#to the charmed ones and take them down????

[azzibuckets]

worth the wait part one

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: happy pride! here's part one of a new series of pazzi enemies to fwb to lovers. feel free to let me know your thoughts, and live reacts are always greatly appreciated!

word count: 4.3k i believe

wtw masterlist

2018 - Minsk, Belarus 

Clang.

The ball spins pathetically around the rim once, twice, before falling desolately to the side. Azzi fixes her eyes on the floor as she jogs to rebound it, refusing to meet the the stare of her coaches. It’s her fourth miss in a row, and usually she’s able to shake it off and focus on the next shot if it weren’t for the cocky, arrogant, blonde headed bitch—that shouldn’t be so good at basketball but somehow fucking is—snickering behind her.

“Fudd, I think you’re supposed to be aiming for the net,” the blonde in question says under her breath, glee written across her face before she dribbles the ball between her legs, steps back, and shoots it so cleanly that it falls through the net without disturbing a single thread. 

Azzi grits her teeth, trying to resist the urge to chuck the basketball at Paige’s smirk. But not wanting to get benched by her coaches that are always droning on and on about sportsmanship and supportive team culture, she settles for a hard shoulder check instead, sending Paige wincing and grabbing her arm like the typical drama queen that she is. 

Azzi rolls her eyes. Usually she’s all for teamwork and bonding and all that sappy crap, but she’s also never been on the same team with a girl whose sole intention seems to be pressing on every one of her nerves until she explodes. “Fuck you, Bueckers.”

“I mean, geez,” the blonde wiggles her eyebrows, her smirk widening from cheek to cheek. “Get in line.”

“I wouldn’t touch you even if you paid me a million dollars,” Azzi mutters, shuddering at the thought of even hugging her.

“I don’t know,” the older girl drawls. Her fingers graze across Azzi’s shoulder, sneaking under the cloth of her jersey to brush over the ridge of her muscle. “You feel pretty tense.” She trails her hand slowly down her arm. “If you ever need some stress relief, you know where to find me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Azzi snaps, jerking away. Paige only winks before jogging to catch up with the rest of the team as they break on the bleachers. Cheeks turning pink, Azzi groans and stomps away.

From day one, Paige has been like that: flirtatious, easy-going, charming. Everyone on the team had naturally gravitated towards her last season—that is, everyone but Azzi, if you don’t count the first week that they’d met. During tryouts, she’d been mildly intrigued by how a bone-skinny white chick was crossing over the most seasoned girls on the team, and when Paige had nodded coolly at her and they’d had a brief conversation, that intrigue had turned into interest. The way Paige had looked at her, had sidled closer and whispered a joke in her ear, had made Azzi feel seen on a team full of players so much older and experienced than she was. But to hell with that, Azzi thinks. Because since then, she'd gotten to know Paige for who she really is, and the older girl is nothing but a self-conceited asshole.

༉‧₊˚✧

“I don’t know,” Sam Brunelle says, taking a slow sip of her water. “I think she’s pretty hilarious.”

Azzi stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “She’s immature,” she corrects. “She makes fun of people and she can’t go one goddamn minute without making a stupid yo mama joke.” 

“I mean, yeah, I guess she likes to have a lot of fun,” Sam relents. “But she keeps the team light-hearted. I think that’s pretty important.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Azzi fumes. Paige has always been supportive of everyone else on the team, cheering them on from the bench or hyping them up after big games. Azzi, on the other hand, has never received the same treatment. Their history is a bitter war of sharp elbows and sneers; she can't even remember the last time Paige had said something remotely nice to her. “She leaves you alone, but she’s always messing with me.”

Sam, one of the oldest on the team and ever the wiser, tilts her head to study the dark haired girl carefully. “I think she’s always messing with you ‘cause you’re the only one that doesn’t like her.” She shrugs. “Maybe she cares about your opinion.” She leans in closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe she wants to be friends.” She utters the last word like a bad word, and Azzi rolls her eyes and throws a crumpled up napkin at her. Sam breaks out in laughter at the look of disgust on the younger girl’s face.

Azzi’s about to respond when she’s interrupted by a tray dropping loudly on their table. The devil herself plops down in one of the seats, stretching out her legs as if she hadn’t just rudely cut off their conversation. Then she has the nerve to blow out a long, tired sigh, as if she’s doing them a favor, gracing the two girls by just being there. Azzi’s jaw tightens in exasperation, but Sam is all sunshine and smiles. “Hey, P,” she grins, dapping Paige up.

Azzi glares down at her plate, trying to ignore Paige breathing heavily next to her. Maybe if she pretends that she doesn’t exist, the blonde will finally leave her alone. 

But panting and breathing get louder and louder, and Azzi swears she can feel it hot on her cheek. Snapping her head, she turns face to face with Paige, who’s looking over her shoulder—way too close for comfort, has she ever heard of personal space?—with twisted lips and furrowed eyebrows. “Yo, that shit looks nasty,” Paige says, eyes trained on Azzi’s plate.

“Ugh, get away from me,” Azzi complains, roughly pushing her away. Her heartbeat, having quickened from their proximity, begins to slow down, but her body physically recoils. “And it’s called vegetables, Bueckers,” she adds flatly. “Maybe you should try eating healthy for once too.”

Paige sits back in her seat, clearly pleased from her knack of getting a ruse out of Azzi so easily. Pointing her fork at her pasta, she says, “Carbs,” then at at her corndog and says, “Protein,” and then at the dollop of ketchup on her plate and says, with an overly pleased smile, “Vegetables.”

Sam immediately cracks up as if Paige had made the funniest joke in the world. Azzi stomps on her foot under the table. “Your eating habits are gonna catch up to you one day,” Azzi sniffs, shoving the last of her broccoli into her mouth, hoping she can get the meal over with as quick as possible so she can hide in her room, away from annoying blondes that breathe too loud and give unwarranted, wrong opinions.

“Until then, I’ll still be breaking your ankles,” Paige grins, clearly referencing the moment in practice earlier that day where Azzi had tripped over her own feet in an attempt to defend Paige’s drive to the basket. She’d been so angered by the pure confidence on Paige’s face and the trash talk in her ear the entire scrimmage, that everything she’d learned about lateral footwork had flew out of her mind as she’d fallen on Paige and even fouled her in the process. 

“God, you’re insufferable.” Azzi gives Paige the dirtiest look she can manage. “Who even invited you to sit with us?”

“What, I need an invite to bond with my teammates?” Paige leans over again, shoulder poking into Azzi's as she reaches over her to snatch the garlic bread from her plate. “You don’t mind, right? Since you got your veggies and all?” Before the younger girl can even blink, the garlic bread is stuffed inside her mouth, and Paige starts chewing loudly without breaking eye contact with Azzi. Sam snorts in disbelief. 

“Oh my god!” Azzi stands up, cheeks reddening with anger. “Are you actually a child?” Pushing her chair back loudly, she leaves the dining room in a storm.

Sam winces. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“Not my fault she gets all hot and bothered just like that.” Paige wipes a crumb from her lip, napkin falling away to reveal a satisfied smile. 

Sam shakes her head knowingly. “You like it.” She’s known both of the girls for more than a year now, and by now she’s used to the fact that they have their own dance. It’s weird, and they have a funky sort of chemistry that they’ll both probably refuse to ever address, but it makes for some good drama, Sam thinks. 

Paige snorts. “No, I don’t. People that uptight need to loosen up every once in a while. It’s good for them.”

“It’s okay to admit that you like seeing her get flustered.” Sam nudges Paige’s arm, a twinkle in her eye. “For someone who claims to hate her, you talk about her an awful lot.” 

“Nah, shut up Sam.” Paige stands up abruptly, moving to grab her finished plate. 

“You want me to shut up?”

“Yes,” Paige grunts, pushing her chair in. 

“So I guess you don’t want me to tell you about the room assignments?” 

Paige freezes. Turning around slowly, she glares at the taller blonde. “What room assignments?”

Sam takes a piece of paper from her pocket. “Oh, nothing,” she says airily, waving it. “Just that you and Azzi are rooming together tonight.”

“What?” Paige grabs the paper from Sam, scanning it anxiously. True enough, it says Room 310 - Paige Bueckers, Azzi Fudd. “But I thought I was rooming with Hailey!”

Sam beams. “I guess the coaches changed their mind.”

“No.” Paige paces around, gripping the paper so tight it turns into a ball in her hand. “I can’t room with Fudd. She probably sleeps with a stick up her butt too!” 

“She’s not that bad, P,” Sam defends. “You guys are more alike than you think.”

“I’m not bossy, or a party pooper, or incapable of having any fun,” Paige shoots back, offended that Sam would even liken her to someone who doesn't think yo mama jokes are funny. Because who doesn't think yo mama jokes are funny?

Sam shrugs. “I’m just saying. You guys have an awful lot of assumptions about each other. Maybe if you actually spent some time together, you’d change your mind a bit.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Paige scoffs, even though it makes total sense. But she’s never really been logical when it comes to Azzi, and she’s not about to start now. “Whatever. I’m gonna go check on the room and make sure she doesn’t have her hands all over everything already.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sam watches her go too. 

When Paige reaches the room, she takes second to square her shoulders and catch her breath. Azzi has a way of makes her upset like no one else can, her heartbeat always skyrocketing and chest heaving after their arguments. But she needs to control herself, to uphold the facade of unbotheredness. Taking a deep breath to calm herself down, she slides her key card over the lock and opens the door with a swing. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Azzi’s jaw drops, the halfway folded shirt in her hand dropping on the bed.

“Surprise.” Paige smirks. “Hey, roomie.”

“Nuh uh.” Azzi massages her temples, panic embedded in the lines of her eyes. “This is not happening right now.”

“I know.” Paige closes the door with her foot and drags her suitcase and duffel bag in. “Too good to be true, huh?”

“I thought I was rooming with Sam!” Azzi says indignantly. 

“And I thought me and Hailey were gonna be together,” Paige grumbles. “Trust me, I don’t wanna be here any more than you do.”

Azzi flops back on the bed, groaning, and Paige freezes when her shirt slides up to show the tan skin of her abs, muscles flexing as she reaches to grab a pillow. Swallowing hard, she forces her eyes away. Now was not a good time to be admiring the body of her sworn enemy, no matter how good she looked. “I can’t room with you,” Azzi repeats. 

