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pearlymel · 10 months ago

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A dance— Capitano

Synopsis : your relationship with him grows, and he seems sweeter than ever.

Wc : 3.2k

Warnings : contains NSFW content, fem!reader, reader is mostly called 'wife', he's super sweet, soft sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink kinda, reader wears a dress and heels.

Notes : part 2 is heree! I highly recommend reading part 1 here. And part 3 is out here!

You've tried creating art, you've tried cooking (with the help of your personal maid, Marina), you've even tried planting.

Yeah, you're a plant mom now. Not only that, you're a cat mom too. Saving the poor kitty from the harsh rain one day, you couldn't leave the poor little one outside. It's mother seeming to abandon it.

All because you have become extremely bored on the days where Capitano wouldn't be here, and he forbade you to even clean your shared bedroom because he thinks it's useless when there are servants present to do the job. (He doesn't want to tire you out.)

Come to think of it, the last time you saw him, he kept avoiding you. Whenever you tried striking a conversation during dinner, he would only hum and nod. Or when you suggested to have another picnic, he flatly refused, and it felt like the hardest rejection to your face.

It's like he had his own mood swings that you had to deal with. One day he would indulge you in the activities you wanted to do, then the next he would refuse.

Like last week.

“I used to do this when i was young.” You tell him with the softest smile to yourself, your fingers working carefully with the flower petals and strings. You were determined to make this flower crown, and you were taking your sweet time just to have him by your side.

Capitano silently listened to your words, his gaze fixed on your gentle movements as you delicately fashioned a flower crown. The air between you was calm, "You have a talent for making flower crowns," he eventually responded, his deep voice breaking the tranquil silence.

"Did you learn it from someone?”

“No… just by myself.” He couldn't help but be impressed by your innate ability to create such an intricate accessory without any formal instruction. "Self-taught." He mused, "You have an unusual aptitude for discovering things on your own.”

You hum back while adding the finishing touches, and he watched your proud display of the finished flower crown.

“this is for kitty!” You smile at the thought of the little one purring with a pretty crown on it's head.

Kitty? Capitano is confused once you start talking about the cat, you seem even more excited when you described how you cuddled with it.

"You just happened to come across this crying feline in the rain, and you brought it home with you?”

“yes! Ah, well… i hope you don't mind.”

“i don't.”

And that was the last of your conversation, and it's been a week since you last saw him.

“my lady,” You recognise the voice of Marina as she knocks on the door, and you grant her the permission of her entry.

You set the sleeping kitten on the fluffed up pillow to reach for the letter she hands you.

An invitation to the grand ball… you read the contents of it, scanning every word as you pull the paper down.

“like a party?” you ask, glancing up at her, "Yes, that is correct. A grand ball is taking place tonight. It's a gathering of the higher-ranking Fatui members and a few... select guests.” she trails off, unsure of what else to add on.

“I can see that this invitation is for Capitano, not to me.”

“lord Capitano doesn't normally attend these grand balls. So my lady, you will have to go instead.” Marina explains this and you feel like you're going to have a headache.

All you wanted to do today was sleep in with the kitten. Not to trouble yourself in some party.

But… if it's for the sake of your husband's reputation, then you are willing to do it.

You hope you don't pass away too quick from your social anxiety.

“Marina, does this really suit me?” You stare at your reflection, and Marina looks at you approvingly, her eyes taking in your stunning appearance. "Sì, my lady, it suits you perfectly," she assures you, "The dress brings out your features beautifully and fits your figure perfectly.”

“and the colour?”

"Oh, yes, the color is exquisite. It complements your skin tone perfectly. You look like a princess attending a royal ball.” and you smile shyly as you take your seat, “You flatter me too much, you know?”

Marina chuckles softly, moving behind you to work on your hair with practiced ease. "It's not flattery if it's the truth. You look truly radiant today." She begins to style your hair, weaving intricate braids and pinning them in place with delicate silver pins.

Though you can't even lie to yourself, you looked absolutely gorgeous, even when you felt a little down since you would be going alone, and you barely knew anyone.

Marina pauses in her work for a moment, her expression becoming sympathetic as she sensed your nervousness. “It's natural to feel that way. But I believe you will be fine. You are strong and independent." She resumes styling your hair, her fingers moving nimbly to create elegant curls.

You smile at her, looking at her from the mirror, “thank you.”

"It is my honor to serve you.” As she finishes your hair, she steps back to admire her work, a satisfied expression on her face. "You are ready, my lady.”

You are ready.

You are not ready.

Because why was everyone's eyes piercing bullets through you as you entered the main hall?

The whispers and murmurs start almost immediately, the guests clearly intrigued by your presence. However, you manage to keep your composure, straightening your back and walking forward with confidence, just like how Marina taught you.

Stay calm they won't eat you, you tell yourself, trying to maintain your composure under the weight of their gazes.

You were here to make friends, hopefully.

You scan the room, hoping that someone would approach you to engage in conversation. Yet nobody, not a single soul, seems to have the courage to do so. The guests continue their conversations and dances, seemingly ignoring your presence.

And so, you find yourself standing alone, sipping on a glass of champagne, feeling lost and slightly out of place.

Well this is boring. You could've stayed in with Kitty and Marina, but at least you get free food. They always taste better, right?

Everyone went silent all of a sudden, but you ignored it at first and continue taking sips of your drink.

But the silence becomes uncomfortable, just what happened to the party?

You turn around, your eyes widening immediately in surprise as you see Capitano walking towards you. Your heart seems to skip a beat as you watch him approach, his presence commanding attention and authority in the room. Capitano stops in front of you, you can't make up what his face must be like right now, but you think he has a stoic expression on his face as he takes in your appearance. His eyes roaming up and down your figure, seemingly appreciating the elegance of your dress.

“husband?” You blurt out, setting your glass aside to greet him.

"Wife," he says simply, acknowledging the fact that you have finally addressed him by that term.

The tension breaks when soft, elegant music begins to play, signaling the start of partner dances in the middle of the ballroom.

Capitano seems to realize this as he glances around at the couples already making their way to the dance floor. He then turns back to you, his expression unreadable as he silently contemplates the situation.

He can see the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your hand clutched at your dress.

"I suppose we should dance, wife.”

“you want to dance?”

"Yes," he responds. "It appears it's customary for couples at these events to dance together." He extends his hand in your direction, gesturing for you to take it. You take his hand, wrapping it gently around his gloved one. His fingers close around your hand, his grip gentle yet firm as he leads you towards the dance floor.

You notice the whispers and murmurs among the guests growing louder. But you chose to ignore them.

Capitano guides you to the center of the dance floor and positions himself opposite you, his hand settling onto your waist, and your hands on his shoulders.

"Do you know how to dance?" You whisper to him, making sure no one listens, and your eyes are on him.

"I may not engage in these social events often, but even I understand the basics of dance." His hand on your waist pulls you closer to him, you follow his lead.

Interesting.

He leads the dance with of assurance and grace, his movements fluid and confident. As you follow his lead and swirl together across the dance floor, your eyes meet his, and you find yourself unable to look away. The closeness between you makes it feel as if the rest of the world has faded away, leaving only the two of you dancing together.

You notice how he seems to turn his head slightly to look at others, mimicking their movements swiftly, it makes you smile to yourself.

His hand on your waist feels warm, almost burning even through the fabric of your dress. It's a strange sensation you've never felt when touching him, despite having already kissed (once) before.

”my dress,” you whisper amidst the graceful dance, “what do you think of it?”

You figured you always needed to give him a little push when initiating things.

His attention drift down to take in the sight of your dress once again. His gaze roams over the fabric, lingering on the way it clings to your figure, and how the color contrasts against your skin.

"It's... " he pauses, you're just wearing a dres, but he finds it difficult to describe what he feels, "Very pleasing to the eye.” he manages to continue.

"You look rather well tonight, as well.”

“Thank you, wife.”

The music suddenly shifts to a slower tempo, and Capitano instinctively adjusts his hold on you, pulling you slightly closer as he continues to dance with you.

You totally ignore how your face is almost pressed up against his chest.

As interesting as the party was, the worst part of was walking back to the estate. Why? Because the carriage decided to break down, or maybe the horses were sleepy, you don't know.

You're glad your husband is with you, or else you might've been sacrificed to the dogs at night, now even ants will fear this big guy.

But what's worse? Your damn heels are killing you. The sides of your pinky toes are already aching that you are sure it will cause nasty blisters by tomorrow.

"Perhaps next time you should wear more comfortable shoes." He stated bluntly, his deep voice betraying no pity for your situation. “but they look pretty, plus i feel elegant in them.” you stop at your tracks, looking up at him with a defeated expression.

"I'm well aware." he says dryly, "But at what cost? You're practically torturing yourself with those heels.”

He's half right, your point still stands. Beauty is pain. And now you'll have to sacrifice your beauty.

Bye bye heels. You slide them off your feet, bow having your poor feet to walk on these rocky grounds. You do feel a little better after, though.

“stay still.” He utters, and you're confused, until he takes your heels in one hand before you feel a shift of your weight off your feet, finding yourself being carried into his arms.

you wrapped your arms around his neck silently, your eyes glancing up at him as he continues walking like he you weigh nothing.

The air around you is peaceful. You feel safe with him, he's not like the scary man you hear from the others. Maybe to others he was, but to you? He was soft for you.

Your head leans on his chest where his heart rested, the beats of his heart makes you sleepy, but you refuse to sleep just like this, you want to spend every single second savouring this feeling.

Capitano carried you all the way to the estate, and through the dark corridors, making his way to your shared chambers.

The soft moonlight filtering through the windows was the only source of illumination, the atmosphere around you quiet.

He gently deposited you back on your feet, you're back home safely.

“thank you.” You whisper, your hands reaching to take the pins out of your hair to let it breath from the scruffy yet beautiful hairstyle, and Capitano starts taking off the heavy layers off him as well, with the helmet out.

You don't notice how one of your dress straps seem to fall off your shoulders, but he notices, and oh did that make something in him stir.

His steps closer from behind you, his hand reaching to put the strap back in place, but instead, he glances at the other strap.

It looked rather lonely being on your shoulder, his fingers delicately sliding the strap down which makes you ultimately still in your place.

Your entire body trembled slightly as Capitano's hands caressed your skin, tracing gentle paths across your shoulders and back down to the zipper on your side. “May i.. help you out of your dress?” His low, gruff voice, asking for permission to help you out of your dress, made your heart beat faster.

You could only nod in response, your voice silenced by a mixture of anticipation and desire. Capitano's touch was meticulous, his thumb and index delicately moving down the zipper with deliberate slowness, prolonging the tension.

Capitano lets out another low hum as he watches the dress slide down to your ankles, now leaving you only in your undergarments. His hands traced the contour of your body, his touch delicate yet possessive. His own breathing became ragged, the sight of you partially undressed igniting a fire in his eyes.

“Will you allow me to touch you?”

The question makes you turn your head, of course he can.

When you don't stop him from wrapping his arms around you, his chest pressed against your back, he takes it as a green light to continue.

His hand first brushed your hair out of the way, to allow his lips to come in contact with the nape of your neck, “you're so beautiful..." he whispered, his hot breath sending jolts of electricity through your core.

“I don't…” he hesitates, wanting to move his hands away, “i don't want to do anything you don't like.”

And your expression softens at his concern, you turn around to take his face into your hands, your thumbs caressing the apples of his cheeks and he nuzzles into your touch, wrapping a hand around your wrist before pressing a kiss to your palm. You further reassure him by littering his face with your lips, giving every empty space of his skin with at least one kiss.

“Allow me to experience this with you, and i shall take care of you till i take my very last breath.” he hoists you up easily into his arms, rough hand under your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist, he laid you down on the soft sheets, his body covering yours as he looked down at you.

“You occupy my every thought,” he starts, “that it feels sinful to even look at your way.” He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss as his hand continued its exploration, ripping your bra off to cup your breast, feeling your nipple harden under his touch. He rolled it between his fingers, pinching it gently as he deepened the kiss when you gasp, his tongue delving into your mouth, savouring your taste and angelic sounds.

He leaned down afterwards, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking it into his mouth and your hands find his ling strands instantly, tugging on them while being careful not to hurt him.

His fingers traced down to your hip, giving them a firm squeeze before ripping your panties off next, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, feeling you writhe and tense up under him.

It felt like an unknown territory you've yet to explore.

Upon sensing your discomfort, he presses his lips to your eyelids, then to your neck, taking his time until you relaxed, until you started feeling good based off how you were bucking your hips now.

Oh how he wanted to take his time with you, but he was aching so bad that if he continues touching you he might just burst embarrassingly fast in his pants.

