Tensing underneath her, his own hand instinctively dug deeper into her back, pressing them even closer together.

“Minx,” his deep voice rumbled, all out of sorts as though she’d sent him in a daze. Some pride swelled within her as she pulled back a bit to admire her own work of art, the soft skin marred by her stark claim on him. His silver hair had gotten mussed along the way, strands falling in front of his hooded, lust-addled eyes. Even if he hadn’t said it out loud, it was clear that she’d turned him to putty with just one kiss to his neck. With a smirk, she slowly took his half-empty glass of wine and set it on the coffee table beside the couch.

How many times had Sylus regarded her with this much unadulterated want, like if she disappeared for a moment he’d grow mad? She couldn’t count on one hand; couldn’t even begin to recall the first time he’d tied himself down to her. But there was something so dizzyingly satisfying about having such an intimidating man submit to her in every way. Something about the way his hand traced up a path to her shoulder blades, barely covered by the almost-backless fabric of the dress, and his eyes consumed her whole, wine-stained lips curled in a lovesick smile… something about him almost made her delirious.

“You’re the messy drinker,” she shrugged, feigning innocence as she hooked an arm around his neck and toyed with the silken hair at his nape, delighting in the way his eyes momentarily fluttered shut at the contact. “Can’t blame me for taking the chance.”

He inhaled sharply, then let out a breathy laugh as his now-free hand settled on her waist, perching her right on top of him and completely disregarding just how dangerously close he was to completely baring her with that open slit of the dress. “Though I disagree on that slight to my character, at least now you can’t blame me either when I take my chances.”

And then Sylus was kissing her, all softened lips and cherry-flavored lip balm showered in the headiness of well-warmed wine. His hands soothed her aching muscles and yet kindled fire to life underneath her dewy skin, while his tongue caressed hers like a lover’s touch after a long absence. He kissed her like he’d missed her; like he’d been wanting this for too long that he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe properly without her lips on his, and without her wet moans.

He swallowed her every sound like he possessed it—and her, with the greediness of a sun threatening to burn her world whole. But all he ever really was was the all-encompassing night, his shadows curled around hers and his reverent touch bathed in moonlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. Adoration seeped even through his sighs and soft-spoken mutters between stolen breaths, and she wondered if sin should taste as pure as it did from his mouth.

Her hand reached up and her fingers dug into his hair, seeking purchase to ground herself and try to regain an ounce of sanity. An impossible feat that was, especially when his hand had dipped to lightly finger her spine and elicit shivers from the depths of her, while his lips ravished her. Daringly, she nipped at his bottom lip, slightly raising herself off his lap for a moment as she relished in the shaky curse that left him. And with a swift tug, he pulled her back down flush against him, the carnal passion in his eyes completely drowning out his irises.

Not for long though, as the sudden jerk had caused a sloshing sound, and they were both made aware of the fact that it had slipped her mind to set aside her now-empty glass of wine. Whatever was left of it now stained Sylus’ shirt with rose splatters, the wet fabric sticking even more taut against his skin. The glass had already come precariously close to slipping from between her fingertips, with the way he’d distracted her from reality and all common sense with his wicked mouth—but now, he was positively drenched, and somehow, miraculously, without even an annoyed pinch between his eyebrows as he set her glass down.

Perhaps it was because he knew he was to blame for her spiraling in a haze.

Failing to hold back a chortle, she tried (to no avail, of course) to pat at his shirt with a tissue from the coffee table. “If it’s any consolation, pink suits you too,” she managed to make out between peals of laughter. “Though we could’ve bought a rose shirt instead. Less of a hassle, y’know. Infinitely easier to clean.”

Shaking his head as he snickered, Sylus extracted her hands off him, tissue and all, and she climbed off his lap so that he could move freely. “And make your life less interesting? Now, where’s the fun in that, sweetie?” He was quick to shuck off his clothes, throwing them off on the arm rest and running a hand through his hair.

Flushed and disheveled, with kiss-swollen lips and a dampened chest and neck, he looked like the epitome of godless and lawless beauty. No heaven would take him when he lived like he did, but he was a small piece of debauched heaven she stowed away for herself. And having him shirtless like this while she stood above him with shaky legs and warmth trickling through her blood like thick molasses was going to be the death of her.

“You’re getting drunk.” He didn’t ask it, merely stated it as an observation. It didn’t take her long to ponder it, and then she nodded, earning a huff of a laugh from him. He stood up, readjusting the waistband of his pants and gently picking her up in a clumsier carry than earlier. Her dress creased in his grip, but it seemed that neither of them had it in them to care at the moment, nor did it matter that her entire leg had slipped out of the slip. “Lightweight.” And that teasing jab was all he needed to say for her to know that their little fun had been put on hold—just for the night, of course, as he carried her off to bed.

“Like you’re usually any better. Spoilsport,” she bit back, though it held no malice and little force. If anything, fondness seeped into her voice, enamored by the realization that he’d pulled back for her. And how could she have it in her to complain, when he’d taken such good care of her the entire evening? Such tender-hearted care didn’t go unnoticed; not when her eyes only ever saw him, and her ears nestled against his chest could find solace in the rapid fluttering of his heartbeat.

“You’ll thank me in the morning, when you don’t have to nurse a hangover or a sore body.”

Climbing up the stairs shook her body in his embrace, and she tightened her hold around him. Unsurprisingly, as though he’d truly predicted it, she could feel herself growing more drowsy with each step he took, and it took her effort to keep her eyes half-open. Her words were little above a mumble when she replied, “Take my makeup off and I’ll double my thanks in advance.”

“Mm. I’ll ask to cash in, first thing when you wake up.” Even his voice sounded more distant now as she could vaguely sense him pushing their bedroom door open.

“Greedy.”

“And shameless,” came his soft agreement, before slowly setting her down on the plush mattress and nestling her head into her pillow. Her eyes focused on him for a second, taking in that lovelorn smile and affectionate gaze that always, always followed her, before non-verbally handing him her trust and letting go of him, leaving him to walk off.

And before Sylus had even come back with her makeup remover in tow, she’d already succumbed to the viselike grip of a blissful slumber, surrounded by the familiar scent of him all over their bed, and the soothing pressure of him on top of her, taking such achingly gentle care of her like he’d always promised to.

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