“Yeah, well.” Paige tosses her backpack on the armchair and starts unzipping her suitcase. “It is what it is.” She starts rummaging through her clothes, a pile of USA gear and Hopkins hoodies slowly starting to form next to her as she searches. 

“What are you doing?” Azzi asks, stunned by how the blonde has managed to make a mess of their room in a mere two minutes.

“Deciding my fit for tomorrow.” Paige scrunches her eyebrows as she looks between two blue shirts, both exactly the same except one slightly darker in shade. “Gotta look good for the ladies.”

“Paige, you wear the same thing every day.” Azzi stuffs the pillow over her face in an effort to suffocate herself and end this nightmare. “The color and pattern doesn’t matter when it’s still shirts and sweats.”

“It’s cute that you pay so much attention to what I wear,” Paige says, “But I actually brought jeans and flannels this time. So yes, it does matter.” 

“Whatever.” Azzi gets up and heads for the bathroom, kicking aside a neon green hoodie in her way. Paige yelps, reaching for the ugly piece of clothing and cradling it in her hands. “Don’t make a mess. I’m gonna take a shower, if you know what that is.” 

Paige narrows her eyes, bringing the hoodie closer to her chest. “Don’t leave your products out, or I’mma use all of them.”

༉‧₊˚✧

Paige wakes up before her alarm clock. Sun streams in through the windows, casting a golden haze on everything in the room, including the girl asleep on the bed beside her. She’s snuggled into a pink blanket that she’d brought from home, lips slightly parted as quiet snores come from her mouth. She looks soft, vulnerable, her guard down in a way Paige has never seen before. 

Her mouth goes dry for a second, and she doesn’t know why. Shaking her head at herself, Paige stares up at the ceiling. The team has film before breakfast, then a workout, followed by recovery, lunch, more film, evening practice, and team dinner. It’s a packed day, and Paige already feels the lethargic pull of sleep from just sitting in the warmth of her sheets. Forcing herself out of bed, she begins to get ready.

It’s ten minutes to nine, the time they’re supposed to meet, when Paige is about to head out the door. Azzi is still fast asleep, and for a second she considers being nice and shaking her awake. But then she remembers Azzi calling her insufferable yesterday, and snickering to herself, she leaves. That girl has never been late to a single workout; it would do her some good to be humbled every once in a while.

Their coach is drawing out a play on the whiteboard next to the TV when Azzi runs in, out of breath, curls a mess and eyes anxious. “I’m so sorry,” she pants. “I slept in.”

“Get in your seat, Fudd."

Azzi looks around the room frantically. The nearest empty seat is next to Paige, damn her, and she’s sure her already annoyed coach wouldn’t appreciate her wasting even more time searching for another seat, so she sidles over and sits down resentfully. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Paige whispers from the corner of her mouth. 

Azzi sniffs suddenly, smelling a whiff of something familiar. Eyes narrowing, she leans in closer and takes another inhale to be sure. “Is that my shampoo?” she whispers angrily. 

“Coconut with a hint of hibiscus and honey?” Paige shrugs, trying to fight back her laughter. “Perhaps.”

“I told you not to touch my products!”

“And I told you that I’d use them if you left them out, so.” Paige continues sketching in her notebook, not bothering to even look over at Azzi.

“You don’t even have curly hair,” Azzi says scathingly. 

“Oops,” Paige says, not looking very sorry at all. “Maybe I shouldn’t have used your conditioner too then.”

Azzi makes a mental note to pack away all her shower products later. Her roommate is actually deranged. “And why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?” she hisses. 

“You were too deep in your beauty sleep.” Paige side eyes her. “Doesn’t seem like it worked, though,” she adds, knowing full well that she’s lying. Paige may be a hater, but she's still gay, and much to her chagrin, Azzi, despite frizzy hair and bags under her eyes, is admittedly pretty.

“I thought teammates were supposed to have each others’ backs,” Azzi grits out.

“I guess you have a point.” Paige shifts her notebook within eyesight of Azzi. “You can copy my notes.”

“Really?” Azzi, stunned by her sudden kindness, huddles in to squint at the paper. Her face falls when she realizes that the only thing on the sheet is a big dick, with even bigger balls. And hair.

“You’re an asshole,” Azzi says, slightly embarrassed that she'd thought Paige could even be capable of being nice for a single second.

“Not a dick?” Paige can’t help it. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.

Azzi doesn't speak to her for the rest of the day. 

༉‧₊˚✧

They win their first game, blowing out Italy 86-48. Paige is giddy, having finished with a solid 12 points and 5 assists, and she’s riding that high until her dad deliver the bad news.

“We’re doing what?”

Bob pats Paige on the back. “We offered to take out the Fudds for dinner, our treat.”

“The Fudds?” Paige echoes incredulously. “As in, Azzi’s family?”

“That’s correct.” Bob nods. “We happened to sit next to her parents during the game and we were talking about how good you and Azzi click together.”

“On the court,” Paige specifies. “And only on the court. Basketball’s the only thing we ever agree on, and that’s being generous.” 

“Don’t be dramatic,” her dad reprimands. “They’re nice people, Katie and Tim, and Azzi seems lovely. We’re going to dinner and we’re having a good time.” His tone leaves no room for disagreement, and Paige slumps down in her seat, defeated. “It’s an up-scale place, so go to your room and pick out something nice to wear. Meet us in an hour in the lobby.”

“Okay,” she mumbles begrudgingly. 

The rest of the drive back to the hotel is silent as Paige stews in her thoughts. Sitting through dinner with Azzi seems hellish, and knowing her parents’ tendency to talk on and on, it’ll surely end up being a multi-hour affair. Maybe she can fake being sick and leave early. Paige brightens up at the idea, and spends the next fifteen minutes devising a plan to fully sell it.

Wanting to put off dinner as long as possible, Paige takes her time heading back to the room, choosing to take the stairs even though her legs are still tired and aching from the game. She’s barely opened the door to her room when Azzi’s scrambled up from the bed and saying, “I need to borrow something.”

“Borrow something?” Paige goes to the closet and begins to ruffle through her more formal tops, starting to put together her own outfit.

“I realized I forgot all my nice clothes at home,” Azzi says. “I only have sweats and shit.”

“Aw, weren’t you just making fun of me for—”

“Paige,” Azzi interrupts. “Now is not the time.”

Paige rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She looks through her clothes again, this time with a wary eye. “I guess you can borrow this.” She throws a long black sleeve at Azzi. 

“Bro, what is this?” Azzi gingerly picks up the piece of clothing with two fingers as if it’s poisonous. “You gave me your ugliest top!” she accuses.

“I didn’t!” Paige turns her back. “Beggars can’t be choosers anyways.”

“Can’t I have something, like, a little bit more interesting?” Azzi pushes past Paige, taking her spot in front of the closet  to look for herself. “Like this,” she holds up a tiny crop top that’s more like a glorified sports bra, and Paige’s eyes widen. 

“Hell no.” The older girl snatches it away from her. “We’re eating dinner with our parents, not going to a party.”

“There’s gonna be cute Belarusian guys at the restaurant, I know it,” Azzi complains. “I gotta look my best.” 

Paige blinks. “I don’t know why you think that helps your case.”

“Well, what about this one?” Azzi points to another crop top, this one slightly less revealing. Paige is about to relent when she imagines Azzi showing up with even a sliver of abs and toned arms out. The thought of having to sit next to Azzi, with nowhere to escape, when she’s looking like that, makes her shiver, and she hates it. 

“No,” Paige says firmly. “You’re shorter than me so it’s definitely gonna show way too much skin on you.” 

“When the fuck did you turn into a nun?” Azzi grumbles.

Paige glares at her. “Look, either you borrow this one or you get nothing. It’s up to you.” 

Protesting under her breath, Azzi grabs back the black long-sleeve and goes to the bathroom to change. Paige changes too and sits on the bed as she waits for the dark haired girl to finish up. When Azzi finally comes out, she stares at Paige dumbfoundedly. “You’re literally wearing a crop top and short shorts.”

“I can wear revealing shit,” Paige says. “You’re fifteen. It would be a crime if I enabled the baby of the team to walk around in clothes like this.” 

“I’m not the baby of the team,” Azzi says, crossing her arms even though she knows she younger than most of her teammates by a full two years. “And fifteen is plenty big.”

“You are,” Paige argues back. 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Harrumphing, Azzi gives up and leaves the room, forcing Paige to scramble to get her phone and purse in order to catch up. The doors of the elevator are about to meet when Paige hurriedly sticks her hand between them and pushes her way in. “Seriously?” she pants, looking pointedly at where Azzi’s finger had been frantically pushing the close button.

Azzi‘s mouth pulls into a tight line. “You coulda taken the stairs. Lord knows you need the conditioning.” 

Paige scoffs, and the rest of the elevator ride down is silent, both of them bristling. 

Their parents are running late, so they take a seat in the lobby to wait. Paige makes sure to leave an extra chair between them. Silence fills the air between them, heavy and pervasive, until Azzi suddenly asks, “Can I ask you a favor?” 

“No.” Paige’s response is immediate. She'd already very generously let Azzi borrow her clothes. What else could the younger girl possibly need?

Azzi huffs and forges ahead anyways. “Look, my parents are super worried about me.”

“Why?” Paige questions reluctantly. She’s in no mood to entertain Azzi's request for a favor, but her curiosity wins out; why would Azzi of all people have parents worrying over her? Despite how much she dislikes the girl, she can admit that she’s unusually independent and capable. It's honestly half the reason why Paige resents her so much.

“Because…” Azzi crosses her arms, like she’s trying to make herself smaller. “I don’t know. They’re scared I’m not making any friends. Which is completely stupid, because I’m close to Sam and Jordan!” she says the last part defiantly, as if she’s trying to convince herself more than anything.

Paige stays quiet. To be truthful, it’s not a wrong observation. Azzi is more introverted and on the shyer side, and despite being one of the few returning girls from last season, she still hasn’t fully integrated into the team dynamic. 

“And once they saw us play together, they got super excited. For whatever reason, they thought I made a new friend, and the fact that it was you—” Azzi cuts herself off, shaking her head in embarrassment. 

Once again, the blonde is curious. “Why me?” she prods. 

“I don’t know. They’ve seen you play a ton and they admire your work ethic, I guess.”  

“They know what’s up,” Paige says approvingly with a solemn nod.