“Let me in, my wife.” He gently starts massaging your thighs as he parts them, making you feel more exposed than ever, but he distracts you by softly kissing you again and again while he's unbuckling his pants and pushing them down, revealing his throbbing thick, hard cock.

“Capitano—!” you try to squirm away when you feel his tip push into your tight hole, your lips parting from the way he stretched you open, but at the same time you felt relaxed with his soft whispers of ‘take your time�� and ‘you’re doing well, my wife.’

Your cunt soon takes in every inch, swallowing him whole until you were a panting mess, and you didn't even start.

Capitano then began to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, letting you get used to his size, to how you feel, to how he feels as he makes love to you for the first time together.

You feel your heart up to your throat and ears, it felt incredible, something you've never felt before, your soft moans echoing in the air along with a few groans coming from him.

He shivered when he felt your fingertips trace the few scars littering his shoulders and back, his dick twitching almost instantly before his thrusts grew faster, more urgent.

His hand reached down, returning back to draw circles around the bundle of nerves, and he could feel your body tense, your walls clenching around his cock as he continued to rub your clit.

“come for your husband,” he breaths heavily next to your ear, and you come undone, your moans filling the room as he felt you milk his cock. He could feel his own release following after, his balls tightening before he slammed into you one last time, spilling thick ropes into your womb, until you were filled to the brim.

Your legs were shaking slightly around him, yet his warm embrace afterwards made you melt, eyelids heavy with him still being buried inside you.

—

You groggily woke up, still half in a dream-like state, the room bathed in shadows due to the closed curtains blocking out the morning sun.

As your senses slowly returned to reality, you heard a soft meow next to you, and sure enough, your little kitten had made itself comfortable in the middle of the bed. To your surprise, Capitano, who was still asleep beside you, didn't seem bothered in the slightest by the creature's presence.

“pst,” you whisper to your husband who only hummed in acknowledgment of your attention. “Can we go have a picnic this early morning? With our baby kitten of course.”

Tags: @sayastyx, @nastylilcvnt, @bigboygoose,

#Capitano #il capitano #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #il capitano x reader #capitano x reader #capitano x you #fatui harbingers #fatui #genshin harbingers #capitano smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact capitano #il capitano smut

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junojoel · 18 days ago

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Cake and Candles

Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel never forgets your birthday.

Warnings: fluff, reader is implied younger than joel through one piece of dialogue, Joel's love language being acts of service/gift giving, reader had a mom, dad and little brother

ITS MY BIRTHDAYYYY!!!! ellie birthday episode and my birthday being in the same week was too much fate for me not to write this.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It had rained the night before, which meant the alleys smelled worse than usual — sour and metallic, like the city was rotting from the inside out. The puddles on the concrete looked more like oil than water and the sky hung low and mean.

The drop was supposed to be quick. A supply run from an abandoned ration depot near the North Wall to a safehouse two zones over. Painkillers, batteries, something with an industrial chemical label that Joel warned you not to breathe near.

You were three hours in, already soaked through, and the mood had turned to shit.

Joel barely said a word the whole time. Tess did most of the talking, leading the three of you through narrow side streets and broken corridors like she’d lived in the bones of this place for decades. You kept your eyes up, finger close to the trigger. Your boots were too loud, your nerves too exposed.

“Two more blocks,” Tess muttered, crouched beside a rusted-out vending machine. “Then we sit tight.”

You nodded, Joel only grunted.

And you told yourself not to think about it. About what day it was. About what it used to mean.

But you did. Of course you did.

The thought kept coming back like a compulsion: If things were normal, I'd be home right now.

Your mom would’ve been waking you up early — warm kitchen light, the smell of sugar and cinnamon, her telling you not to peek while she decorated. Your little brother would’ve made some half-glued card with stick figures and misspelled words, and your dad would’ve tried to act cool while holding out whatever he'd managed to barter for that year. Cheap jewellery. A book. A cassette tape. Whatever felt like something.

Now the idea of cake and candles made your stomach hurt.

But still. You remembered. You kept track.

You weren’t even sure why anymore.

Tess glanced over her shoulder as you cleared the alley and stepped into the shadow of a half-collapsed parking garage.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, voice low.

You tried to shrug it off. “Just tired.”

But her eyes narrowed, suspicious in that way she got when she knew you were lying but didn’t feel like calling you on it yet.

“Alright,” she said slowly. “But don’t lose your edge. We’re not safe yet.”

Joel gave you a sidelong glance, like he’d caught the lie too.

The handoff went fine. Quick, quiet, almost clean. You met the contact in an old laundromat with half the ceiling caved in. Joel stood near the back, one hand resting casually on his pistol, eyes cold and distant.

You did your job. Took the crate. Loaded the bags. Moved through the checkpoint tunnels without drawing attention.

You didn’t say a word the whole way back.

By nightfall, you were holed up in the safehouse near the old subway tracks. It wasn’t much — one small room, a gas lamp, sleeping bags, and a metal table with one leg shorter than the others. But the door locked, and now that was enough.

Tess peeled off her jacket, wrung out the rainwater, and looked between you and Joel like she was trying to decide which of you would implode first.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing her pack. “I’ve got another deal to check on. You two hold down the fort. Try not to brood each other to death.”

Before she left, she paused in the doorway and shot you a look. Her voice softened.

“You doing okay?”

You hesitated.

You could lie. But something about the way she looked at you — not pitying, not prying, just… knowing — made your throat go tight.

“It’s just a day,” you said finally.

Tess nodded slowly, her gaze flicking briefly to Joel. “Yeah. That’s what we all tell ourselves.”

Then she was gone.

You sat on the edge of the sleeping bag, staring at your hands.

Joel was already at the table, stripping and cleaning his gun with mechanical precision. Every movement deliberate. Detached.

You listened to the sound of metal clicking, cloth brushing steel.

Finally, he spoke.

“You gonna tell me what the hell’s eatin’ at you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Your jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.”

He snorted. “You’ve said less than ten words all day. Even Tess noticed. And she’s usually too busy talking to hear herself breathe.”

You huffed, reluctant, but the words were already pushing forward.

“It’s stupid.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just waited.

You looked down at your hands again.

“It’s my birthday.”

That made him pause. He set the cloth down slowly and looked up. Something flickered in his expression, gone too fast to catch.

You laughed, but it was hollow. “I know. Dumb thing to care about now. I just— I always used to. My family made a big deal out of it. Even when we didn’t have anything. And now… I don’t know. I guess part of me keeps expecting someone to remember. Even though they can’t.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite anything. He looked away. “Birthdays don’t mean much anymore.”

“I know. That’s what I keep telling myself.”

You stood, pacing now, energy suddenly too restless to hold.

“But it’s like… this twisted kind of hope, right? You spend all year just trying to survive, and then one day rolls around and you remember you used to feel important. Used to feel seen. And now it’s just another reminder that you’re alone.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

You didn’t see him move at first — just the rustle of his coat, the sound of the door unlatching.

You turned. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled on his jacket and stepped outside.

You sat in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the window boards. The minutes stretched. You tried not to think about him. Tried not to wonder if he’d come back, or if maybe you’d said too much, crossed a line he didn’t want crossed.

Then the door creaked open and Joel stepped back in, face cold, holding something wrapped in a rag. You blinked as he walked past you, set it down on the table, and unwrapped it slowly.

A dented metal can.

You stepped closer.

Peaches.

The label was torn, but you could still make out the picture — bright orange slices swimming in syrup. It looked like something out of a dream.

You stared.

Joel didn’t meet your eyes.

“Found it near the East checkpoint. Took it off some jackass who was trying to trade it for antibiotics. Almost got himself shot.”

You swallowed hard.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “It’s a one-time thing.”

You sat slowly.

He cracked the can open with his knife. The scent hit instantly — sweet and sharp, syrupy and thick. It brought tears to your eyes before you could stop them.

Joel handed you a spoon.

“Happy birthday,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

You looked up. “Thank you.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Just sat and shared the can between you, passing the spoon back and forth in silence. It was too sweet, too sticky, but it tasted like something close to memory.

You should’ve left it there—quiet and safe, something unspoken you could both pretend didn’t matter tomorrow.

But the sugar and the warmth of it, the bitter nostalgia curling behind your ribs, made your guard slip. You stared down at the last peach in the can, barely more than syrup and pulp now, and said it before you could stop yourself.

“Do you remember yours?”

Joel didn’t look up. “My what?”

“Your birthday.”

He stilled. Spoon halfway to the can, hand clenched just a little too tight.

“You don’t have to answer,” you added quickly. “I just— I don’t know. You did this for me. Made me feel like I mattered today. Thought maybe that meant birthdays meant something to you, too.”

Joel exhaled through his nose. The sound was flat. Dry. Almost a laugh, but not.

“They don’t.”

You looked at him carefully. “But they used to?”

He stared ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the room. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stopped.

“Long time ago,” he said. “When things were… different.”

“Family?”

His jaw tightened. You regretted asking, wanted to take it back.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked deeper in the lamplight, carved in by time and grief and things he’d never said out loud.

“Had a daughter,” he said finally. Voice low, rough-edged. “She used to make me pancakes. Every year. Even when she burned ‘em.”

Your breath caught.

Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on some point far away, like the past was something he could still see if he squinted hard enough.

“After… everything,” he said, “I stopped keeping track. Seemed easier that way.”

You were quiet for a long time.

Then he said it. Quiet. Flat. Like something he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times but never let pass his lips.

“September 26th.”

You felt the air shift. The weight of it settle between you.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry.”

He just gave a small shake of his head, like he didn’t know what to do with your sympathy. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I was at work,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Didn't mean to be that late. My daughter wanted to bake something, asked me to bring a cake home. She was real excited. Kept asking me to stay home that night.”

You didn’t breathe.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it drop.

“Anyway. It was that night."

You nodded, throat tight.

Joel reached out and pushed the last piece of peach toward you with the spoon.

You took it.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For this.”

“Won’t make a habit of it,” he muttered.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You woke before the sun, the cold biting at your nose through the cracked window. The room was dark, quiet — just the soft hum of wind threading through boarded slats. Another day. Another job. You told yourself it was just that.

You sat up slowly, pulling your jacket closer, and tried not to think about the date. But of course you did. The date. It nestled in your jaw like a bad tooth, aching every time your mind circled back.

It was your birthday.

You hadn't told anyone. Not this year. Not after how last year had gone, with Joel’s voice going flat when you asked about his own birthday, the air going still when he’d muttered September 26th, and your stomach flipping when you realised why that date mattered. You hadn’t meant to open a wound — you’d just wanted to share something.

So this year, you didn’t bring it up. You told yourself it was fine. That birthdays didn’t mean anything anymore.

Still, you hoped — foolishly, silently — that someone might remember. That Joel might remember.

“Pack light. We’re headin’ to Bill’s.”

You glanced up from where you were tightening the strap on your boot, heart giving a soft lurch. “Supply run?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt — not exactly a yes, but not a no either — and turned back into the hallway without another word. Typical.

You exhaled slowly. Today of all days. You couldn’t decide if it was a relief that he didn’t remember or if it stung more because you’d spent the last few days nervously rehearsing whether or not to bring it up. Your birthday had crept up again like it always did now — not with excitement, but with that same sharp pang of twisted anticipation that you couldn’t fully shake.

The truck ride was long and uneventful. Joel didn’t say much beyond the occasional grunt when a pothole jostled the tires or a flick of his hand to indicate a change in route. The countryside passed in blur — dead trees, skeletal remains of billboards, rusted-out signs and roads that had long since stopped leading anywhere. He’d said they needed extras. Ammo from Bill, spare wires, maybe some of Frank’s dried herbs.

You kept your face turned toward the window and tried not to count how many birthdays you’d had since the world ended. It didn’t matter.

Bill and Frank’s compound came into view as the sun was dipping into its late-afternoon golden hour, the light casting long shadows across the fence line and orchard. The gate creaked open automatically — someone had been watching. Of course they had.

Bill met you at the entrance like he always did: with a gun over his shoulder and a permanent scowl on his face.

Joel nodded at him. “Need to pick up some things.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bill muttered, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Something unreadable passed across his face.

Frank, ever the gracious one, stepped out onto the porch and beamed at the sight of you. “Oh, good! You made it.”

You were still pulling your pack off your shoulders when you noticed something strange: the smell. Not just smoke or stew — something sweet. Spiced.

“What's that smell?” you asked.

Frank smiled wider. “Dinner. You’re just in time.”

Joel clapped a hand on your back — that rare kind of Joel-touch that said move along without words — and steered you toward the house.

You turned to him, brow furrowed. “I thought we were here for supplies?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the front door and motioned you inside.

And then… you saw it.

The table was already set. Not with mismatched tin and rusted forks like you were used to, but with real plates and silverware. Frank had pulled out linens — actual cloth napkins, even candles in old mason jars. There were roasted vegetables, a stew simmering, warm bread, and at the centre of the table — a cake. Small, imperfect, decorated with little wildflowers and what looked like foraged berries.

It took a moment to register. You stared, heart pounding in your ears.

Tess was already inside, leaning back in one of the chairs with a glass of wine, smirking.

Joel brushed past you with a low, almost dismissive grunt. “Figured we’d eat while we’re here. Been a while.”

You stood there frozen for a second too long. You didn’t know what to say. The warmth in your chest warred with the confusion, and just behind it, that flicker of shame — for hoping. For thinking it might mean something.

“Frank,” you said slowly. “What… is this?”

He beamed. “A proper meal. For a proper occasion.”

“What occasion?”

Frank glanced at Joel, then at Tess. Neither of them said anything. Tess just raised her glass.

And you knew.

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Tess,” you said quietly, “Did you—?”

But she cut you off. “You hungry or not?”

The meal passed in a haze of laughter. Frank filled everyone’s glasses with the wine he’d been saving for a “special occasion,” and even Bill joined in with a dry story about nearly electrocuting himself fixing the generator.

You smiled and laughed where appropriate, but your mind kept wandering — back to the cake, to Joel’s deflection, to Tess’s knowing glances.

You still thought Tess had orchestrated it. It was the kind of thing she’d do, drag Joel into playing along.

It wasn’t until later, after the plates had been cleared and Frank had started a record in the other room, something jazzy and low, that you found yourself alone with Tess in the hallway. The candlelight from the kitchen cast her in soft gold, and she was sipping from a chipped cup, arms crossed, watching you with that same half-lidded look she always had when she knew something you didn’t.

“So,” she said. “Nice night.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is. Sorry I'm just overwhelmed— Thank you, honestly.”

“You think I planned all this, don’t you?” she asked.

You blinked. “Didn’t you?”

She scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Hell no. I just helped Frank make dinner.”

Your stomach dipped.

She tilted her head, her voice quiet now. “This was all Joel. Every bit. He’s the one who remembered,” she said. “He’s the one who asked Frank to make the cake. Told Bill to keep his mouth shut. Hell, he even insisted we make it look casual so you wouldn’t freak out.”

Your heart stopped.

“He said he didn’t wanna make a thing out of it,” Tess added, “But he’s been planning this for weeks.”

You were quiet for a long beat.

“But… he didn’t say anything,” you said, the words a whisper.

Tess’s smile turned a little sad. “He’s not good at saying things, but he remembers.”

Later that night, when the others had drifted off and the music had faded into the background hum of insects and wind in the orchard, you found Joel on the porch. He was leaning against the railing, watching the dark. You stepped beside him, your heart thudding hard enough to drown out the world.

He didn’t look at you when you approached. Just spoke low.

“You enjoy dinner?”

You nodded. “It was perfect.”

A pause.

“You remembered,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t hard.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to make it weird again, like last year.”

His voice was low. “Wasn’t your fault.”

You turned to him. “Thank you.”

You reached for his hand. You didn’t expect him to take it — but he did.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft, slow, uncertain — but it wasn’t one-sided. Joel met you there, warm and still, his hand brushing lightly against your back like he’d been waiting, too.

When you pulled back, he kept his eyes on yours.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

This time, the words didn’t hurt.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It rained for three days straight.

The kind of cold, spitting drizzle that soaked through your coat no matter how tightly you cinched it, that made your boots squelch with every step. The wind howled through broken barns and trees stripped bare, and every shelter you found smelled like old rot and abandonment.

You trudged through it with your shoulders hunched and your hood pulled low, your boots squelching with each step. Every now and then, Ellie would grumble something under her breath, mostly complaints about the cold, or how the rain made her hair look like a wet mop, or how she was going to die of trench foot.

Joel, as always, didn’t say much. He just led.

You were somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, miles from anything even remotely familiar. The landscape blurred — trees, collapsed fences, skeletal houses too picked over to be worth stopping for. You’d passed a rusted water tower around midday and Joel had muttered that there was a town not far off.

No one said it, but you were all tired. Supplies were low. Joel had slept in fits, always with one hand on his rifle, and you could see the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen by the hour.

Your back ached. Your ribs still twinged from a bad fall two weeks back. You could feel the day’s date sitting heavy on your tongue.

You weren’t sure if he’d forgotten this time. Or if he remembered, and just decided this year, there wasn’t room for sentiment. It was stupid to care. It always was. Especially now. Anyway, it wasn’t like you could blame him. You hadn’t seen anything resembling a candle in months.

Still, it sat in your chest, heavy and hollow and echoing.

You didn’t say anything about it. Not this year. Not with Ellie around, and Joel already stretched taut with exhaustion and responsibility. You hadn't said anything last year either, but back then it had been different — the ghost of a good night with Bill and Frank, a flicker of something soft in Joel’s eyes, a secret truth Tess had given you like a gift.

This year you felt like a burden for even remembering.

By late afternoon, you reached the outskirts of the town Joel had mentioned.

It was nothing more than a collection of crumbling buildings, storefronts with glass long shattered, faded signs swinging in the breeze. A gas station sat caved in at the edge of town. A church steeple leaned crooked over a few blocks like a snapped spine.

Joel’s eyes swept the horizon. “We’ll hole up here tonight. Find shelter, stay outta the open.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. Ellie sighed and muttered something about praying for a haunted mansion.

What you got was a busted-up diner with broken windows, a torn-up vinyl booth, and a kitchen that smelled like grease and mildew. But it was dry, and it had a back room with a door that locked. That was enough.

Joel checked the place with his usual precision — every room, every corner, even the roof. You stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping water, hands shaking with cold, watching the ghosts of an old world flicker in your memory.

You remembered diners.

Birthday pancakes. The sound of your mom singing off-key while stirring coffee. The way candles flickered when the waitress brought out cake with sparklers on top.

You shook your head. That was gone.

You shrugged off your pack and sat on an overturned crate while Ellie stretched out on a dusty counter, flipping through one of the comics she’d scavenged.

Joel stood by the window, arms crossed, scanning the street.

Ellie rolled out her sleeping bag and plopped down onto it with a theatrical groan. “So glamorous. When do the spa treatments start?”

You laughed, sitting beside her and rubbing warmth into your frozen fingers. Joel didn’t smile, but his eyes flicked to you for a half-second.

Then, abruptly, he muttered, “I’m gonna check for propane. Maybe see if there’s any storage behind the hardware store. Stay in here. Lock the door behind me.”

You perked up. “I can come.”

He shook his head. “No. Stay here. Get warm. Lock the door behind me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “You already said that.”

Joel shot her a look and was out the door before either of you could respond.

The rain slowed around dusk. The wind picked up, scraping against the glass and groaning in the walls. He was gone longer than you expected.

The minutes crawled. You tried to help Ellie pass time with a round of card games using a half-destroyed deck she found in a laundromat weeks ago. Her jokes got weaker. Her eyes drooped. Eventually, she curled into her bag, comic book in hand, and let sleep claim her.

But the silence in the room settled heavy. And with every passing minute, you grew more convinced Joel had forgotten.

The funny thing was, you weren’t even angry. You didn’t expect anything — not really. What could anyone do? You were in the middle of nowhere with a teenager, a man whose burdens you could feel like a shadow following him, and enough food for maybe two more meals if you stretched it.

But it still hurt — that tiny, stupid ache under your ribs.

You told yourself you were being childish. That birthdays didn’t matter anymore. That survival was the only thing worth counting.

But then the door creaked open, and Joel stepped inside, soaked from the knees down, his coat dripping. He was carrying something wrapped in a tarp and a small dented tin. He didn’t speak right away. Just crossed the room, dropped the bundle near the fire, and lowered himself with a quiet grunt.

Ellie stirred but didn’t wake. The fire crackled. Joel adjusted the tarp and looked over at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

Then he pushed the tin toward you across the floor.

You looked down. “What’s this?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a nod — go on.

You opened it slowly. Inside, nestled in worn paper, was a chocolate bar. Slightly melted, slightly warped, but real.

You blinked at it.

“I—what?” You looked up at him, heart stuttering. “Joel…”

“Found it in an old vending machine. Back by the rail yard.” He cleared his throat. “Still sealed. Figured it might be okay.”

“Joel… I haven’t had chocolate in—”

“I know.”

You stared at him, dumbstruck. Then he reached for the tarp and unwrapped it with deliberate care.

A book. Its spine was cracked but intact, the cover a faded storm-blue cloth with the title in gold: Wuthering Heights.

You gasped. Your hand went to your chest.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, glancing down. “You told me once. That your mom used to read it to you. I saw it a few weeks ago in some house. Had to double back. Took a while to get to it.”

“You… you went back for this?”

He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I wanted to get you somethin’. I know it don’t fix anything. But…”

His voice trailed off.

You stared down at the book and the chocolate, your throat thick with emotion.

Joel shifted again. Looked at you, then quickly away.

“I know you didn’t wanna bring it up,” he said, voice low, “and maybe you thought I forgot.”

You felt your chest cave inward.

“I don’t know what this day means to you now. But I know it ain’t right that someone your age has to spend it freezing in some busted-up diner with nothin’. You should’ve had… more.”

“I had this,” you whispered. “This is more.”

He gave a dry, almost-bitter smile. “Maybe I just… I’m glad you’re still here. That we’re still here.”

Silence.

Then, hesitantly, like it hurt to say: “I look out for you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart in your throat. “I know.”

“And it ain’t just… ‘cause of Tess. Or the job.”

Your eyes lifted to his. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening every line of sorrow carved there.

Your hand moved to his — fingers wrapping over his, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything else. I know what you mean.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

You shifted closer and leaned in. Your lips brushed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. A test. A promise. When he didn’t pull away, you kissed him softly — long, tender, and steady.

His hand came to rest on your back, warm and protective, holding you there for just a moment longer.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

You smiled, tears glistening. “It is now.”

Later, after the fire burned low and the storm outside quieted, you curled beside him on your sleeping bag, the book tucked between you, the warmth of his body pressed into yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you fell asleep not with a rifle in your hands — but with his arm around you, your head tucked beneath his chin, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time with yours.

You didn't even care about the jokes Ellie would make.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You knew what day it was.

You didn’t need to mark it on a calendar. It lived in your chest like something raw and coiled, like a bruise you’d pressed your thumb into just to see if it still hurt.

Even in the early years after the world ended, you'd tried to mark the day — a scavenged piece of candy, a lucky pair of socks from a trading post. Something. A way to remember who you were, who you used to be, before the world fell apart and took your family with it.

And then you'd met Joel. And Tess. And Ellie. And for the first time in years, someone had remembered. Joel had remembered.

Although, Joel had said nothing last night. He’d eaten dinner with you like he always did and kissed your forehead on the porch before heading to his own cabin across the way. No words. Just warmth, familiarity.

You didn’t know what that kiss meant anymore. If he kissed you because he loved you, or because it had become habit — part of the quiet routine you’d built together.

Routine had settled into your bones. You worked supply runs twice a week. Helped repair fencing. On Sundays, you took guard shifts with Maria. You had a room in one of the old lodges — warm blankets, real soap, even a bookshelf that you slowly filled with whatever Joel found for you.

You and Joel hadn’t put a name on what you were.

You’d shared nights. Touched hands in quiet kitchens. Kissed, softly, like it might break something inside you both. But life moved differently now — slower, more careful. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Sometimes, you did the same.

It was two weeks before your birthday when you first noticed Joel acting strange. He was quieter than usual — and for Joel, that was saying something. He didn’t meet your eyes as often. His hands lingered on tools longer than needed when you passed them over. He volunteered to help with fence repairs even though Tommy had told him to rest his knee.

And then he did the one thing that gave it away: he started asking questions.

“What kinda food d’you miss the most?” he’d asked one night, seemingly out of nowhere, while you washed dishes in the lodge kitchen.

You shrugged. “Pasta, probably. Like… real pasta. With too much cheese.”

He grunted. “Noted.”

Two days later, he wandered into the rec center where Ellie and a few others were playing cards, and asked what kind of music you liked.

She later told you — with a devilish grin — that he pretended it was about planning a patrol route and needed to know how to boost your morale. Ellie lived to embarrass him now.

But you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t bring up the date.

Last year on the road had meant more than you could put into words — the chocolate, the book, the warmth of his body beside yours. And the year before that, Bill and Frank’s. But this time felt… heavier. Safer, sure, but somehow harder.

Because now you were stable. And that meant facing things you used to avoid — feelings, fears, memories that hadn’t knocked for years.

You let the covers fall off your shoulders and sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your arms. You dressed in silence, pulled on your boots and stepped outside.