Azzi holds back from rolling her eyes. “Listen, can we just play it chill at dinner? We don’t have to pretend to be besties, but let’s just hold off on the arguing for a couple hours.” She rubs her palms against her thighs, almost as if she’s nervous, and her pants come away damp. “I just don’t wanna disappoint them.”

Paige opens her mouth, about to crack another joke, but then Azzi looks down, avoiding her eyes, still hunched over herself and looking like she’s trying to disappear, and something about how vulnerable the younger girl looks makes her heart twinge a little. So she plays it off by clearing her throat instead, and busies herself with looking at the receptionist, who’s actually quite pretty. “Yeah, whatever. That’s fine.”

The dark haired girl shifts next to her. Paige swears she sees a small smile flash across her face before it’s quickly controlled into a stony mask. “Thanks.”

༉‧₊˚✧

2017 - Colorado Springs, Colorado 

1 year ago: training camp day one 

“Nervous?”

Azzi’s eyes shoot towards the blonde next to her. It’s her first time actually looking at her face, and she realizes with a start that the girl is disarmingly pretty, golden wisps of hair escaping her Nike headband, and her eyes are a sharp, deep blue. 

“No,” she lies. “I’m making this roster.”

“Nice.” The blonde grins at her, and it’s toothy and big, and it makes Azzi do a double take. “I am too.”

The rest of day one passes by quickly. Every so often, Azzi looks up from a drill and swears she sees blue eyes lingering on her before they quickly look away. She finds out from the yelling of the coaches that the blonde's name is Paige, and the name rolls around in her mind for longer than she can explain. Yet they don't talk again, merely exchanging high fives and mumbling "Good jobs" before they both end up using the bathroom before they head out of the gym for the day.

“You’re something, Fudd.” Paige wipes her hands with a paper towel as she leans coolly against the wall. “Where you from?”

“Virginia,” Azzi says, a little shyly. “You?”

“Minnesota.” Paige leans in closer, ever the charmer at fifteen years old. “But I’ve always wanted to go to the DMV.”

Azzi, flustered by how she can smell Paige's perfume, stammers out, “It’s pretty nice up there.”

“It’s nicer knowing I’ll have a pretty girl to show me around when I visit.” Azzi is fourteen, and this is the first time anyone has so blatantly flirted with her, and she’s kinda confused but she kinda likes it? Still, she's speechless, at an utter loss for words before Paige says, “Well, I guess I'll see you,” her hand brushing Azzi’s hip as she walks behind her to the door. Azzi puts a hand on the counter, steadying herself from the heated feeling of warm fingers against her bare skin.

“Yeah, see you,” Azzi breathes out, but when she looks behind her, the girl is lone gone.

[biggianteggplant]

The Other Woman.

Miya Atsumu x Reader

You were his manager. Professional, poised, and always in control. Atsumu Miya was your client, a star athlete with a magnetic charm that drew everyone in—including you.

It started innocently: late-night strategy meetings, shared laughter over coffee, and the occasional lingering glance. You knew he was married, that he had a family waiting for him at home. But the lines blurred, and before you knew it, you were entangled in a web of secrecy and desire.

He would come to you after games, his presence filling your apartment like a storm. In those moments, you felt alive, cherished, and wanted. But as dawn approached, reality would set in. He would leave, returning to the life he had built with someone else, leaving you alone with the weight of your choices.

You tried to end it, to reclaim your dignity and peace. But Atsumu had a way of pulling you back in, with sweet words and empty promises. He would say he needed you, that you were the only one who truly understood him. And you believed him, every time.

You ended it.

Or at least, you tried to.

You stood across from Atsumu in the privacy of his hotel room, your hands trembling as you said, “This can’t keep happening. You have a wife. A kid.”

He didn’t flinch.

He leaned back on the bed you’d shared too many times, arms crossed, lips curled into that same boyish smirk he used on the court.

“And? You knew that from the start.”

You swallowed hard.

“I thought I could handle it,” you confessed. “But it’s eating me alive. I can’t sleep. I can’t look at myself in the mirror.”

His eyes darkened.

“So what? You’re just gonna walk away?”
“Just like that?”

You nodded slowly, afraid, but firm.

“I have to.”

And that’s when his voice changed. Cold. Calculated.

“Don’t forget whose contract you're under.”
“Don’t forget I can take you down with a single press statement.”

You stared at him. The air in the room turned thick. Suffocating.

“You wouldn’t—”

“You don’t know what I’d do. You really think they’ll believe the woman who slept her way into my inner circle? They’ll eat you alive.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

“Because you’re mine,” he said. “You don’t get to walk away from this unless I say so.”

He stood, took your face in his hands.

“You knew the rules, pretty girl,” he murmured. “You knew I was never gonna come home to you. But you let me in anyway.”

And when he kissed you, you let him.

Not because you wanted to.

But because you felt owned.

After that night, you stopped trying to end it.

You went numb.

You smiled in press conferences, clapped during interviews, and handed him water during practice like nothing had happened.

But every time his hand brushed yours,
you remembered how dirty you felt.
How your love had been reduced to a secret.
A threat.

You watched his wife post photos on social media—laughing, glowing, holding their child in matching outfits—and you sat alone in your kitchen, eating nothing, drinking wine, replaying his voice saying,

“You don’t get to leave.”

You stopped wearing bright colors.

Stopped painting your nails. Stopped meeting your friends.
Because the other woman doesn’t get to have a life.

She waits.
She hides.
She folds herself smaller and smaller until she fits inside the silence between someone else’s happiness.

You weren’t living—you were surviving. Moving through days like a ghost, haunted by a love that was never yours to begin with.

You read every comment under his family’s posts.
“Perfect couple!”
“Power duo!”
“Lucky wife, lucky man.”

And you would break down in the shower—biting your hand to muffle the sobs because your neighbors were starting to notice.

You kept a folder in your phone. Screenshots of his texts.

“You’re the only one who understands me.”
“I can’t breathe without you.”
“I’ll fix this. Just… not now.”

You’d read them when the guilt threatened to tear your ribs open. As if those empty words could patch the holes.

One night, he called. You hesitated before answering. You were curled up in bed, mascara streaked, trying to convince yourself to block him.

“Hey,” he said, like everything was normal.
“Are you still there?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Mhm.”

A pause. Then his voice softened—just enough to slice through you.

“Good.”

Because it didn’t matter how broken you were.
As long as you were still his.

Still reachable.

Still there.

That night, you woke up from a dream where he kissed you in public.

And it hurt more than any nightmare.

Because you knew it would never happen.

There’s a unique kind of pain in waiting for someone who never chooses you.

And you—God—you waited.

You told yourself this was temporary. That he just needed time. That he loved you in ways he couldn’t show. That it wasn’t your fault.

“He needs me.”
“He can’t leave his family right now.”
“It’s not just sex. I mean something to him.”

But you were lying.

And slowly, the lies started to taste like blood in your mouth.

You saw him at a charity event with his wife—her hand tucked into his elbow like she belonged there. She smiled up at him with the kind of trust you used to dream about. And he smiled back, like he hadn’t kissed you in the hallway of his hotel room just hours before.

Your legs nearly gave out.

You went home that night and stared into the mirror for so long you forgot who you were looking at. You didn’t see a woman anymore. You saw a ghost. A shell of someone who used to laugh, dream, and believe she was worthy of love.

You started keeping wine in your drawer at work.

You stopped responding to your mother’s messages.

You flinched when his name popped up on your screen.

“You okay, baby?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the message for hours. He never followed up.

Because he never had to.

You were addicted. Not to him—but to the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only behind closed doors.

You wanted to believe you mattered.

But deep down, you knew.

You were just a convenience. A placeholder. A hidden ache in his otherwise polished life.

And now, the ache was yours to carry.

Alone.

You were gone long before they found your body.

The first thing that disappeared was your laugh. Then your appetite. Then your voice during meetings.

Then… you.

You stopped showing up to practice. On Monday, no one noticed. Tuesday, someone muttered a joke: “Guess she finally got sick of Atsumu’s attitude.”

By Wednesday, worry began to ripple through the team.

By Thursday, silence turned heavy.

And by Friday morning, the captain demanded someone check on you. Just in case.

They didn't know the real reason you stopped coming in.

They didn’t see the messages. The threats.

“You think I won't say you came onto me first?”
“I’ll ruin you. You’re nothing without this job.”
“Don’t be stupid. You knew what this was.”

He was scared. You were a liability now. And that made him dangerous.

And you?

You were tired.

You lit a candle that night—your favorite scent, the one that reminded you of soft rain and second chances. But the room still felt like a cage.

The rope had been hidden in your closet for a week.

You chose the scarf instead.

The blue one. The one Atsumu said looked “pretty, but desperate.” You laughed it off back then. But now it seemed fitting.

You moved the chair quietly.

No music. No sound.

You didn’t cry this time.

Not when you tied the knot. Not when you stood on the chair. Not even when your fingers trembled so badly you had to redo the loop twice.

There was only stillness. And the letter on the floor.

You looked around one last time—not because you wanted to stay, but to remember.

The framed photo of you and the team.
The leftover instant noodles.
The dent in the wall from when you threw your phone at it after he said “you’re just a phase.”

You whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

Then you stepped off the chair.

The scarf pulled tight.

Your body twisted. Your toes grazed the floor—but not enough.

And finally, finally, everything went dark.

They found you the next morning.
She was cold. Gone.

There was no blood. No noise. Just a body and a letter, folded in two.

Someone screamed.

Another dropped to their knees.

And Atsumu?

He was in the gym. Laughing at something on his phone. Until someone came in, pale-faced, clutching the crumpled letter.

They didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

THE LETTER

I’m sorry.

I don’t know how to say it in a way that can ever make it okay,

but I am. Truly.

I never meant for any of this to happen.

I never meant to hurt anyone—

especially not you.

You’re kind.

You’re gentle.

You didn’t deserve this.

Neither did your children.

I was selfish.

I let myself believe he loved me.

Maybe he did, in some quiet, hidden way—

but he always went home to you.

That should’ve told me everything.

But I stayed.

I stayed because I wanted to be loved.

Even if it wasn’t mine to have.

And now I can’t look in the mirror.

I can’t sleep at night.

I see your smile in my dreams,

and your kids’ laughter,

and I feel like a monster.

He said I’d ruin him if I told the truth.