It was still early. The sky was the color of ash, the town wrapped in the hush of morning. Smoke curled from chimneys in slow spirals. Your breath fogged in the air as you crossed the quiet streets, your boots crunching softly beneath you. A few neighbors nodded as you passed. One of the children in the community handed you a tiny knitted bracelet without a word and ran off. You stared at it for a second before tucking it into your pocket.

You slipped into the warmth of the dining hall, nodding to a few early risers. Maria stood behind the serving counter, already ladling out bowls of oatmeal and pouring coffee.

She spotted you and smiled. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said with a shrug. “Habit.”

Her smile widened just slightly, as if she knew something you didn’t. “Big plans today?”

You blinked. “Uh… no. Just patrol, I think.”

“Mm. Right.” She slid a mug of coffee toward you.

You sat at the corner table, your usual spot, and picked at your breakfast. The oatmeal was warm, sweetened with something, but you barely tasted it.

Then the door opened, and there he was.

Heavy boots. That worn flannel you liked. His hair still damp, his jaw clenched in that familiar Joel way. He walked over to you, slow and purposeful.

“Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning,” you returned, wary.

He looked around, then leaned down a little. “Got a job. Maria wants us to check the old supply cabin. South side of the river.”

You furrowed your brow. “That hasn’t been used in months.”

He gave you a blank look. “Still gotta check it.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “On foot?”

“Nah, horses. Not far. But we gotta leave now.”

You stared at him, heartbeat skipping.

“Is this about today?”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“Nothing.” You stood slowly, collecting your tray. “Let me get my gear.”

He nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. But his eyes lingered on you as you turned away.

It was just the two of you on horseback. The trees lining the trail were coated in snow, branches low and heavy. Joel rode ahead a few paces, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

It felt normal, and that made it worse. You didn’t know if you were mad at him for pretending today didn’t matter — or mad at yourself for still hoping he’d remember.

But then Joel turned off the main trail.

You frowned. “Joel? This isn’t toward the storage cabin.”

He didn’t look back. “Shortcut.”

“Uh-huh.”

You followed him another five minutes until the trees thinned out and you saw it — a small cabin tucked between two birch trees. Smoke rose from the chimney.

You halted your horse. “Joel, what is this?”

He dismounted. “C’mon.”

You followed, suspicious.

Inside, the cabin was warm. The table was set and steam rose from a pot in the center. The scent of tomato, herbs, something rich and warm hit your nose.

He walked in behind you, rubbing his hands together. “Figured if I tried to do this in Jackson, or if I told you, you'd find some excuse not to come.”

You swallowed hard. “You cooked?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Kinda. Got help from Maria. Ellie made fun of me the whole time.”

He stepped closer, slower now. “I know we don’t always say things the right way. I don’t. But you’re…” He looked down, jaw working. “You’re important to me. And this day’s important. Not ‘cause of cake or candles or whatever. But because you made it. You’re here.”

“Joel…”

He finally met your eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. Still.”

You took a shaky breath. “You remembered my book last year. The chocolate.”

His voice was low. “That wasn’t enough. Wanted to do somethin’. For you.”

“I told you I didn’t need anything.”

“I know. That’s why it matters.”

You blinked back sudden tears.

He stepped closer, voice softer now. “I remember everything about you.”

He took a deep breath, as if deciding something. You looked at him, eyes wet.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small box — old, metal, a little rusted. You opened it carefully. Inside was a ring. Simple, silver, with a faint scratch on the band. It was beautiful.

“It’s not for anythin’ fancy,” he said quickly. “Just… wanted you to have somethin’."

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I love you,” he said, low, like he’d been holding it in for years. “And I’m not good at this. But I want more. With you. Here. However you want it.”

You stepped forward and kissed him, fiercely, your hands curling into his jacket. He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear, his mouth slow and reverent on yours. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He stilled — just for a second — before his arms came up and folded around you.

You stood like that in the cabin’s quiet warmth, holding on.

“I don’t need big things,” you whispered into his chest. “Just this. Just you.”

He didn’t respond right away. But his grip tightened. His lips brushed your hair.

“Then you got me,” he said. “Today. Tomorrow. Long as I’ve got breath.”

Later, after dinner, after laughter and a glass of something Joel had insisted was aged but clearly wasn’t, you sat beside the fire with a blanket draped across both your legs. He rested his hand on your thigh.

And when the fire burned low, and your eyelids drooped, you leaned into his shoulder and let yourself fall asleep there — warm, safe, remembered.

#tlou fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader fluff

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youthguk · 2 months ago

Text

Entropy | jjk (m) | one-shot

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N

“The universe tends toward chaos.” You thought that only applied to black holes and entropy equations — not boys with lip rings and midnight eyes. You were wrong.

genre: smut, one-shot, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol consumption, casual hookup, reader is sexually inexperienced but very willing, Jungkook is fully feral and obsessed

Wc: 10k

author's note: your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

The second law of thermodynamics states that the universe naturally tends toward disorder. That every system, left to its own devices, will eventually fall apart.

You never thought it would apply to people, but by the third week of finals season, everything begins to decay.

Not in any spectacular, cinematic way—no dramatic breakdowns in the hallway or rain-soaked monologues—but in smaller, quieter disintegrations. You begin to lose the will to care whether your iced coffee is more milk than caffeine. Your drawers become a graveyard of crumpled hoodies and socks that don’t match. Your planner, once color-coded with obsessive devotion, now lies somewhere under your bed, abandoned and blank.

Entropy, you think. The tendency of systems to slide into disorder. You remember the diagram from second-year thermodynamics: the universe’s cruel, inevitable drift toward chaos. You’d once found peace in it. A kind of comfort, knowing it wasn’t your fault when things fell apart. It was just nature.

These days, you’re not so sure. You stand in front of the mirror in your dorm’s bathroom, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth, hair piled into a loose, too-honest bun that makes your ears look uneven. You’ve been wearing the same oversized MIT hoodie for three days straight. Not because it means anything to you—you didn’t even apply there—but because it smells like clean laundry and covers the fact that your bra is somewhere inside a laundry basket you no longer have the energy to dig through.

You look exhausted. Not dramatically so, but in the way that makes people hesitate before asking you for anything. You’ve started getting that look in the lab, in lectures, even from your professors: the quiet, pitying glance that says, You’re doing too much, and it’s starting to show. And still, you keep doing it.

Physics doesn’t reward soft emotions. It rewards answers. You know how to calculate momentum, how to model projectile motion, how to explain wave-particle duality to a room full of distracted undergrads—but you don’t know how to mourn something that was never truly yours. You don’t know how to feel cleanly. You only know how to function.

You open the bathroom cabinet, close it again, stare blankly at your own reflection. Your eyes are ringed in fatigue. Your lips are chapped. Your last kiss was over a month ago and didn’t even taste like goodbye.

You don’t miss him. Not really. He was nice. Predictable. Gentle. He always held your hand like he was asking permission. But the moment he ended it—voice calm, like he was discussing his meal plan—you didn’t feel heartbreak. You felt relief.

And maybe that’s worse. Your phone buzzes on the sink. You glance down and see Hyeri’s name.

Hyeri: *I swear to god if you ghost me I’m breaking into your room.*Hyeri: *Put on a dress. He’s throwing a party.*You: *Who.*Hyeri: *Jeon fucking Jungkook.*You: No thanks.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

There it is—that name again. A name that lives in the background of your life like ambient noise. Jeon Jungkook: a boy you’ve never actually spoken to, but whose existence seems to follow you in ways you can’t explain. Shared classes. Group projects. Dorm parties where he arrived shirtless and left with a girl on his arm. Mutual friends who describe him with exasperated fondness. A smirk that belongs on someone far less academically average.

You’ve never had a reason to care about him. Not really. Except for that one night at the start of second year, when you sat across from him at a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday and watched him lick whipped cream off his thumb while explaining something about SEO strategy. You’d gone home that night and googled what the hell SEO actually was.

You’d forgotten about him after that. Or tried to.

Until your best friend started playing matchmaker in group chats you weren’t in. Until the campus gossip pages kept posting blurry photos of his arms. Until his name started appearing in conversations he wasn’t even part of, and every girl said the same thing:

Jeon Jungkook fucks like it’s a contact sport.

For a brief moment, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to be tackled by him, but quickly buried that thought beneath a mountain of coursework, equations, and meticulously organized lab notes - all those neat, contained systems that made sense.

Hyeri: Come. Please. One drink. One dance. You’re not allowed to rot in that hoodie forever.

Chewing your lip, you glance from the worn hoodie to your reflection, then finally to the door. Maybe this isn't about Jungkook, or even your ex - maybe it's simply time to feel something real before summer consumes what's left of you. With a quiet sigh, you make your decision.

You: Fine. But if it’s weird, I’m faking a panic attack and leaving.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You don’t know when the universe started to unravel.Maybe it was the breakup. Maybe it was that lab partner who kept messing up your simulations. Maybe it was all the times you sat through lectures with tears threatening at the corners of your eyes and no one noticing, not even once. But tonight, it feels like something bigger. Like the universe itself has decided to press its thumb against your spine and push.

Entropy unfolds around you like a slow dance. The universe's natural descent into disorder feels inevitable tonight as you stand before the mirror, half-heartedly curling your lashes. Mascara won't fix the exhaustion in your eyes, won't erase the weeks you've spent hiding from your reflection. You barely recognize the person staring back at you anymore.

Hyeri’s outside your door, already half-drunk, yelling through the crack like she owns the world. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m breaking in and dressing you myself!”

You shout back a profanity, then drop your towel and step into the dress she brought you. It wasn’t made for physics students. That much is clear. It’s navy satin, too short to be safe and too tight to be responsible. The neckline dips like a threat, the fabric clings like it knows something you don’t. You smooth it down your sides, catching your reflection by accident — and then not looking away.

Your hair’s still wet from the world’s fastest shower. You didn’t bother with foundation. Just a bit of liner, a swipe of something sheer on your lips. You look like someone you don’t quite know. Someone who might dance. Someone who might say yes to something reckless. The zipper sticks halfway up your back, and when you reach to fix it, a strand of hair slips free and falls across your face. You look messy. Unpolished. A little chaotic.

A laugh escapes your lips as you realize that in your disheveled state, you've finally aligned with the universe's natural tendency toward chaos.

There’s a knock at the door. “I swear to god, Y/N—”

You open it before she can finish, and Hyeri shuts up mid-rant.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

You grab your bag. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay,” she says, eyes wide, “but if Jungkook doesn’t try to kiss you tonight, I’m checking him for a concussion.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters with a newfound awareness - the whisper of satin against skin, the cool night air dancing across your thighs.

Following Hyeri through the dimly lit stairwell and into the waiting Uber, you can't help but notice how different the city feels tonight. Summer lingers in the air, heavy with possibility, as if the universe itself is contemplating what kind of chaos to unleash. For once, you're ready to embrace whatever comes.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You smell the party before you hear it. It’s not unpleasant — not the kind of sour, suffocating stink of undergrad dorm parties you’ve long since grown out of. No, this one smells like summer. Like too-sweet alcohol and chlorine and night air that clings to bare shoulders. There’s music, loud enough to rattle the pavement beneath your heels, bass bleeding through windows too big to hide the chaos inside.

Jungkook’s house is exactly what you’d expect from a rich boy with too many friends and too little restraint. Modern, massive, perched on a hill just far enough from campus to feel forbidden. The front door’s already wide open. People flow in and out like blood through a vein. Someone’s laughing on the porch. Someone else is making out against the railing. You pause before going in.

Hyeri’s already halfway up the steps, turning back when she notices you hesitate. “Don’t look like you’re here to study. Shoulders back. Chin up. You look hot as hell.”

You follow her inside. The temperature rises immediately. The music hits your chest in waves, something fast and rhythmic that people pretend they know the words to. There’s a sheen of sweat on everyone’s skin, cups half-empty and already sticky with fingerprints. Lights pulse in warm golds and deep reds, designed to make everyone look better than they are.

You keep your eyes low at first, weaving through bodies, careful not to bump into anyone. You’re not used to being seen. Not like this. Not in something this tight, this short. You feel the way the fabric pulls across your hips, how it shifts with each step. You’re suddenly aware of the line of your thighs, the exposed stretch of your back.

The weight of someone's stare draws your attention upward, and there he stands: Jeon Jungkook, watching you with deliberate intensity.

Slouched on the arm of an expensive couch, drink in one hand, tattooed fingers curled around plastic like they’ve never had to hold anything heavier. He’s wearing a black button-up — open halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows — and a pair of dark jeans that might as well be a crime. His lip ring catches the light when he smirks at something one of his friends says, and his head tilts just slightly — because he’s looking at you.

You almost miss it, the way the smirk dies and reforms into something slower. Sharper. His gaze lingers, dips — not in a crude, hungry way, but in a way that makes you feel scanned. Like he’s logging every inch of skin, every tilt of your body, every second you hold eye contact.