But the truth is—

he ruined me by making me live a lie.

I don’t expect you to forgive me.

I wouldn’t either.

But please know I never hated you.

I envied you.

You had the life I prayed for in the dark.

If you ever think of me,

don’t call me names.

Don’t teach your children to hate me.

Just tell them I was someone who made a terrible mistake—

and couldn’t find a way out.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t hate yourself.

It was never your fault.

Goodbye.

That day, practice was canceled.

Your name was never announced publicly.

Atsumu didn’t show up for a week.

When he returned, no one looked him in the eye.

Not because they knew the truth—but because they could feel it.

There was blood on his hands.

And he couldn’t wash it off.

Atsumu had never heard silence like this before.

Not in the locker room. Not on the court. Not even in his own mind.

It was the kind of silence that follows a scream no one heard.

It started slowly.

Fans noticed your absence first.

“Where’s the manager?”
“She used to be in every game day post.”
“Hope she’s okay, she hasn’t posted anything in weeks…”

But when your name vanished from the staff credits, and the team’s social media suddenly went dark, the speculations began.

Reddit threads. TikToks. Anonymous tips.

People guessed you were sick. That maybe you were fired. That maybe—just maybe—something worse happened.

And then the whispers turned to roars.

By the second week, #WhereIsShe was trending on Twitter.

That’s when the team’s PR team knew they couldn’t keep it quiet anymore.

A short, sterile statement was released.

“It is with great sadness that we confirm the passing of one of our staff members.
We ask for privacy during this time. We are mourning alongside her loved ones.”

They didn’t mention your name.

They didn’t say how you died.

They didn’t say what they knew.

They never said it was suicide.
And they sure as hell didn’t say it was because of him.

But the fans… some of them knew.

Screenshots surfaced—Atsumu liking your old photos. A blurry image of the two of you too close behind a gym door. Cryptic tweets that you had posted and deleted weeks before it happened:

“Secrets rot everything.”
“Being someone’s second choice is worse than being no one at all.”
“I hope I was more than just a mistake.”

And still, he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

That he used you?
That he gaslit you?
That he made you beg for affection in private only to treat you like a stranger in public?

There was no press conference for that kind of grief.

He tried to return to the court.

But every time he stood on it, he saw you.

Standing at the sidelines with your clipboard. Grinning when he made a clean serve. Holding back a smile when he winked at you behind his water bottle.

Now he just sees empty space.

And in the locker room, someone had taped a photo of you on the inside of your old locker.

No one knew who put it there.

But no one dared take it down.

He started drinking more. Staying later. Talking less.

The fans noticed.

The team noticed.

But no one said your name.

Even when he had nightmares where you appeared—your feet dangling, that scarf tightening around your throat, your eyes wide with a question that could never be answered—he still couldn’t say your name.

Because saying it meant facing what he did.

Weeks passed.

Months.

Atsumu stood on the balcony of his expensive condo one night, phone in hand, staring at an old photo of you he’d saved secretly. The one where you were laughing at something he said. Candid. Pure.

Real.

He typed:

“I’m sorry.”

Then deleted it.

Because where would he send it?
What inbox would receive an apology from a man like him?

You were gone.
And he was still here.

Living.
Winning.
Rotting.

And still—
your name was never mentioned.

But every time someone asked him,
“Do you ever think about her?”

He’d lie.

Because the truth was unbearable.

The truth was:
He thought about you every single day.

And it never stopped hurting.

hey my loves! i was out of the city for a bit, i stayed with my friend and her aunt, met some new people, partied (with dogs, yes), drank a little, lived a lot. it was amazing. so here’s an atsumu angst i wrote on the ride home, because of course i did. HEHDHAHDHASH

[jinjoohaa]

Room for One more?

Pairing - JJK Men x reader

CW: dubcon, sexual content, spanking, power dynamics, manipulation, voyeurism, oral sex, fingering, degradation, and emotional intensity.

prev chapter | next chapter | M. list

Chapter 16

Three days passed. Your fever had faded, the fog in your mind finally lifting—but the care never stopped.

Geto still brought you warm tea every morning, his sleeves rolled back, tattoos peeking through, and that charming smile on his lips like he wasn’t the same man who’d slipped between your thighs while you were feverish.

Nanami still insisted on checking your temperature at night, his fingers brushing your cheek, his tone always neutral, professional—even as his hand lingered a second too long. His lips brushed your forehead, sometimes your temple.

Gojo, however, didn’t understand the meaning of restraint.

“Mornin’, baby,” he’d sing, slipping into your room uninvited, tugging your blanket down with no shame. “You’re not sick anymore. Know what that means?”

Before you could even protest, he’d crawl onto the bed, hands roaming up your thighs as he smothered your face with soft kisses.

You’d protest, weakly, but your body always betrayed you.

His lips were too soft. His voice too sweet. His eyes too full of affection.

He’d eat you out like it was a treat for him—moaning softly into you, teasing your folds with his tongue, fingers sliding in and out lazily until your thighs trembled and you came into his mouth. Then he’d kiss your cheek like he’d just brought you flowers.

And that was just the morning.

Geto was quieter.

You’d be brushing your hair after a shower, towel still wrapped around you, when he’d lean against the doorframe. “Need help with that?”

He’d walk in, take the brush from your hand, and begin slowly detangling your hair—fingers grazing your skin, breath warm at your nape.

Your breath would hitch when his hands slid to your waist, fingers slipping under the towel, eyes locked on yours in the mirror.

“Wanna be good for me?” he’d ask, low and velvet.

You’d nod, trembling as he bent you slightly over the bathroom counter. He’d lift your towel and he’d eat you out from behind, fingers spreading you, tongue relentless, one hand gripping your hip to keep you still. You’d come silently, mouth over your wrist, legs shaking—and he’d disappear just as quietly.

Toji never disappeared.

If anything, his presence was like thunder—loud, sharp, heavy.

“You walking around like you’re not fucking four men under the same roof,” he’d scoff, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed while you tried to sneak to the kitchen in a short T-shirt and no bra.

“Tch. C’mere.”

He’d drag you into your room, push you down onto the bed face-first, one hand pressing into your back while the other shoved your panties down.

He’d fuck you hard, rough, teeth grazing your shoulder, one hand pulling your hair, the other squeezing your ass till it bruised.

“You like it?” he’d sneer. “This what Gojo’s too soft to give you?”

You couldn’t speak—you could only moan, body pressed into the sheets, legs spread wide as he kept thrusting, fast and brutal.

But he’d always stay after. Lie beside you. Pull the blanket over both of you, hand still on your waist.

“You should rest,” he’d mutter gruffly.

And then there was Nanami.

Some nights—late, when the others were asleep—you’d wake to find him sitting on your bed.

His shirt would be unbuttoned. Glasses off.

“You were moaning in your sleep,” he’d whisper, brushing hair from your face. “Do you want me?”

You’d nod slowly, heart pounding.

He’d take his time—always in control, always composed. He’d kiss your neck, lift your shirt slowly, and slide your panties off like he was unwrapping a gift.

He’d lift your leg over his shoulder and sliding two fingers in. “We don’t want them to hear.”

You’d bite your lip, gasping as he curled them just right, his mouth hot on your nipple, his cock pressing against your thigh but never rushing.

When he fucked you, it was always slow. Deep. His hand over your mouth. His body flush against yours. He never said much—but you could feel it in every thrust, in the way his hands held you, in the way he kissed your temple when you came. No one ever really caught him.

But everyone knew.

You tried to keep up. You really did.

But Gojo never gave you a break.

He’d pull you into his lap during movie nights, while Geto sat right beside you. He’d finger you under a blanket, smiling like an angel while you bit your lip to keep from moaning.

Geto would glance over, smirk knowingly, and sometimes, he’d join—his hand replacing Gojo’s, fingers sliding deeper while Gojo kissed your neck.

Your legs would shake, hips jerking against their fingers while they shared a laugh like it was a game.

Toji would watch from across the room, eyes dark, fists clenched.

And Nanami? Nanami would sigh, close his book, and mutter, “You’re insatiable.”

But later that night, he’d show up at your door.

It was a night like that. Past midnight.

The soft hum of your fan buzzed in the background as you lay on your side, legs tucked in under the blanket, your phone glowing gently in your hand.

You weren’t sick anymore—not for a week now—but that didn’t stop Nanami from checking in on you every night like clockwork. Except this time, you didn’t expect him to actually come. Not when the apartment was so quiet. Not when everyone else was probably already asleep.

So when you heard a soft knock on the door, your heart skipped.

“Still awake?” came that deep, calm voice you knew too well.

You quickly fumbled with your phone, locking it in a panic and shoving it under your pillow.

“Y-Yeah…” you called out weakly, eyes wide.

The door creaked open. Nanami stepped in wearing a dark T-shirt and grey sweatpants.

Casual but precise, like always. His hair was slightly messy, a hint of sleep on his features. But his gaze was alert.

He shut the door quietly behind him… and locked it.

You blinked. “Um…”

“I came to check on you,” he said plainly, crossing the room. “Fever can sometimes return even after a week.”

You gave him a sheepish smile, trying not to fidget. “I feel fine, really.”

Nanami raised a brow, stopping at your bedside. “Then why do you look like a cat caught stealing?”

“I… I wasn’t doing anything.”

He glanced toward your pillow. “That so?”

You swallowed.

His eyes narrowed just a little—calculating. “May I see your phone?”

Your face went red. “No.”

“Why not?” His tone was neutral, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I—just—it’s private,” you stammered.

“Private?” he echoed, amused now. “Are you texting someone?”

“No!”

“Gojo, perhaps?” he said, feigning casual curiosity. “Or Toji?”

You looked horrified. “No, I swear!”

Nanami sighed softly and crouched beside your bed. “Let me see. Please.”

The “please” undid you.

You hesitated, cheeks hot, then slowly reached under your pillow and handed him the phone—still open.

Nanami took it without a word.

The moment his eyes skimmed the screen, they stopped.

His eyebrows lifted.

“Well,” he murmured, “this explains why your cheeks were already flushed.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Don’t read it—!”

But he did.

In a calm, steady voice, he read aloud:

“She whimpered under the firm press of his palm on her ass, her skin stinging and glowing as he spanked her again—harder this time. Her legs trembled from being spread open for so long, but she didn’t dare move. Not when he said, "You take it so well, maybe I’ll leave my handprint on you forever.""

Nanami paused.

The room was silent except for your soft, mortified gasp.

Then—he chuckled. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Is that what you were reading before I came in?” he asked, gaze flicking to your burning face.

“I…” You covered your face. “It was just curiosity—”

“Curious about spanking?”

You peeked at him from between your fingers.

He smiled. A rare one. Small. But wicked.

“Do you like it?” he asked, voice smooth.

Your heart pounded. You hesitated… then gave the tiniest nod.

Nanami’s eyes darkened, just a bit.

“I see.”

He placed your phone gently on your nightstand and leaned in, hands resting on the edge of your bed.

“Do you want me to spank you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper—but sharp like a blade.

You bit your lip. “Y. . yes…”

“Properly?” he murmured, reaching to tug the blanket away from your hips. “Not just playful taps. I want to know what you like.”

You nodded again, breath catching.

He sat down beside you, one leg on the floor, the other bent on the bed. His hand gently pushed your thigh, guiding you to lie on your stomach.

"Lift your hips," he ordered quietly.

You obeyed, trembling as your sleep shorts tightened over your ass.

He hummed approvingly. “Good girl.”

Then his hand slid over your ass, warm and slow, smoothing over the fabric.

“Just reading this made you wet, didn’t it?” he asked, voice low and deliberate. “You’re already trembling.”

You whimpered.

He leaned close to your ear. “Count for me.”

Then came the first spank—sharp, precise, firm.

You gasped.

“One…”

He massaged the skin he just struck.

Another spank. Firmer. More purposeful.

“Two…”

Your voice was shakier this time.

Nanami’s lips brushed your temple. “Still okay?”

“Y-Yeah…”

“Good.”

He spanked you again—his palm meeting flesh with a satisfying snap, your shorts doing little to dull the sting.

Your breath hitched as your hips pushed forward against the mattress.

“Three…”

Nanami chuckled quietly. “You’re enjoying this far more than I expected.”

You could only moan softly, body hot, nerves singing.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lower back.

You glanced at him, dazed.

His hand slid over your ass again, fingers tracing the heat he left behind. “You want to stop here, or… should we find out if the rest of the scene lives up to your imagination?”

You whined softly, fingers curling into the sheets. He slid his hand around your hip, letting it settle between your legs without hesitation—finding the wet heat waiting for him through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts.

“So wet,” he muttered, almost to himself, pressing the heel of his palm right against your clit. “From just a few smacks and a filthy paragraph?”

You nodded helplessly, gasping when he pressed harder, slow circles making your legs tremble.

And then you felt it—his lips on your neck, open-mouthed kisses dragging down your throat, teeth grazing skin with dangerous control. His free hand pushed up your top, bunching it under your chest. His tongue followed, leaving a trail of heat up to your breast before he took one nipple into his mouth.

You arched with a soft moan. He hummed against your skin.

“Tell me who gets you like this,” he said, voice thick and commanding.

“You—Nanami,” you breathed, grinding into his hand instinctively.

“Say it again.”

“You—you do.”

He pulled your shorts down, slow and rough, tugging them off your ankles and tossing them somewhere off the bed. You reached up, pulling at his shirt, and he let you take it off—revealing the toned stretch of his chest, his abs tensing as he leaned in again, this time meeting your lips in a kiss that was anything but soft.

You could feel his cock through his briefs, hot and heavy, pressing against your slick heat as he rutted slow and deliberate.

There was nothing gentle now—just hunger.

He grabbed one of your thighs, hooking it over his hip to grind deeper. You cried out softly at the friction, the lewd slide of his length against your swollen folds. Each slow hump smeared your slick between you, and Nanami grunted against your mouth.

“I should make you keep warming me like this all night,” he rasped, grinding harder, rolling his hips.

“Let you soak me. Keep me hard and aching inside you.”

Your fingers clawed at his back. “Please…”

He groaned, hips stuttering, body straining with restraint. Then, after a moment, he reached for his pockets and pulled out a foil packet.

But before he could even open it—you shook your head.

“No… not that,” you whispered, voice small, eyes wide.

His hands froze.

His eyes lifted, reading yours for something. And when he saw the truth—that trembling, shy need—he dropped the condom beside the bed.

Nanami stared at you for a heartbeat longer, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your parted lips, your bare thighs trembling beneath him.

“No condom,” he murmured, voice husky. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

You swallowed, heart hammering against your ribs. Still breathless, you nodded.

He leaned down again, kissing you deeper this time—wet and hungry, like he was devouring the last of his restraint. His hips pressed flush to yours, his cock dragging along your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with the barest suggestion of pressure. Every slow rock sent shudders through your body, slick sounds filling the room, obscene and irresistible.

“I can feel how warm you are,” he growled against your neck, his hands pinning your hips as he rutted deeper, letting you feel the weight and length of him. “You’re dripping. You want me to slide in, don’t you?”

You gasped, your legs wrapping around him on instinct. “Nanami…”

He chuckled—low, dark. “That’s not a no.”

You tried to grind against him again, chasing more friction, but he held you still.

“Look at you. Such a needy little thing,” he whispered, dragging his cockhead along your slit again, nudging against your entrance without pushing in.

“I haven’t even fucked you yet, and you’re already a mess.”

His fingers came up to your mouth—two of them—and he pressed them in. You sucked them eagerly, your lips wrapping tight, tongue swirling around the digits as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Just like that,” he said, watching you. “You’re filthy. I love it.”

His soaked fingers trailed back down between your legs, spreading your slick open, thumbing your clit in slow, punishing circles while he slid against you again—his tip teasing your entrance, dipping in just a little, then pulling back.

“Beg for it,” he murmured. “Beg me to fill you raw.”

Your voice broke as you whispered, “Please… Nanami—need you.”

His eyes darkened.

“Say it like you mean it.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your voice trembling but loud this time. “Please—want it—please.”

That was it.

His body moved like he’d been waiting years for this—strong hands gripping your thighs, his hips pushing forward, and just as you gasped, your walls fluttering from the stretch—

He stopped. Buried just barely in, trembling.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re so tight—so fucking warm.”

Your nails dug into his back, lips parted as your hips tilted upward in invitation, in desperate need.

“Please. . m. . .move,” you whimpered.

He met your gaze again, sweat beading at his temple, his control hanging by a thread. “You sure?”

You nodded, pupils blown, breath shallow.

Then he whispered, “Hold on to me,” and pushed all the way in.

Your breath caught as Nanami filled you in one deep, slow thrust—thick and pulsing inside you, your walls fluttering around him, adjusting to the stretch.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice strained and reverent, as if he were barely holding it together. “You’re—god—you’re choking me.”

You clung to him, thighs trembling around his hips, the pressure and fullness overwhelming in the best way. He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, buried to the hilt, breathing heavily against your neck.

“Too much?” he asked, but the smugness in his voice betrayed him. He already knew your answer.

You shook your head, hips rocking instinctively. “Please.”

That’s all it took.

He pulled back just enough to thrust in again—harder this time, sharp enough to punch a gasp from your lips. Then again. And again. Rhythm building fast. Each stroke sent obscene wet sounds echoing off the walls, your slickness coating him, dripping down between your thighs.

Nanami didn’t let up.

“You like this?” he growled, one hand curling beneath your knee, pressing your legs wider. “Taking me raw like a desperate little thing—after reading all that filth?”

Your mouth opened in a moan, unable to deny it, fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Want me to ruin you for them?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Want me to make sure no one else gets you this tight?”

You nodded, gasping as his pace picked up, hips slamming into yours with brutal, precise control. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, your back arching off the bed, thighs shaking with every thrust.

He leaned back just enough to look down at the way you took him.

“You’re milking me,” he muttered, almost in disbelief. “So fucking greedy.”

Then his hand slid between your bodies again, fingers finding your clit—pressing, circling, rubbing in tight, punishing circles.

It was too much. Too deep. Too rough. Too good.

Your body snapped.

You came hard—legs locking, toes curling, mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him, pulling him in deeper, messier, soaking the base of his cock with every pulse.

“Shit—fuck—I’m gonna—” he gasped, thrusts stuttering as your climax squeezed around him.

You were still moaning when he buried himself one last time, deep and trembling.

And then he came—hot and thick, shooting deep inside you, groaning your name like a curse. His whole body shuddered as he stayed there, twitching inside, not daring to move.

After a moment, still panting, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed nestled inside you, hands trailing softly down your sides, his lips brushing the sweat-slick skin of your collarbone. His touch was soothing now, strokes meant to calm the tremble in your thighs and the flutter in your chest.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still husky but gentle, lips ghosting over your cheek.

You nodded, still catching your breath, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Mhm….”

He smiled, kissing your temple again, then your jaw, then lower—down to the sensitive skin of your throat, where he left a tender suck.

“You were perfect,” he whispered, rocking his hips slightly, just enough to make you feel the subtle shift of him still inside—softening, but still thick, still warm. “So tight… still clenching on me even now.”

You whined softly, shifting beneath him, your body twitching from oversensitivity. “Too much…”

Nanami chuckled, not unkindly. “That’s what happens when you tease me with smut about spanking and take me raw, sweetheart.”

He reached for your thigh, stroking it slowly as he pressed a lazy kiss just above your breast.

“Such a messy girl,” he added, gaze dropping to the way your bodies were still joined, his cum beginning to slip out with every faint motion. “Look at that—made a mess of you.”

He finally, gently, pulled out—earning a shaky moan from you—and watched as his spend dripped from your swollen, spent hole.

With a quiet hum, he reached over to grab a towel and wiped you up carefully, his touch almost reverent now. Then he tucked the blanket around you and laid beside you, pulling your body to his chest.

“Next time,” he murmured, voice low in your ear, “if you’re gonna read smut like that before bed… at least invite me earlier.”

You blushed, grinning against his chest.

“O—okay,” you whispered.

to be continued in the next chapter. . .