His expression remains neutral as his gaze lingers, drinking in every detail of your presence. The intensity of his stare follows you across the room as Hyeri pulls you toward the kitchen, chattering about shots and mixers while reminding you to "hydrate between drinks, you nerd." Even through the press of bodies and pulsing music, you can feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.

The kitchen is a chaotic display of solo cups and liquor bottles, with fruit swimming in something that promises tomorrow's regret. You grab a drink more for something to occupy your hands than anything else, the cold plastic a flimsy shield as cherry and vodka touch your lips.

When Hyeri tugs at your hand with an excited "Come dance!", you pause. The familiar heat of his gaze draws your attention back across the room. He's standing now, drink still in hand, and when your eyes meet, his lips curve into a smile that's neither cocky nor practiced. It's something more dangerous - slow, curious, possessive - as if he's already seen how this night ends. As if the universe itself has chosen its preferred form of chaos.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You lose Hyeri somewhere between the kitchen and the music.

She disappears into the haze of bodies with the kind of confidence you’ve never been able to fake—throwing her arms around someone you don’t recognize, laughing too loudly, swaying like she’s part of the beat itself. The living room’s been cleared just enough to form a makeshift dance floor, though calling it that feels generous. It’s a swarm. Sweaty, uncoordinated, pulsing with bass and alcohol.

You hover at the edge for a moment, half-expecting yourself to turn back. But your feet don’t move. You feel warm. Lightheaded. A little less real with every second. And you know, before you even look again, that he’s still there.

He doesn’t approach like he’s chasing something. He approaches like he’s already caught it.

You feel him before you see him—something magnetic pulling at the corner of your awareness. Then you turn your head, and he’s suddenly beside you, crowding your space without brushing you once. His shirt clings to the lines of his chest. His breath smells faintly of whiskey and mint.

“Didn’t know physics majors danced,” he murmurs, not loud but close enough that the words slide against your neck.

You don’t flinch. “Didn’t know business majors could form full sentences.”

That earns a laugh. Low. A little sharp. He doesn’t look away. The song shifts, something slower, bass-heavy, almost liquid in the way it pours over the crowd. His hand doesn’t touch you—not yet—but you feel his presence pressing in, daring you to move first.

“You wanna?” he asks, a single word softened by the tilt of his mouth. It’s not polite. Not romantic. But his tone says he already knows the answer.

You shouldn't dance with him, but nothing about tonight has followed any semblance of reason. When you nod, he steps behind you, eliminating all space between your bodies. His hands find your hips with casual precision, thumbs brushing the exposed skin between your dress and thighs - not quite inappropriate, but enough to make your breath catch and spine straighten.

You let the music guide your movements, following pure instinct rather than practiced steps. The weight of his hands sets your rhythm, his grip subtle yet firm as heat radiates from his chest against your back. He stays silent, letting his touch speak volumes - possessive, intentional, marking.

When his lips graze your ear, he murmurs, "You're not what I expected."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Your voice emerges unfamiliar - soft, low, wrapped in heat.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You just… move like you’ve been pretending not to want this.”

You lean back—not into him, not quite. Just enough to let your head fall against his shoulder, enough for your cheek to brush the edge of his jaw.

“Maybe I have,” you whisper.

That makes him exhale through his nose, a near-silent sound of disbelief.One of his hands slides lower, fingers dragging down the side of your thigh through your dress, subtle under the colored lights. You don’t stop him. Don’t even flinch. You’re past that now—past logic, past caution. You gave up control the second you walked through the door. Your hips roll against his, slow, testing. He curses under his breath.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You smile, dizzy with the rush of power you didn’t know you had. “Good.”

The beat slows again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You're suspended there, in the strobe-flecked dark, wrapped in the tension of something neither of you is ready to name. You can feel the way his body hardens against yours. The restraint in the way he keeps his hands from wandering farther. The storm gathering behind his eyes.

And then someone spills a drink, somewhere close, and the moment fractures just enough for you to step away.

You walk toward the back door without a word. Toward the warm night air, toward the sound of water, toward the next inevitable collapse in this universe gone fully to chaos.

Behind you, Jungkook follows.

The patio is cooler, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You step out into the night air with your plastic cup still clutched in your hand, the condensation sliding between your fingers. The hem of your dress clings to the backs of your thighs, slick with sweat and static, and your pulse hasn’t slowed since the dance floor. You try to blame it on the alcohol. On the heat. On the music still throbbing behind you.

Not on him. You don’t dare glance behind you. You don’t have to. You already know he’s there. The pool glows in blue and gold, lights flickering beneath the surface like someone bottled the stars and poured them into water. A few people are floating lazily, limbs draped over inflatable chairs, laughter drifting up like smoke. The jacuzzi hums beside it, steam rising from its surface, soft and almost cinematic. Someone’s speaker plays a slower song now—trance-like, sensual, too low to sing along to.

And there he is again. He emerges from the shadows like the night belongs to him. Still shirtless, only now his skin shines with a sheen of sweat. His boxers ride low on his hips, exposing just enough to make your mouth dry. His chest is cut, stomach taut, tattoos black against golden skin. A towel slung over one shoulder. That stupid, crooked grin.

“You look hot,” he says. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re scanning every inch of you, unhurried. “You should cool off.”

You take a slow sip from your drink. “What, in there?”

He nods toward the jacuzzi. “It’s basically mandatory.”

You raise a brow. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Neither does he, clearly. He steps closer anyway. “Neither do I.”

Before you can respond, Hyeri appears beside you with a shriek, nearly stumbling as she tugs off her dress in one motion. Her red bra and matching lace panties flash under the porch lights like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Come onnnn,” she whines, laughing, already halfway into the water. “It’s just underwear! No one cares!”

“I care,” you mutter, gripping the hem of your dress like it’s the last thing tethering you to reality.

“Then stop being so uptight,” she says—and with no warning, she shoves you forward.

You stumble with a yelp. The cup flies from your hand. Your knees buckle as hot water surrounds you, silk dragging against your skin, heavy and clinging. You surface gasping, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to your forehead.

“Hyeri!” you snap, voice shrill, but she’s laughing too hard to answer.

Someone whistles. Someone else claps. Jungkook’s smirking as he lowers himself in across from you, water sloshing up over his chest. He leans back, spreads his arms wide across the edge, like this is his throne and you’ve just been delivered to it.

And your dress—god, your dress. The satin is ruined. It sticks to your stomach, your thighs, your chest. The neckline’s slipped almost indecently low, and you know without looking that the fabric is nearly see-through now, the curve of your bra showing underneath. You tug at it beneath the surface, cheeks flaming.

“It’s not that kind of party,” you mutter, voice tight.

But he’s already watching you like it is. “You’re overdressed.”

You shoot him a look. “Not anymore.”

He smiles, slow and lazy, and leans closer. “Then lose it.”

You hesitate. But the water is warm, the music hazy, the alcohol swimming in your bloodstream like a tide. And your dress is clinging like second skin, dragging with every breath. You sigh. Slide the straps off your shoulders. Shimmy out of the fabric under the surface until it floats around you like a drowning petal. You drape it over the side without ceremony.

Now it’s just you in your bra and underwear. Bare legs. Wet skin. Nothing left to hide behind. And he’s watching you like he wants to ruin you with just his eyes.

Conversation rises around you—someone retells a wild hookup story, someone else splashes a drink over the jets—but none of it registers. You can feel Jungkook's thigh brushing yours beneath the water. His hand finds your knee. Slides just above it.

You breathe in. Let it happen. The moment holds like that. Suspended. Like a physics problem with no solution—just two bodies and friction and heat, variables with too much potential energy, waiting to snap.

Then someone splashes. Water flies up into your face, and you blink hard, flinching.

“Shit,” you mumble, rubbing your eye. Your contact is out of place—stinging, burning, blurring your vision.

"Everything okay?" Jungkook's voice softens with concern as he moves closer.

"Just got something in my eye," you manage, blinking rapidly.

He pulls himself out of the water in one fluid motion, muscles glistening as he reaches for a towel. "Bathroom's inside - I've got eyedrops upstairs. Plus something dry you can change into."

The offer hangs between you. Water drips from his hair down his neck, his soaked boxers clinging to his frame as he extends his hand. You pause, just for a moment, before accepting both his help and what it implies.

The hallway is quiet—eerily so after the chaos of the party below. The music becomes nothing but a muffled hum, thudding through the floorboards as if the house is holding its breath with you. Water drips from your hair to your bare shoulders, your bra clinging uncomfortably to your skin beneath the oversized towel Jungkook threw over you. The soaked fabric of your underwear sticks between your thighs as you walk, your steps squelching against the hardwood.

He walks just ahead, shirtless and dripping, his boxers clinging to every muscle of his thighs. His back is broad, his tattooed arm flexing as he opens a door on the left, pushing it open with casual ease.

“Bathroom,” he says, flicking on the light. “Eyedrops are in the cabinet.”

You step inside. The air is cool, the tile colder beneath your feet. A dim light above the mirror flickers before settling into a soft glow. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror—you already know you look like something undone. Makeup smudged. Hair clumped into wet strands. Skin flushed from heat and embarrassment and him.

You open the cabinet, find the eyedrops instantly. Your fingers tremble as you tip your chin back, blinking the liquid in. The sting fades slowly.

When you lower your gaze, he’s leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s cataloging every movement, every breath, every second you give him.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Didn’t want your eye falling out on my watch.”

You laugh, quiet. “So thoughtful.”

“I am,” he says, straightening. He steps toward you, slow. Measured. “You should let me show you.”

Your pulse skips. “Show me what?”

His eyes dip. “How thoughtful I can be.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. Your body’s already reacting, legs stiffening slightly, breath catching when he stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his skin warms yours. The water still dripping from his hair catches the light.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, glancing down.

“Sharp observation.”

He hums. “Not just from the jacuzzi, I think.”

Your eyes snap up. His are burning now—darker, lower, slow-burning coal beneath thick lashes. His voice dips.

“You gonna let me dry you off?”

You don’t answer.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Or should I make you wetter first?”

Your knees threaten to give out.

He steps back before you can respond, smirking like he already knows he’s winning. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know what this is. But you take his hand anyway.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the moonlight spilling through half-closed blinds. The air is warmer here. Softer. And everything smells like him—spice, skin, shampoo. The bed is rumpled. There’s a hoodie thrown over a chair, a single black ring on the nightstand, and a half-empty glass of water.

You stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, arms crossed tightly over the towel. He crosses to a dresser, pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, both oversized. He tosses them to the bed and turns to face you.

“You can change here,” he says. “I’ll be good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even believe that.”

He grins. “No. But I like hearing you say it.”

You glance at the clothes, then at him—and slowly, deliberately, your fingers move. The towel slips from your grasp, pooling at your feet. The air changes, caught between breath and silence��suspended, reverent.

His eyes drag down your body in a slow, devastating sweep. Your wet bra clings to your chest, nipples clearly visible beneath the sheer fabric. Your underwear is nearly transparent, stretched taut across your hips, the waistband twisted from the way you shifted under the water. Your skin is flushed, dotted with goosebumps. You don’t cover yourself.

He doesn’t move. For a moment, he just stares—mouth parted, throat working as he swallows hard. His cock twitches in his boxers, and the fabric can no longer hide it.

You speak first.“Thought you were gonna be good.”

His gaze lifts—slow, hungry. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I lied.”

He sits on the bed, legs spread wide, his cock hard and obvious beneath the wet fabric. He leans back on his hands and looks at you like he already owns you. “Come here.”

You move towards him with slow, measured steps, each movement drawing his gaze along the curves of your body. Your soaked bra clings to your skin as you approach, and when you finally stop before him, his exhale is strained with barely contained desire.

He tilts his head. “Can I touch you now?”

You nod. It’s barely a breath.

He reaches forward, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, then over your hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know.”

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And he grins, wild and crooked and starved. “Good girl.”

His eyes are on your mouth when you breathe.

“Come here,” he says again, voice husky, deeper than it was downstairs. There’s no playfulness in it anymore. Just want.

You step forward, letting your knees brush the outside of his. He doesn’t move. Then, slowly, deliberately, you lift one leg over his thigh, then the other, and lower yourself into his lap.

The second your hips meet his, you feel it — the hard line of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of your panties. You both freeze. His breath stutters, jaw flexing as his fingers curl into the sheets beside him. He looks up at you like you’ve just ruined him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away.

He reaches for your waist, fingers spreading wide as he guides you gently — forward, then back. The friction is slow. Torturous. His cock slides along the soaked crotch of your panties with every pass, dragging over your clit in a way that makes your thighs twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. “You’ve been wet since the dance, haven’t you?”