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[milla-frenchy]

Taste in men

5k0 | Joel Miller x Javier Peña x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist Summary: your longtime friend, Javi, helps you make your ex jealous Warnings: 18+ mdni. Threesome mmf (Javi and Joel are bi), pet names (baby, sweetheart), oral (f/m), spit roasting, spitting, light overstimulation, praise kink, size kink, piv, anal, creampies. No age specified Javi is cheeky, flirtatious and a menace, Joel is a little grumpy but mostly calm and settled because I love this dynamic between the two of them. For this story, let's imagine it’s possible to smoke in a restaurant 🙏 (because Javi’s hot when he’s a sassy smoker 😌)

a/n: this is written for @mothandpidgeon @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre ‘s Magic number writing challenge (masterlist) I asked for a prompt and Al gave me "fake relationship." As a lover of threesome fics, thank you so much for this challenge 🙏❤️ Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing me 😘💕 dividers @/saradika-graphics 🙏 Happy pride 🌈

“Can I ask you a favor, Javi?”

“Sure.” His quick reply was proof of your friendship and mutual trust, if any were needed. “Shoot, baby,” he added, already impatient. He was always on the move, both physically and mentally, he didn't like to settle down and take time for himself, which he wouldn't have known what to do with anyway. And he was always curious to know more about you.

“Would you help me make a man jealous?” 

And above all, Javi was a player. So he smiled and replied, his eyebrow raised, “Absolutely.”

Joel and you had never really been official. You never had dinners with friends or family, you only spent some time together. Time that extended more and more in the last months, turning into nights spent at his place or yours. Or into lazy weekends where you barely got out of bed all day, your sweaty bodies heated by the sun rays streaming into the room. Until the night came and the moonlight took over.

You should have seen it coming, though. Joel had always been clear that he didn't want to be in a relationship. And maybe the bond between you was becoming too heavy for his liking. 

However, when the “unofficial” ended, everything felt hollow. Not only because he was probably one of the most perfect guys you had met, attentive and soft, but taking charge when you needed him to. Or because you loved the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulder or your waist when you were walking side by side, showing his inner natural protectiveness. Life lost its color because the physical need of him was starting to eat you alive. 

Now that you weren’t a “thing” anymore, Joel was always on your mind. Especially when you were touching yourself in your bed that still smelled like him, your pussy begging for his cock.

You had a hard time accepting that you were probably the only one feeling that need, considering he was the one that had ended it.

So when you learnt from a mutual acquaintance that Joel was having dinner at the restaurant next to his house on Friday night, you didn’t hesitate to involve Javi.

Javi and you were good friends. Friends with benefits, even, when you weren’t in a relationship, or in something “unofficial”.

Javi, on the other hand, was never in a relationship, it wasn’t his thing. He loved to be free.

You never fell in love with him, probably because you didn't want to be on his long list of heartbroken conquests. Javi always had a different woman on his arm, or a different man to hang out with. He was charming, sensual, full of self confidence, a “go with the flow” type. The most beautiful butterfly. It was out of the question for you to be charmed by the colors of his wings.

You were both ok with the special place you had for each other, and you loved to walk by his side, your arm around his slim waist, his around your shoulder, as if he was your boyfriend and you were his girl. You loved to feel envious glances of women on you in the streets, as Javi threw his both nonchalant and cunty look at them, before kissing your neck to tease them. They would ogle at him, lingering on his black leather jacket, the smell of which you loved so much, and his tight jeans that couldn’t hide the size of the cock resting there. But you were the one he took home to make you come as much as you needed to, until you were panting on the bed while he’d lit a post-sex cigarette. His gaze on you was always soft, tender and sweet when he would kiss your forehead. This was your Javi.

The men's gazes on him weren’t different, and you were amused when some of them had to readjust themselves after an eye-fucking session with Javi. Then he’d just point his chin the bar's bathroom, and they’d join him there.

He was a free spirit, he didn't hide it, and you loved it about him.

On Friday night, shortly before Joel was supposed to arrive, you and Javi were already at the restaurant, the table strategically chosen so Javi could watch the front door and the whole room.

“Late forties, slightly gray hair, ungroomed salt and pepper beard, broad ass shoulders, old green flannel, grumpy type?” Javi asked after you heard the door open, a few minutes later.

“Yep, that's him,” you answered.

Javi's smile widened. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he chuckled. “You didn't tell me he was that hot.”

Your dishes had just been served when Javi huffed “Ok, he bit. Did a double take at us and he doesn’t  seem happy,” he smirked. He was way too good at this. Sassy. “I wonder how long it’ll take before he joins us.”

“What? Oh no, I don’t think he’ll do that,” you said, shaking your head.

“Oh, baby… wanna bet?”

You didn’t answer. You just hoped to get on Joel’s nerves a little with this fake date, and hadn’t really imagined he would go that far, but Javi seemed so sure of himself that you had some doubts now.

“Shit, he put the ketchup down on the table so hard I thought the cap was going to pop,” he laughed, unable to hide his amusement, as the idea of ​​Joel being jealous pleased you.

“Ok, let’s tease him a little,” Javi added before wrapping his hand around yours.

“Javi!” you whispered, frowning, but he squeezed your hand, not letting you escape his grip, and looked at you with soft eyes. “Let me deal with it, baby, ok? That’s why you wanted me here, so trust me.”

You heard a loud chair scraping against the floor and then felt Joel’s presence near you. He sat down in the booth, looking at you first, then at Javi.

“Joel?” you said, your voice shaky, unable to hide your surprise at his bad mood. That wasn’t exactly like him. He tried to smile at you but it didn’t really reach his eyes, then turned to Javi, and grumbled “You are?”

“Javi, nice to meet you….?” he replied, waiting for Joel to say his name, smiling and full of charm, in total opposition to Joel's attitude.

“Joel.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Joel,” he said, before lighting a cigarette. “D'ya need some help?”

Javi's audacity was leaving you speechless as your gaze shifted from one man to the other.

“No I don't. Just wanted to say hi to my friend.” 

“You seem too upset for someone who just wanted to say hi to a friend. Don’t you?” He took a drag and blew it towards Joel. “So why don't you stop bullshitting us and tell us why you're here? Because from the way I see it, you look jealous, Joel.”

He was so full of self-confidence, showing no hesitation, no wavering, his eyes fixed on Joel. You on the other hand... you wish you had the ability to snap your fingers and disappear instantly. 

You looked at Joel, who surprisingly had a smile on his face. He was calm, unimpressed, his inner self finally back after this tensed introduction. You relaxed a little, as the pressure left your shoulders.

“You’re gonna tell me what this all is about, sweetheart?” he said softly, turning his gaze towards you. “Because if this guy was really a date… if you didn’t know him, I know you’d tell him to fuck off.”

Javi laughed, always confident in any situation. You, not so much, knowing that Joel had already figured it all out. You sighed, before answering “Javi’s a friend.”

“How much of a friend?”

“A good friend.”

“A good friend,” Joel repeated. “Ok. And you're both here by pure coincidence, or...?”

You looked down at your plate, unsure of how to respond. Being honest and implicitly admitting that you were not over the "ending", or lying. You were lost in your thoughts, knowing that the longer you took to respond, the more obvious the answer was.

You still didn't know what to say when Javi stepped in to help you.

"Oh come on man, stop torturing her."

Joel locked eyes with you as if he was crawling into your soul to find the answers. He frowned seeing what was there, a concern in his expression.

"Wanna come to my place? To talk about it?"

You hesitated. A part of you was glad that he was taking your emotions into account, even if they hadn't been expressed. You looked at Javi and asked him if he could join you, support you if needed, and help you gain perspective. When he nodded, you asked Joel if he was okay with that.

"Sure, sweetheart."

Once at Joel's, he offered you a drink and you all remained silent, until Javi rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, d’ya need me to be your matchmaker or what? What’s wrong with the two of you? But mostly, what’s wrong with you, man?”

“What is wrong with me? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I happily fuck her each times she calls me. And I’d happily fuck her right now. So what’s your problem?”

“You let him talk about you like this?” Joel asked, turning to you. He clearly had a hard time understanding that you could be friends, but he didn't know Javi like you did, didn't know what he hid beneath his player’s attitude — the most reliable, protective, funniest friend. So emotionally smart that he blew your mind many times by reading people.

“Javi is… Javi,” you answered firmly. “We've been friends for a long time and I love him for being so open minded, for always being there for me, as I hope I am for him. So yeah, it’s ok. I fuck him happily, too, by the way.” 

You couldn't help being harsh, your protective instinct towards your best friend taking over.

“Yeah, you do, baby,” Javi agreed, his smile cocky after hearing your words, checking you out openly before turning back to Joel. “You know what? I think you could be turned on in 2 minutes, if you saw what I’d do to her.”

You expected Joel to tell him to fuck off. You really did. But you realized it wouldn’t happen when you felt the atmosphere in the room change, becoming electric and sticky, and the smirk on Javi’s face showed that he felt it too. 

"I’d kiss her the way she likes to be kissed,” he started to say, eyes fixed on yours. “I’d lick her lips to tease her and I’d feel her breathing quicken. I’d rub my cock against her because she loves to feel me getting hard. And then I’d push her against this table, right here, and I’d know, just by looking at her, if she wanted me to eat her out or to split her open. I’d watch her tits bounce while I fucked her hard and deep. And then I’d make her come on my cock, feeling her squeeze it hard. Feeling her shake. She’d make those little moans that I fed on. And I’d fill her with my cum, because I love to know it would ruin her panties and that each drop would remind her how good I fucked her.”

When he stopped talking, only the squeaking of his leather could be heard in the room. You took a deep breath, swallowed hard and resisted the urge to rush to him. To kiss him. To grab his ass and hold him against you, to feel his hardness. 

“Shit…” Joel gruffed, putting his hands on his hips, his stare moving from Javi to you. You were soaked, a drooling mess, in the room with the two men, not knowing what to expect in that moment. 

“I guess I was right about turning you on in no time. So, Joel… are you gonna watch me do it all by myself, or you gonna join me?”

Joel turned towards you and asked “you’re ok with it?”

“Yeah... Yes, I am. If you are, too.” 

“Alright, then.”

“Come here, baby. Let’s show him how good we are at this.” Javi reached out his hand to you and you took it. He let his leather jacket fall onto the floor, revealing his chest covered by a black t-shirt, and you brushed his pecs.

“Bet you’re already droolin’ for me, after hearing this,” Javi uttered against the crease of your neck, but loud enough for Joel to hear. He smiled, feeling you shiver, running his long, thick fingers down your arms, the fingers that made you come so many times. 

You could feel Joel's gaze on both of you. You wondered if he was hard. If he wanted to keep watching or if he wanted to join you. You heard him growl and your pussy clenched with need of being filled.

You smiled back at Javi. He was right, you two were good at this. Everything was so easy, so known, so healthy, your bodies speaking their own native language without words being necessary. Even though Javi loved to express his feelings, it was always just a bonus. That always made you even hornier.

“Yeah… and I bet you’re already hard for me,” you replied, brushing his cheek with your digits, looking at his beautiful face. You loved every single inch of that man, every cell of his body and brain.

“Damn right, I am.”

You kissed his torso after taking off his t-shirt, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck. 

You loved his scent, the softness of his skin, its taste. And you loved his innate impatience, slightly restrained with tenderness when his hands were on you. 

It could have been so easy to forget that someone else was there at that moment, but not when it was Joel. When you looked at him, he understood the unspoken, pulled his shirt off and moved closer, urging you to tilt your face up with his fingers. You kissed him, finally feeling his warm, plushy lips on yours, still pressed against Javi, who kissed your neck then lingered on it with his moustache, and your eyes closed in pleasure under their embrace.

Javi slid behind you, roamed your body with his hands from your hips to your breasts, while you were making out with Joel.

Javi slowly undressed you, then brushed your wet folds with his fingers and pressed his hard-on against your ass. Your legs weakened and you squeezed Joel's t-shirt with your fist, holding on to it. For the thousandth time since the beginning of your friendship, you told yourself that Javi was a sweet menace, the definition of sensuality and a call to sin. You were lucky to have a special place in his life.

“Feel it?”

“Hard to miss it, Javi,” you tried to chuckle, but moaned instead when your friend’s fingers caressed your cunt and Joel pushed his tongue into your mouth, his hands on your waist, his crotch pressing against you, too. 

“Oh god,” you whined, as a part of you wondered if it was all a dream, if you were going to wake up soaked and alone in your bed.

Javi nibbled on your shoulder, and the slight pain confirmed it was real, you were really standing between these two men. You sighed with pleasure and kissed Joel again, your hand cupping his hard cock in his jeans. 

“I love when you’re dripping for me… for us,” Javi murmured in your ear, pushing a digit in your drooling heat. “Are you into men, too, Joel?” he asked, kissing your shoulder then your neck.

“It’s been a while since the last time, but… Yeah.”

“Good. ‘cause you’re fucking hot,” your friend said, grabbing the back of Joel’s neck and crushing his lips against his over your shoulder, flooding your underwear with a new wave of arousal. You kissed Joel's cheek as they were making out, until your tongue gravitated to theirs. 

“I understand why you’re so into him, baby,” Javi breathed out, parting from you two. 

You locked eyes with Joel and felt heat reaching your cheeks when he smiled. Javi had many qualities, but subtlety was not one of them.

“Where’s your bedroom, Joel?”

“Over there,” he replied, leading the way.

Javi took your hand when you walked through the door, and led you to the bed as if it were his own room. He lay down on it, pulled you towards him, and Joel followed. You three began kissing, lips crushing on others in a hot dance, until Javi took your nipple in his mouth, sucked and nibbled on it gently, making you moan into Joel's mouth.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he growled, slidding his palm to your crotch, and you pushed your hips upward to relieve the pressure that was driving you crazy. He chuckled against your lips, his fingers gliding easily over your soaked folds. 

Javi sat up to push your knees apart and leaned down to kiss your inner thighs, his lips getting closer and closer to Joel's fingers buried in your pussy. He licked your folds and the other man's fingers, before sucking on your clit.

His tongue played with your cunt, moving up and down, pushing in between the digits.

“It’s turning you on, baby, having your pussy eaten right in front of your ex?” he teased, making your whole body tremble as you whimpered against Joel’s neck.

"He’s right. You’re soaking my fingers, sweetheart," the man chuckled, but his breath suddenly hitched when Javi cupped his bulge. He kissed your stomach and straightened up, and you were about to beg him to go down on you again when Javi unbelted your ex’s jeans and took off his clothes just like he did with yours. Javi let out a slow whistle, one eyebrow raised, appreciating the sight of Joel's naked body.

Joel's hard cock was twitching against his lower abdomen, its red tip oozing. His massive balls rested against his broad thighs. How many times had you stared at his body, just like Javi in that moment, your mouth suddenly dry at the sight of him?

Your clit throbbed, as Javi’s face was inches from Joel’s shaft. They were the most gorgeous men you had ever seen, and you wanted them to feel good. So you watched, mesmerised, your fingers replacing Joel’s in your cunt and then fucking you slowly.

“Well shit, Joel… I really wanna suck your dick, now,” Javi said looking up at him, making sure that Joel was into it. 

“Go ahead.”

Javi spat in his hand and started jerking your ex off, smearing the precum with his thumb. When Javi took him in the mouth and his head began bobbing on his shaft, Joel quickly muttered a set of “fuck” and “shit,” one hand placed on the back of Javi’s neck, the other clenching the sheets.

Your fingers were moving back and forth between your folds, your empty pussy drooling on the bed, but you didn’t care about it, focusing only on the two men lying right beside you.

The glance Javi gave you looked like an invitation and you leaned down to lick Joel’s balls at first, then under them, where the skin was so delicate, and Javi moved them up to give you full access. His saliva flowed down to your throat when you took them in your mouth then licked the thick shaft. You took turns sucking Joel off, tangling your tongues on the way, turning your ex into a needy, whimpering and grunting mess.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby, you know that?” Javi told you and the corners of your lips rose up as the flat of your tongue was moving up to Joel’s tip. "It's time to take care of you," he added, pushing you onto your back and lying down next to you. “Want you to come on his tongue.”

A strand of his hair fell on his forehead and you played with it a little, savoring your special closeness once again, grateful to know his tender side. He always looked at you as if you were the only woman he would always come back to, without ever asking for anything in return. You brushed his cheek and your thumb lingered on his lips. He was beautiful.

“You’re gonna make me really jealous,” Joel growled, pushing your thighs wide apart. His broad shoulders settled into your favorite place and Javi kissed the corner of your lips, listening to your moans when Joel let his saliva slide from his lips to your pussy.

You nibbled on Javi's lip when Joel grasped the back of your thighs and pushed them toward your chest to open you fully for him. He dragged his tongue over your soaked folds, reaching your throbbing clit. You squeezed Javi's biceps when his hand moved south, and you heard a sucking sound. A single thought of Javi’s finger between Joel’s lips, the sensuality of it, made you melt and you shivered when Javi brushed your bud softly with his wet digit while Joel was lapping at your cunt. You were feeling dizzy, limbs limp under their fingers and mouths, reduced to a moaning, weak mess between the two men who wanted you to feel good, too. 

You clinged to Javi, lulled by his praise, half in  English, half in Spanish, and then you came hard, your hips rocking towards the men, moaning into Javi’s neck who kept telling you, “you’re ok, baby, you’re ok. We got you,” until you stopped shaking. 

Your friend stood up and lit a cigarette when Joel crawled up your body and lay between your thighs. His gaze on you was soft. You loved feeling his weight again, his arms wrapped around you, creating a bubble where you always felt safe. You took his cock and nestled it at your entrance, just to make him push your folds apart with his fat tip. Just to feel him again.

“You missed him, baby? Missed my cock? That's why you planned that restaurant thing?”

“Yeah, I missed him. Missed having you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know… I didn't back up because I didn't want you anymore. I backed up because I liked you too much.”

His eyes fixed on you were still warm but gradually they filled up with fire and intensity when he pushed inside you and didn’t stop until he bottomed out, the stretch making you whimper. You kissed him to forget about all the questions swirling in your mind, at least for a moment.

“OI! love birds? My dick's gonna get limp as fuck if you keep up this soft shit, jeez…” Javi grumbled, discarding his jeans and sitting against the headboard, cigarette between his lips. He was shameless, his gorgeous cock hard against his lower belly, wriggling as if begging for your lips. It was massive, too, in the same proportions as Joel's, and you couldn't believe how lucky you were to have those two men with you right now.

“Commando… Why am I not surprised?” Joel smirked before looking back at you. “Wanna take care of him while I’m fucking you, baby?”

Your mischievous smile shifted to Javi. Yeah, you wanted to take care of him, wanted them both inside you. 

“Hands and knees for me, then.”

You put yourself on all fours and ran your tongue over Javi's shaft, pushing your ass out, allowing Joel to align himself and thrust in, as you took Javi into your mouth.

“Fuck, I missed your cunt, baby. You have no idea.” He pumped his cock in and out, clinging at your hips, his massive balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. He was going deep, and he was doing it slowly, to make you feel every inch of his cock.

You moaned, Javi’s tip between your lips, and he caressed your cheek, his ridiculously handsome face tilted down to you.

“You’re so fucking pretty, your mouth full of my cock. Pussy full of his. You’re doing so good, baby.”

His praise bewitched you, as Joel dug his fingers into your hips, holding you as he wished, rolling his hips against your ass.

“Tell me how it feels.”

You licked his shaft again, before stuttering “g- good. Fucking… good.”

“He’s big, right? I bet he’s stretching your little cunt wide open with his big dick.”

“Yeah… yeah, oh fuck!! He’s… he’s so big, Javi. You should… maybe you should try him.”

He smiled and looked at Joel. “If he’s able to leave this perfect hole to let me fill it, and if he wants to… why not?”

“Oh I want to, Javi. Lemme just…- oh, sweetheart, fuck! Easy, baby…. you’re squeezing me so hard, fuck… lemme just fuck her a little more,” Joel panted.

Javi slid beneath you until his body was aligned with yours, and Joel adjusted the position but didn’t stop pushing in. Your pussy was rubbing against Javi’s shaft, as you were licking at his lips, his tongue until your groans increased.

“You’re gonna come like that baby? Gonna give us another one?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, brushing your throbbing clit against him, covering him with your wetness that was dripping non-stop.

“F… fuck, Joel…” you breathed, eyes closed.

“Come on, baby, soak me. Lemme take my turn with you.” You moaned at the idea of them taking turns between your thighs, and clenched on Joel’s shaft, still humping against Javi.

“Oh fuck!! Fuck, fuck… I gotta… fuck I gotta pull out, shit…” Joel said, almost whimpering, hands still gripping your flesh, hips still thrusting in and out, before he finally pulled out.

“You're ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck…. I… fuck…”

“Lay on your back for me, baby. We’re not done with you.”