You open your mouth to argue, but it comes out a moan instead.

His hands roam. Over your waist, your ribs, thumbs grazing the undercurve of your breasts. He doesn’t touch your nipples — not yet. He’s savoring. Mapping you like something rare and sacred. Your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance, and he lets his head fall forward, lips grazing the slope of your neck.

“You smell like heat,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your pulse. “Like you’re meant to be fucked.”

The air leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale. He sucks at your throat once — soft, then harder — enough to leave a mark. Your hips grind down harder by accident, and he groans into your skin.

“God, baby,” he breathes, voice crumbling, “I want you to ride me just like this. Slow. Fuck—just like that.”

You drag your hips again, letting your soaked panties rub over his cock, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You like that?” you whisper, breath shaking.

He looks up at you, hair falling into his eyes, and smiles like the devil.

“You have no idea.”

He rolls his hips up into yours once, sharply. You gasp.

“Wanna feel you come on me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “Make a mess all over my lap. Let me ruin these pretty little panties you wore just for me.”

You whimper. His cock pulses beneath you, hot and thick and aching against your soaked center.

“Say you want it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I want it,” you gasp, breathless. “Jungkook—please…”

And he groans, deep and raw.

“I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”

You don’t realize how hard you’re breathing until he stills you.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, gripping them firmly, and with a strength that shouldn’t feel as gentle as it does, he lifts you. You gasp as he lays you back across the bed, your legs draped over the edge, your hair fanning against the pillows like you were made to be framed like this—bare and gasping beneath his stare.

He follows you down slowly. Drops to his knees like it's instinct. Not cocky. Not rushed. Like he’s been waiting to kneel here since the second he saw you. Your thighs tremble as he presses them open, fingers leaving faint imprints against your skin. He slides his palms under your knees, pushing them farther apart, and for a second, he just looks at you. At the damp curve of your panties, the way the fabric clings, the way you shift slightly under his stare like the heat between your legs has turned unbearable.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes.

His hands grip the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips without thinking. He peels them down slowly, watching them drag over your skin like he wants to memorize every inch. When they reach your ankles, he tosses them somewhere behind him—but his eyes never leave you. Then he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue is almost too soft to process. Just the tip, a teasing flick across your clit that makes your entire body jolt. You clutch at the sheets, your back arching when he does it again—firmer this time. He groans the second he tastes you.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue from your entrance all the way up. “How the fuck do you taste like this?”

Your thighs twitch. He presses his palms against them to keep you open, steady, and lowers his mouth again.

This time, it’s not soft. His tongue laps at you with purpose, flattening against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that make your legs tense and your fingers curl. He moans against you like he’s the one being pleasured, and the vibrations send shocks through your entire body.

You cry out. It’s instinctual—your hips trying to buck, your hand flying to his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you run. He wraps an arm around your thigh, holds you down, and slips two fingers inside you without warning. Your moan is wrecked.

The stretch, the heat, the way his tongue moves faster now—circling, pressing, teasing just to the edge of pain. It’s too much. Not enough. Everything. Your head falls back against the mattress.

“Jungkook—” It’s a whimper, broken. “Oh my god…”

He groans again, tongue working faster, fingers curling inside you like he knows exactly where to find you, exactly how to press until you’re gasping like you’re drowning.

“That’s it,” he rasps against you. “Fuck, baby… let me feel you come on my mouth. Right here. Come for me.”

The pressure builds with each movement of his tongue, your body trembling on the edge as pleasure coils tight and hot within you. When release finally comes, it hits you like a wave — back arching, thighs shaking, lips parting in a cry you can’t control. You feel yourself pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you in hot, wet pulses that make you sob his name.

He groans low against you and keeps going, tongue flicking as your body shudders, milking every second out of it, chasing every last twitch of pleasure until your hips collapse and your legs fall open. He finally pulls back, face glistening, lips swollen, pupils blown. You’re panting and he stares at you like he’s just won a war. And then—without giving you a second to recover—he grips your thighs and says, voice rough, “Get up.”

You blink, dizzy. “Wha—”

“Mirror,” he says. “Now.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your wrist. Not harshly. Not with force. Just enough pressure to tell you you’re not going anywhere. Your skin is hot, oversensitive, your thighs still twitching, and he’s already pulling you upright like he hasn’t just made you come with nothing but his mouth and two fingers. You follow, unsteady on your feet, your knees weak. Your bra is twisted around your chest, half-askew. Your hair’s stuck to your neck. You feel undone.

And he’s still hard. You catch a glimpse of it as he steps in behind you — the thick outline of his cock straining against the wet cotton of his boxers. You must’ve soaked through his lap earlier, because the front of them is completely dark, clinging to every inch of him. Your throat goes dry.

“Come here,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, already steering you toward the mirror in the corner of his room. Full-length. Gold-rimmed. Slightly fogged at the edges from the humidity of your bodies.

“I can’t—” you start, still dazed, and his hand cups your jaw from behind.

“You can,” he says, soft but firm. “You’re not done. Not yet.”

He stops you just a step in front of the mirror.

“Look,” he tells you. His voice is low, breathless now. “Look at yourself.”

You do and the girl in the reflection is… not you. Her lips are swollen. Her bra half-off. Her thighs gleaming. Her chest rising and falling like she’s been running for hours. You can see Jungkook’s frame behind you—tall, shirtless, flushed—his arm reaching around your waist, the other pressing flat against your lower back.

Then his hand slides down. Over your stomach. Your panties are gone. You’re bare for him, wet and pulsing and still aching from before. His fingers dip between your legs again.

You gasp. Your head drops forward—but his voice sharpens, right against your ear.

“No. Eyes up. Watch.”

You do. You watch the way your mouth falls open when two fingers slip back inside you, slow and deep. Watch the way your body rocks forward slightly, forced to brace against the glass as he curls them perfectly, his palm dragging over your clit just enough to make your knees buckle.

He wraps his other arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Good girl,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck.

Your hips twitch. The angle is too perfect. Too much. Every thrust of his fingers sends you crashing forward against your reflection, breath fogging the glass, lips parting with every ragged moan.

“Look how pretty you are when you fall apart,” he murmurs. “You see that?”

You nod, barely. He pumps his fingers harder. Deeper. You feel them hit that spot again, and your entire body shudders. His hips are pressed to your ass now, his cock grinding against your skin with every movement, leaking through his boxers as he fingers you mercilessly.

“You like being watched?” he growls, voice breaking. “Like seeing yourself like this?”

You whimper. “Yes…”

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” His fingers slam into you harder now, knuckles wet, your slick echoing obscenely in the quiet. “You wanna do it while you’re looking me in the eye?”

You lift your head and meet his gaze in the mirror.

And that’s what breaks you. You cry out, loud and raw, body shaking against his, pressed full-length to the glass as your orgasm rips through you again — messier this time, faster, overwhelming. Your legs quake. His fingers never stop. He holds you through it, one arm locking you in place as you fall apart a second time in front of yourself, because of him.

Your breath fogs the mirror in quick, shallow pants. He finally pulls back, wet fingers sliding free with a low, satisfied groan. He looks at you in the mirror—flushed, panting, nearly gone—and leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“I could watch you come all night.”

And somehow, you believe him. He pulls back just enough to let you breathe. The mirror’s cooled now, the glass smeared with your fingerprints and fog, the reflection a blur of tangled hair and sweat and wrecked pleasure. Your thighs are shaking. Your skin is damp. You feel like you’ve melted and there’s no putting yourself back together.

Jungkook turns you gently, hand on your waist, guiding you like he’s still not done claiming you.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you let him push you down until you’re flat on your back. Your arms fall limp beside you, and for a moment all you can do is stare up at him. His chest is heaving. His skin is flushed. His cock — thick, red, twitching — strains beneath the cling of his boxers, soaked and sticking to every outline.

Then he hooks his thumbs in the waistband. You can’t look away. The cotton peels down slowly, catching on the head of his cock. He frees it with one hand, and it slaps up against his stomach, flushed and dripping. Your breath catches.

You’ve seen porn. You’ve read things. You’ve imagined. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him — him— standing between your knees, eyes dark, cock hard, and so clearly turned on by you. Your thighs press together instinctively. He sees it and smirks then climbs onto the bed. He doesn’t ask. He just leans over you, one hand sliding beneath your back, the other tugging the straps of your bra off your shoulders. You lift your arms without thinking, too far gone to hesitate, and he slides it down and off, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Your breasts spill free, heavy and flushed and still damp from sweat.

He freezes. Just for a second. “Jesus fuck,” he breathes.

His hand comes up, fingers splayed, and he cups one breast gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. His thumb grazes your nipple. You shudder.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft… I’ve been staring at these all night.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You haven’t even seen them until now.”

He leans down, presses a kiss between them. “Didn’t have to. I just knew.”

And then he’s straddling your hips, cock in his hand, eyes dark as sin.

You watch, completely still, as he spits into his palm, slicks it over his length, and nestles the head of his cock between your breasts.

Your stomach tightens. He reaches down, gently lifts your hands, guiding them to your own body. “Hold them together for me.”

You obey. Press your breasts around him, the weight of them closing snug around his cock. His breath stutters.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Fuck—just like that.”

And then he starts to move. It’s slow at first. The head of his cock slides up, nudging under your chin, wet with pre-come. You gasp as it drags back down, gliding slick between your breasts, your skin burning with friction and arousal and humiliation, but god, it turns you on more than you thought possible. You’ve never done this before. Never even thought about it.

But the way he moans? The way his eyes fall half-lidded, hips starting to stutter as he watches his cock disappear between your breasts? It wrecks you. Your thighs press together again. You can feel the wetness leaking out of you — fresh, sticky, proof that even after everything, your body’s still begging.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, one hand gripping the headboard for balance, the other fisting your hair. “You have no idea what this does to me.”You whimper.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Tits so fucking perfect. Taking all of me. You’re so good—so fucking good—”

The head of his cock taps your chin again, your lips, your throat. You open your mouth on instinct, and he moans loudly.

“You wanna taste it?” he growls. “Wanna suck the tip while I fuck your tits?”

You nod, breathless, and tilt your head just enough to catch him on your tongue the next time he thrusts up. The sound he makes is filthy. His hips falter. His jaw clenches. The hand in your hair tightens.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m not gonna last like this,” he chokes out. “You feel too good. You’re so fucking hot like this. I could come all over these perfect tits and still not be done.”

You whine while he pulls back.

Not because he’s finished — but because he’s holding on. Barely. And because he hasn’t even been inside you yet. He’s panting above you, knees sunk into the mattress on either side of your waist, sweat beading down his chest as his cock pulses between your breasts. The tip is slick, flushed red, twitching with restraint. His eyes are locked on the mess he’s made of your body — your breasts shining, lips parted, your entire body still trembling beneath him.

But you’re not done. You should be. You’ve come twice, your legs are jelly, your skin is hypersensitive — but none of that matters. Because the longer you stare at him, the more you realize that this isn’t enough. Not yet. Not until you’ve had all of him. Not until you’ve tasted the way he’s falling apart.

Your voice is gone. Your mind’s gone too. All you can feel is heat — liquid and pulsing, low in your belly and behind your knees. You want to be good for him. You want to be filthy for him. You want to know what he tastes like. You want to feel his cock on your tongue.

So you shift beneath him. Lift your hands to his thighs, fingers sliding up slowly, dragging over the thick muscle until you reach his hips. He watches you with hooded eyes, breathless, lips wet and parted. You look up at him. And then — without a single word — you stick out your tongue. The way his expression breaks…

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

His hand comes down, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he stares like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You want to suck me off that bad?” he asks, voice rough. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

You nod. Keep your tongue out. Your eyes never leave his. He growls.

“Say it,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your chin. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want.”

Your voice is hoarse. Desperate. “I want your cock in my mouth, Jungkook… I want to suck you until you lose it. I want to feel you on my tongue, in my throat. I want to taste all of you. Please…”

His jaw clenches. His hips jerk forward instinctively, the tip of his cock brushing your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. “Open your mouth.”

You do and he guides himself in slowly, head pressing past your lips, the taste of salt and musk blooming over your tongue. You groan softly, and he shudders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair, wrapping it around his fingers like reins. “Fuck, baby. Look so pretty like this.”

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper. Inch by inch, tongue curled beneath the shaft, your lips stretched wide. His cock slides in heavy, hot, and you let it, eyes fluttering closed as he presses against the back of your throat.

He hisses through his teeth. “God—fuck, your mouth…”

You moan around him. The vibration makes him groan, hips rolling forward just slightly — enough to make you gag softly around him. Your eyes water. You don’t stop.

Your fingers curl around his thighs. You suck him hard, wet and steady, letting spit drip down your chin, letting it get messy, wanting it to get messy. You want him undone. You want him to lose control.

“Fuck, just like that,” he pants, voice cracking. “You’re so good. You’re fucking perfect.”

He begins to move. Not roughly. Just slow thrusts of his hips, sliding his cock deeper with every pass, using your mouth like he’s been dreaming about it for months. His hand holds your hair tight. His stomach flexes. You can feel him trembling. You flatten your tongue. Let him fuck into your mouth. He starts muttering now — barely coherent.

“Shit… you’re gonna make me come—your fucking mouth—baby, I’m gonna—”

But then he pulls out. You gasp, mouth open, spit trailing from your lips to the head of his cock. He’s shaking.

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not yet. I need to be inside you.”

You’re still panting when he leans down to kiss you. It’s not gentle. He licks into your mouth, like he can’t bear the space between you anymore. Then he reaches for the drawer.

Pulls out a condom and looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“Lie back,” he says. “Let me fuck you right.”

You’re already open for him when he returns. Laid bare, legs parted, lips swollen, chin still shining from spit. Your body aches in the best way — used, touched, ruined — but it’s nothing compared to what you feel when you watch him roll the condom on. His chest is heaving. His thighs are flexed. And his cock, flushed and twitching in his grip, looks almost angry with need.

He climbs between your legs slowly. Like he’s in control. But you can see it now — the tension behind his smirk. The tremble in his breath. He’s been on the edge since you got on your knees, and he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “All spread out for me. Wet as fuck. And you still want more?”

You nod, breathless and he grins. Then lowers himself, his cock brushing against your folds — not pushing in yet, just slapping it lightly across your entrance.

Once. Twice. A third time, with a wet sound that makes you twitch.

You gasp, hips jerking. “Jungkook…”

He groans. “You hear that? That’s how wet you are for me. All this for my cock, baby?”

You whimper. “Yes. All for you.”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. Then he holds himself there — right at your entrance — and still doesn’t move.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe.

He growls. “Nah. Say it right.”

You whimper again, voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook… I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you inside.”

He exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Torturous. You feel every inch — the stretch, the pressure, the way your walls cling to him. You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, thighs trembling as he slides deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice guttural. “You’re so tight. So warm… shit—like you were made for me.”

Your mouth falls open. “You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking big…”

He growls at that — hips pressing all the way in until he’s bottomed out.

“Yeah? You like this?”

“Yes,” you pant. “You fill me so good, I—I can’t think—”

“You don’t need to think,” he breathes. “Just feel.”

Then he starts to move. Slow thrusts at first — deep and deliberate. His hips rock into yours with precision, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. His body presses into yours with heat and weight and intent, chest nearly touching yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Tight little pussy taking all of me like that.”

You moan — helpless, wrecked, desperate.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you breathe, voice trembling. “It’s all yours, Jungkook…”

“Say no one else fucks you like this.”

“No one. Just you—only you—”

He groans loud at that, pace faltering for a beat before he starts pounding harder. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every thrust hits deeper, sharper, hips slapping against your ass. His hand slides up to your chest, gripping one breast, squeezing until you gasp. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back.

“You wanna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please…”

“You gonna let me watch you fall apart again?”

“Yes—fuck, please, Jungkook—”

He shifts, changes the angle, and suddenly every thrust is grinding against your clit just right. You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling. You’re so close. So fucking close.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come all over my cock, baby. I wanna feel you tighten around me—come like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a supernova — legs locking around his waist, mouth falling open in a scream. Your body pulses around him, walls clenching so hard he nearly loses it with you. He fucks you through it, whispering filth in your ear the whole time, praising you, owning you. When you finally come down, panting and wrecked, he kisses you like he’s starving but he’s not done yet.

You’re still pulsing around him when he pulls out. You gasp, empty in an instant, your body twitching from aftershocks. He kneels back for a breath, staring down at you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory — your legs splayed, your skin flushed, your mouth swollen and wet with the ghost of his name.

And then he flips you fast. You land on your stomach with a surprised moan, face sinking into the pillow, arms collapsing beneath you. Before you can breathe, he’s behind you again, spreading your thighs with greedy hands, pressing his cock between your folds.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging himself through your slick. “You look so good like this.”

He grabs your hips, lifts you slightly, and pushes back in with one rough thrust. You cry out. Your fingers clutch the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just fucks into you—deep, fast, like he’s finally letting go. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and sharp, paired with his ragged moans and your helpless gasps.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, spine arching. “Fuck—Jungkook—yes—”

“You like this?” he snarls. “You like getting fucked like this? Bent over like a toy?”

“Yes,” you pant, no shame left. “I love it—I love your cock—don’t stop—”

He laughs, breathless, feral. His hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair, and pulls. Your back arches instinctively. The burn in your scalp shoots straight to your cunt. You moan like it’s oxygen.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He thrusts harder, faster. Every stroke knocks a sound out of your throat. Your body jolts forward with the force of it, and he only pulls you back harder. And then suddenly his palm lands on your ass, hard and hot. You jerk. Whine. Grind back against him.

“Oh, you like that?” he grits out. “You want me to spank you while I fuck you?”

“Yes—yes, please, Jungkook—”

Smack. Again. Your ass stings, skin heating under each slap, but it just makes everything worse — your walls clamp around him, another orgasm building before you can even prepare for it.

“You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” His voice is sharp now, breathless. “Fucking dripping. So messy. You love being used like this.”

“I love it,” you sob. “I love it—I love being fucked by you—please—please, Jungkook—”

He grabs both your wrists and pulls them behind your back, holding you open while he slams into you, deep and fast, until your vision goes white.

“Come again,” he orders. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it hits harder than before — your body convulsing, vision tunneling, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your pussy clenches tight around him.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He groans loud, one final thrust punching deep into you and then he’s coming. Hard. You feel it — the way his whole body tightens behind you, the heat spilling into the condom as he presses as deep as he can go, panting against your spine, voice raw. He holds there for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling. Then slowly, gently, he loosens his grip on your wrists. Brushes a soft kiss over your shoulder. Collapses beside you.

The room is silent now. Just two bodies, sweat-drenched and sore, trembling from everything they weren’t supposed to feel. Your body’s gone heavy. Limbs lax. Muscles aching in the best way. You’re still on your stomach, hair matted to the back of your neck, thighs sticky, lungs slow to catch up. The sheets are wrinkled beneath you. The whole room smells like sweat and sex and the kind of satisfaction that seeps into the bones.

And then he touches you again. A hand slides along your hip — warm, calloused — trailing over the curve of your ass and down your thigh. Then it shifts. Moves up. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast, and his mouth follows a heartbeat later.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, voice soft, half-dazed.

He doesn’t answer. He just mouths at your nipple, lazy and slow, tongue swirling in wet circles while his hand cups the other breast and gives it a greedy squeeze. You gasp. Your back arches instinctively. He hums low in his throat like you're dessert.

“Thought you were done,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop. “I’m never done with you.”

You whimper. Laugh. Try to turn your face away — but he follows. Crawls up your body, kisses you deep and messy, his hand still palming your breast while his tongue slides into your mouth like he owns it. His lips are sticky, hot. You taste yourself on them.

And you melt all over again. His fingers dig into your ass next. Squeezing. Spreading. Possessive.

“You know,” he rasps, breath fanning over your ear, “I could fuck you like this every day.”

You laugh again — breathless, flushed. “Yeah?”

“Every fucking day.” He groans. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, turning your head slightly, kissing his jaw. “You fuck so good…”

He moans. “You make it easy. Being inside you is like… holy fuck, it’s unreal.”

You roll onto your back, too lazy to fully fight him off. He’s still kissing your chest, dragging his mouth from one nipple to the other, circling slow. His tongue’s warm. Wet. Wicked. Every touch makes you twitch. And your voice—when it comes—is low and teasing.

“You gonna get off on my tits again, or let me put some clothes on?”

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters, pulling back only slightly, eyes dropping to the mess of your ruined panties on the floor. He picks them up with two fingers, holds them hostage. “I’m keeping these.”

You blink at him in shock. “Jungkook.”

He grins. “For science.”

You snort, still breathless. “That was…” You exhale hard, letting your head fall back. “So fucking needed.”

He grins. “Anytime. I’m very committed to supporting women in STEM.”

You laugh — fully this time. He tosses you his hoodie, then shimmies into his boxers like he isn’t still half-hard just watching you move. You stretch slowly, aching all over, before sitting up and tugging on your dress without underwear. His eyes darken. And then, before you leave, you do it — that final little flick of power he never sees coming. You hook your finger in your mouth. Suck it slowly. Loudly. Let it pop free. Then glance back at him over your shoulder with a sweet, filthy smile.

His jaw drops. He groans. “Oh my fucking god.”

You smirk. “See you around, Jeon.”

And just before you slip out the door, he mutters under his breath, half-wrecked:

“…I’m so fucking in trouble.”

part 2

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

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lieslab · 16 days ago

Text

Maybe dreams are meant for sleeping

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Minho X gn reader

Summary: Your boyfriend's sudden coldness towards you causes you to assume the worst.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: I've been giggling over this for a while now. Shout out to the requestee because this made me giggle and kick my feet. I love a good misunderstanding that leads to something exciting. Anyway, since my schedule was train wrecked, I'll post my next fic on Sunday, schedule on Monday, another fic on Tuesday <3

_ _ _

Rain-swollen clouds burst open at approximately four-something in the morning. The heavens opened and the rain poured. It hit the roof so hard, Minho was certain his movement would be muted, but your body had other plans.

Twenty minutes later, your arms wrapped around the robe you put on. The shuffling of your house slippers fell victim to the pounding rain drops above. Minho’s body sat in the dim fridge light. He moved about in the dark kitchen, stirring through items, and looking for last night’s leftovers.

He didn’t realize you were there until you reached up and flicked on the kitchen light. “Minho?” You called, reaching up to rub your sleepy eyes. “Minho? What are you doing? It’s so early, you should be sleeping.”

He froze with his eyes locked on the glass container of rice. He made a large batch last night. Large enough, it’d last the two of you a few days. He planned to put it with his lunch. Of course, he could have eaten in the building’s canteen, but he wasn’t sure he’d have the time.

Lately, the guys had been so busy. Time muddled between their busy schedules. Management wanted everything done all at once. Twenty-four hours wasn’t enough time for a single day. You understood that, right?

“I have to go to work early.” He avoided your sleepy eyes. Instead, he spun back to the marbled countertop. He worked quickly, placing the leftovers into his lunchbox. “I didn’t know until late last night. You were asleep when I got the text from my manager. There’s a photoshoot we have to attend.”

“I wish I would have known. I wanted to make breakfast for us to enjoy together. I’ll have to wait for another day.”

He nodded and sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah. I’ll let you know when I’m not so busy. I’ll try to talk to management. I’ll see you later.”

You waited for the words, but they never came. You shut your eyes, expecting the warmth of his body, but that didn’t show up either. He left you standing alone in the kitchen. Without kisses. Without an “I love you.” He left your heart as cold as the downpouring rain outside.

Your eyes reopened. You assumed he’d rush back and make amends, but he didn’t. The front door opened and then it shut. A faint jingle of keys, the lock turned, and then nothing. You were left alone to your own thoughts.

A deep breath in and letting it out slowly. It hurt, the startling realization that you weren’t imagining things. Distance grew between you and Minho. You couldn’t place what you did wrong.

It's always been a fear, deep down, he’d find someone better than you. Maybe, he finally realized he didn’t have the time for love in his life. Being an idol is hard. He spoke so openly about it, maybe his own words struck a chord in his heart. A realization drove the point home and now he’d abandon you, unsure of how to state the truth.

You tried not to let it bother you, but it stung. Invisible wasps flew above your head and stung your brain; a thousand different thoughts, each one pierced the skin with a more potent venom.

It all circled back and clouded your self-worth. What if you weren’t good enough? What if he really did find someone better? What if? What if? What if?

It’s always been good, the relationship between the two of you. You cherished it with everything you had. It meant whispered words of affection while you played with his hair. A silent fondness in your eyes while you watched him consume the food you made.

He always joked he could make the dish better. Suggesting things to add, gesturing to different items housed in their locations. Nonetheless, he still ate everything you put in front of him. Every grain of rice, every smear of sauce, he scooped it up with his spoon and swallowed it. He never thanked you out loud, it was more of a silent thing.

He’d wash the dishes afterwards, insisting he had to do them because you spent so much time cooking. Other times, he’d walk behind you and wrap his arms around your body; a human-formed shroud of love. He didn’t need to thank you for the dish. You would have made him a thousand dishes without the need for compliments.

Compliments were nice, but the warmth washed over you when he scooped up a second bowl. Ladling in broth, using chopsticks to grab more meat, scooping up vegetables while he mindlessly said something needed seasoned more. Yet, when you offered him the option, he refused, insisting he’d manage.

The one time he insisted something needed more salt, he added a few more sprinkles. Popping the warm dumpling in his mouth, he paused and his eyes widened. An eye twitched and you forced a hand over your mouth to keep your laughter at bay. He never proclaimed something needed more salt again.

In the silence, ground sausage sat in the fridge. Eggs hid in the darkness of a cardboard carton. You purchased fresh bagels from a bakery last night. You figured you’d have so many hours before they lost that fresh-baked taste.

You expected to share a homemade breakfast with Minho, but his disappearance left your soul aching. You stared where his body once was. A coldness crept down your spine and your heart wavered. The burn of tears brimmed against your eyes, but you didn’t stop it.

Like the downpouring rain, your sadness leaked out. It soaked your cheeks, but you didn’t wipe it away. Instead, you sniffled and flipped off the light. The early morning darkness made you feel worse. You spun around, heading back to the safety of your bedding. You’d cocoon yourself in and try to feel normal again.

More importantly, you’d tried to pretend Minho was at work and not at someone else’s house, making their heart his newfound home.

~ ~ ~

A few days later, the sound of forks scraping against porcelain plates caused your eardrums to shrivel. You winced when your own fork caught the plate. In front of you, Minho twirled pasta around his fork without a care in the world.

You came home from work to the scent of tomatoes, oregano, and italian seasoning. Garlic wafted through the air and greeted you when you stepped into the kitchen. With his back to you, Minho used tongs to place pasta on plates. “You’re home just in time.”

You hummed, unsure of what to say. Things between the two of you felt different since the other morning. You wanted to bring it up, but fear stopped you. What if you were right? What if he really moved on, or decided he didn't want to do this anymore? Whatever it was, you hated it.

Fear kept you cautious and on the tip of your toes. Your heart wavered around him. Paranoia grew and you hated to admit it, but it followed you around like a shadow. When would he slip up?

Maybe you’d overhear a phone conversation where he’d admit his real feelings. Perhaps, his new significant other would show up and you’d catch it all in the act. You couldn’t stand the waiting, it felt like torture. The scent of a body spray that wasn’t yours. A hoodie that Minho had never owned.

So vigilant, you were on the constant lookout. You wanted to point and accuse him, drive the nail home, and have a final aha moment. You waited and waited, but it never came. The longer it went on, the more irritable and restless you became.

If Minho could have his secrets and stop loving you, you could do it, too. In your own way, you’d play his game. You’d treat him just like he treated you.

So you sat in silence at the kitchen table. Your fork scraped against the porcelain plate. You didn’t thank him for the meal. In fact, you didn’t say much of anything. You picked at your spaghetti, not feeling like you could consume much of it. The garlic bread, you managed to get in a few bites.

“Are you feeling ill?” Minho asked after a while.

You looked up blankly, not sure you heard him correctly. “Huh?”

“I asked if you’re feeling okay. You’re not eating much. You’re not talking a lot either, it’s not like you.”

You shrugged, brushing him off. The clock on the side of the egg-shell white wall ticked. Your fork scraped the plate again. You twirled the fork and waited.

Minho stared at you and his eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t say anything else, he waited for a confession. You refused to break. Maybe you were being petty, or maybe you were giving him a taste of his own goddamn medicine.

Hurt turned into annoyance and that annoyance grew into anger. You wanted him to hurt. You wanted to break his heart. You wanted to do everything you could to make him feel like how you felt.

Hurt.

Isolated.

Angry.

Afraid.

You wanted him to be afraid. You wanted fear to grip his heart and squeeze, causing longing to take over. Maybe he’d realize you were irreplaceable that way. Without you, life would be miserable, wouldn’t it?

The ticking of the clock marched on. Soft breaths came from your chests. You didn’t meet his eyes. Another sharp squeal of your fork. His eyebrows creased with worry and then his chair grated along the tiled floor.

A hand reached out, gently cupping the top of your empty hand. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on with you?” You looked up for a brief moment, enough for your eyes to meet for a few seconds, and then you pulled away.

Your hand left his. Anger rose up the back of your throat. The acidic tomato and basil seasoning of the pasta sauce swirled in the darkened depths of your stomach.“Nothing,” you mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze. “Nothing is wrong. I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that. You’re clearly not fine. Talk to me. I can’t understand what’s happening to you.”

“How ironic,” you grumbled.

“What?”

“I said I’m fine!” You snapped, jerking yourself away from the table. Your wooden chair jerked back with a loud sound and you stood up. “If you can’t understand the problem, Minho, maybe there isn’t one at all.”

His face fell and his head tipped to the side. He watched your disappearing body in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He called after you.

“Figure it out!”

He sat in silence, unsure of the issue. Tears blurred your eyes, but you didn’t sob. You didn’t spin around and demand answers from him.

Instead, you stormed into your shared bedroom and slammed the door shut, a loud and cold action; the painful reminder that you wanted to be alone for now.

~ ~ ~

Over the course of the next week, the relationship between the two of you grew more and more rocky. You avoided Minho more and more, pulling away from who you thought was the love of your life. In your eyes, he let you.

You waited and waited for the day to come. You knew it was only a matter of time before the truth rolled out. At least, you were expecting it this time. He wouldn’t get the satisfaction of breaking your heart. You broke your own heart mere days ago.

He didn’t have time to explain himself. He couldn’t, not fully. Not when you worked and his work was dragging him further and further away from you. New things popped up. Fan signs, photoshoots, interviews, and the finishing touches on an album planned for early next year.

He wanted to find the right time to confront you, but it never worked. You didn’t give him a chance. You’d been going to bed early. By the time he came home, you were sound asleep in bed. He didn’t want to wake you up, so he let you sleep. When you woke up, he’d already be back at the studio.

You missed him like an abandoned dog craved the warm hand of their previous owner on a dark winter night. He filled your dreams. When you’d wake in the middle of the night, between his gentle snores, you’d roll over and curl into his body, holding him tight. You needed him far more than you’d admit out loud.

Too afraid to lose you, Minho made plans for today. On a Friday, you’d be home earlier than usual. Today, so would he. He’d confront you and things would go back to how they should be.

Dozing off on the suede couch, you didn’t hear the sound of Minho’s keys jingling and hitting the lock. The front door creaked open and he cautiously stepped inside. Holding his breath, he paused and waited.

The murmurings of some romance show fell from the television. You picked romance because you were swaddled in your own self-pity. What better way to bring yourself down again? Watch random couples fall in love. Watch it pull them together and break apart in painstaking ways. Love has always been such a contradicting thing.

When Minho called your name, you glanced up with half-droopy eyes. Sure you were dreaming, you mumbled his name. “Go away. I’m so mad at you, I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“Because you’ve been distant and ignoring me.” Your bottom lip trembled. “It really hurts my feelings to watch you become so closed off. It’s like you don’t love me anymore.”

“Is that what you think?”

“So I’ve been trying to ignore you,” you continued, “because I can do that, too. I can ignore you and maybe you’ll see how much it hurts me. I can’t even recognize you anymore. What are we?”

You jerked upright, letting the tears fall down your cheeks. “I love you, you know? I love you and you’re making me feel like I don’t exist.” A sweater sleeve wiped across your nose. “So who is it? Who is the lucky new person that stole your heart?”

“You are such an idiot.”

“An idiot?” You wailed. “You broke my heart! It’s like you hate me now! I don’t even know what I-” Your words caught in your throat and a pathetic whimper came out.

He walked over to you and gently grabbed your hand. “Hey, I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been nervous and I guess I’ve done this the wrong way.”

“Nervous to break up with me?”

His head shook and he smiled. “I can’t break up with the love of my life.” He reached up, gently brushing your hair back. “You look like a splotchy clown when you cry.”

Your bottom lip trembled. He grabbed your other hand and squeezed, trying to hold onto you. “I’m not breaking up with you.”

“Then why do you keep acting like it? Stop dancing around the question and tell me. Trust me, I can handle it.”

“I…” He trailed off and sighed. “Just stay here for a moment, will you? I’ll show you instead of telling you. Just stay here and I’ll be right back.”

“Promise?”

He nodded and stood up. “Give me a minute and I’ll be back.” He spun around and disappeared.

You wiped at your eyes and blinked rapidly. Murmuring voices came from the television until you reached over and turned it off. When footsteps reappeared, you looked up. Minho approached you with a small box in his hand.

“What is that?”

He sank back down between your legs, letting his elbows rest on your thighs. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a good boyfriend lately. I’ve been struggling to keep this a secret. Every time I look at you, you make me want to blurt it out loud.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure of what he meant. He lifted up the small black box. About the size of his palm, he reached down and tugged the box open. To your surprise, a ring sat pressed between two velvet flaps. Your eyes widened and you gasped, it jerked you right awake.

“Wait, what?”

“I was trying to figure out how to do it. I wanted to propose to you properly. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I know you mentioned you wanted to get married. You’ve never exactly told me how you wanted to be proposed to. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but…”

“This entire time, I thought you hated me. I should deck you for making me feel worthless. Is this my birth stone?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Almost as pretty as you. Do you want to try it on?”

You nodded and let him grab your hand. He popped the ring onto your left ring finger. As you observed the glimmering oval stone, he grabbed your other hand. “How does it feel?”

“Perfect.” You didn’t take your eyes off of it. Instead, you lifted your hand, letting it catch the sunlight slipping through the window. “Why didn’t you bring this up from the start?”

“You like surprises and I only get to propose to you once. I love you so much, but I was so nervous about this. I’ve been restless. Every time I look at you, I want to gush right then and there. You make me feel like a little kid with a huge crush.”

Your bottom lip wobbled again and his face fell. “Hey, hey, please don’t cry. I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again. I’ll take the ring back and plan something grand. Tomorrow, I can-”

“No.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you hear? I said yes, you loser. This implies we’re getting married. Look at it!” You shifted your hand again, letting the reflection sparkle. “It’s gorgeous.”

“But-”

“Do you want to marry me, or not?”

“What? Of course, I do!” His hands dug into your thighs desperately. “Yes, absolutely. I want to see you walk down the aisle and everything. The whole nine-yards.”

“Then yes. Let’s get married. What are we waiting for?” You tried to stand up. “Let’s go to the courthouse now.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard me. Come on,” you shifted again. “No take-backs. You wanna marry me soooo bad. You’re down so bad, you’re a simp.”

His face went blank and he blinked. “I suppose I deserve that for being distant.”

“You deserve to shine my shoes until next year.”

“Hey!”

But I’ll be nice and say you can make it up to me by doing the dishes for the next month. You know how I feel about the dishes.”

“Only if you cook for the next month.”

“Ha!” You reached out, playfully slapping his chest. “I knew it! You love my cooking!”

“You can’t poison me if we’re engaged.”

“But it still means I can kick your ass any time of day.”

“Kiss it, you brat.”

You stuck your tongue out. He reached up and pinched it between his fingers, causing you to freeze. Your cheeks went bright red and your eyes met his.

“Fine. You can keep the ring, but we’re planning an actual wedding. We’re not rushing the wedding. We’re going to communicate and talk to one another. Do you understand me?”

You timidly nodded and he let go of your tongue. You pulled back, wiping your face with your sleeve. “Wow, that was um…”

“Hot?” He guessed.

“Gross, actually. Now you’ve got my tongue germs. How does that feel?”

He reached up and wiped his fingers against your bare thigh, causing you to squeal. “You really love pressing my buttons, don’t you? Keep pressing them and see how far that attitude gets you.”

A grin lit up your face and he pulled away. “Don’t even start.” You grabbed his hand before he could get far. He groaned and tipped his head back. “What more do you want from me? I said I was sorry.”

“I want a proper kiss.”

“Oh, that I can do.” He jerked forward, grabbing the front of your shirt. He pulled you back to his face. “Just remember who’s in charge here.”

You reached up, flicking his nose playfully. “Who has a ring on their finger and who doesn’t?”

“You brat.”

“Jackass.”

“Dipshit.”

“Bastard.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off with your lips against his. Heated and flushed, you chased the kind of kiss you’d been missing out on. Desperate and hungry, you clutched the front of his shirt and pressed him closer to your body.

You wanted it to last forever, but he pulled away after a few seconds. You whined his name in misery. “Easy there, brat. You’re kissing me so much, you’re forgetting to breathe. Take a deep breath before you end up dying from lack of oxygen.”

“What a beautiful way to die.”

“Who’s the simp now?”

“Minho, shut the fuck up and kiss me again.”

Before he did, his hand curled around yours and the cool ring brushed against his fingers. As your lips met again, he took pleasure in knowing you were his. His and his alone.

Even if you were a brat, he loved you just the same as he always had; the same as he forever would.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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