You shifted position and watched Joel open his nightstand drawer, pull out a tube and coat his cock with the lube.

Javi lay between your legs, his head diving in to lick a long stripe between your folds, making him growl and mumble. “You taste like him. Always taste so fucking good, but I love to taste him on your cunt.”

“J… Javi,” you stummered, voice weak.

“Tell me,” he whispered, nose grinding against your clit, tongue fucking your dripping hole.

“Too… too much…”

“Really?” he smirked. “Why are you rubbing against me then?”

“I… fuck…” You grabbed his head, pulling him closer, the exquisite blend of mild pain and pleasure mingling together.

Joel's broad body appeared behind him, and your friend groaned at the touch of the lube-covered finger.

“Give him one more, sweetheart. You know you can give us more.”

Javi's grunting between your folds increased. You wondered how many fingers Joel was pushing in. One? Two? Another orgasm built in your core at the thought, your fingers digging into Javi's scalp, and you rolled your hips even harder than 10 seconds before.

“You’re so close, so fucking gorgeous like that. Wide open for us.”

His praise made you come on Javi’s tongue, tears streaming from the corners of your eyes onto the pillow. Javi crawled up to you, eyes dark, hair disheveled, drunk on your juices. He slid his tip along your folds, all the way to your clit and you shuddered at this new overstimulation, spreading your thighs wide, giving him full access. He pushed in and you felt whole again. Filled like you needed to be. 

“Fuck… always so fucking perfect for me. So wet. He fucked you real good, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he always does. You liked watching me getting fucked, Javi?”

He didn't respond right away, feeling Joel kneel behind him. “Answer her,” your ex said in a low, velvety voice.

“I loved it. Loved to see you fall apart in my arms. Loved to see you take it, how breathless you were.”

“You’re gonna be breathless too, soon,” you said when Joel placed one hand on Javi's hip.

“You want me there, Javi?”

“Shit, yeah,” he groaned and Joel pushed in slowly, making room for his cock.

“Kiss me. Kiss me. Let me feel you fall apart, too.”

“Oh fuck…”

“I know, baby, I know. You’re gonna feel so good soon. Let him in. Let him in, Javi.”

You knew that Joel bottomed out when Javi did the same inside you, driven by Joel's pace, his body quivering and shaking. 

“Feel good?”

“Fuck… yeah. Shit.”

Joel picked up the pace, his eyes fixed on you. Yours were moving from one man to the other.

“You’re gonna come, Javi? Gonna fill my cunt?”

He nodded, unable to answer, his face twisted with pleasure. Joel's broad shoulders tensed, while his hands gripped Javi harder. One on his hip, the other on his shoulder for leverage. Javi was thrusting into you at the same pace Joel was sinking into him. You licked Javi's neck before nibbling on his earlobe.

“Babe…” he whined.

“Give it to me, Javi,” you said, eyes fixed on Joel. 

“Fuck! I’m gonna come….”

Javi moaned as his cum coated your walls, and didn’t stop humping you until you milked his cock to the last drop, the jolts of his body beneath your fingers and between your thighs then slowing down before they stopped. 

Joel was chasing his climax, thrusting hard and deep, hands on Javi’s hips. His jaw clenched and his body tensed, the veins in his neck bulging, as he threw his head back in pleasure when he bottomed out one last time. He froze, groaning, his large hand gripping Javi's shoulder tightly.

“Fuck,” Javi groaned, before they pulled out and plopped on the bed, Javi between the two of you. You were catching your breaths, bodies covered in sweat.

“See? Told you to trust me, baby, there at the restaurant,” Javi smiled and raised his arm for you to curl up against him. 

“I’m glad I did,” you said before kissing his chest. 

Your hand brushed Javi’s belly then reached Joel, and grabbed his side. He smiled at you.

You didn't know what your future held with those two men, but the weekend was just beginning.

More Javi x reader x Joel: Blackmail series (different AU)

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[buckyys-babydoll]

Menu: Starter

Pairing: Boyfriend!Joaquín Torres x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: A beautiful new dress and a bunch of insecurities. Not perfect. But the starter should help to make the dinner unforgettable.

Warnings: Minors DNI, smut [oral (fem!rec), unprotected pussy job, orgasms, teasing, praises, one slap to her thigh, tiny bit of manhandling, just the tip, cream pie], insecurities, fluff

Wordcount: 3.604 Words

Authors Note: Written for @ramp-it-up’s 5k Praise Me challenge [“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?”] Divider made by me.

Main Masterlist

Dark brown eyes are focused on you as you sway your hips softly in front of the mirror. Intense brown eyes. And yet, so soft and sweet. Filled with love and warmth.

You twirl in front of it, looking yourself up and down. Your hands slide down the front of your new dress.

It's pretty. Delicate. But not revealing too much skin. It’s just perfect.

A dress just for the date with your boyfriend.

You loved it. Unfortunately, you did. But by now, it’s nothing like the dress it was at the shop.

The more you look at yourself, the more you feel insecure and unsure about yourself. About the dress. About your body. About your look. About everything.

Tilting your head slightly at it, it still doesn’t look good.

But why not? Why did it fit so perfectly at the shop? Hugging your curves in a way that made you feel almost majestic.

And now, it just makes you feel fat and ugly.

Maybe it’s not the dress. Maybe it’s you. Or your insecurities.

“Woah, you look stunning, mi corazon,” a soft voice mutters from beside you.

Your heart skips a beat at the softness of his voice. The sweetness it’s holding, a sweetness like honey.

Joaquín pushes himself off the doorframe and takes a few steps closer to you. The sparkle of adoration in his eyes makes your knees buckle; only he can cause such feelings.

Even after a while of dating, he still has that effect on you. An effect he had on you from the first time Sam introduced you to one another and the dark haired man made you a compliment.

You were drenched from the rain. Hair sticking to your face, and you felt like you walked through a hurricane. But he looked at you, intensely. Soft, brown eyes as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Joaquín looked at nothing but your face with a smile as he said, “You look gorgeous.”

Since then, he never looked at you like you’re less beautiful. But your mind tells you something else. So maybe he's saying all those things only to make you feel better but not because he means it.

He could do better than be with someone like you. Joaquín is smart and handsome, charming, too. He could have anyone, and yet, he stays by your side like he’s glued to you.

“Mhm…” you mumble, your fingers curling around the edge of the dress to push it down. Once again. It shouldn't’ slide upward the whole time. But it does. “Don’t think the dress fits, Jo.”

A low rumble leaves his chest. Like a dark chuckle. Not in an amused way, though.

His eyes narrow as he looks you up and down. How can you tell that about yourself when you're standing there in all your glory, shining bright in that beautiful dress of yours?

Joaquín takes another step closer to you, halting behind you. His hands finding their way to your sides as he smoothes the fabric of your dress down until his hands stop at your waist. His firm chest pressed tightly against your back.

His soft is touch. Warm. And so lovingly.

“You look nothing but stunning, mi amor,” he whispers into your heart, pressing a kiss just underneath your ear.

Joaquín looks at you in the mirror. Admiring your reflection. Beautiful. Sweet. Smart. And all his.

“You’re beautiful. But you don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?” He asks, his head lowering to rest his chin on your shoulder. Joaquín's hands slide to the front of your stomach, drawing soft patterns on their way.

When he reaches the middle of your tummy, he curls his fingers around yours, slowly pushing them to the side. Then he interlaces his own fingers with one another’s and just stares at you in the mirror.

You shake your head.

You're not beautiful. Not even in the slightest. At least you don’t feel beautiful. Especially not in the dress.

How can you enjoy the evening with your gorgeous boyfriend when the dress makes you look fat. And when that’s all you can think about.

“I’m not. The dress slides upward all the time. I look like a fat whale or something. Maybe even like I squeezed myself into a too tight dress in an attempt to look better,” you say, leaning your head against Joaquín's.

What will the people think when you walk around in such a dress? Squeezed. Fat rolls visible everywhere.

They will laugh. They will talk. And even judge.

The dress doesn’t look close to fitting your body. It doesn’t look beautiful anymore. And it doesn’t make you shine either.

“So damn beautiful, mi corazon,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “Close your eyes for me, baby.”

And you do.

Though, your heart sinks. Anxiety bubbling over as you clench and unclench your hands.

Maybe he will peel you out of your dress because he can't stand the view of you in that tight piece of fabric any longer either.

Or maybe he just needs a moment to keep the facade on his face so you won’t see through his lies.

Because he doesn’t mean it. You’re not beautiful. And you’re not even close to any other positive description either.

Your stomach tightens, and you take a deep breath to calm down your anxiety.

You’re not even hot. Or sexy.

So how can he possibly think you're beautiful or sweet when he doesn’t even find you hot? Isn't that what every man says first about a woman? How hot and sexy she is.

You want to open your eyes to see his disappointed expression. Disappointed about the choice he made. Being your boyfriend. Loving you.

You want to see it so you can stop imagining it. So you can stop beating yourself up that it’s all in your mind, because then you would have seen his disgusted expression.

Joaquín moves his fingers to the back of your dress. But he doesn’t open the zipper. He just keeps his hands on your lower back.

Maybe he decided against peeling you out of the dress because it would be worth it to look at your naked form.

“I adore you,” he whispers as he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. His lips lingering against your soft skin as you narrow your eyes.

He does what? Adore you. In that dress.

“You’re sweet. Loving. Handsome. Beautiful,” he punctures every work with a kiss to your neck. Then his voice drops an octave, and it almost sounds like a growl when he says, “And all mine.”

You whimper. He smirks.

His warm breath is fanning against your skin. Another whimper as you feel the shiver running down your spine.

Handsome. Not hot. Beautiful. Not sexy.

You take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the tears that burn into your eyes. You want to open them; you want to see his expression. But you also don’t want to.

“Jo—” you whimper, trying to take a step away from him, but his strong arms wrap around your front again. He pulls you flush against him with a growl, his lips still lingering against your pulse point.

“Mhm?”

You wiggle once more but to no avail. His grip is tight and unyielding.

“Don’t, mi corazon. Where do you think you’re going?” He asks, his voice low and with a hint of authority.

“Jo—”

“No. Where do you think you're going?” Joaquín asks again. Walking backwards with you in his arms until the back of his legs are touching the bed.

You groan quietly. Softly, almost not audible for him.

But he catches it. His eyes narrowing, he turns the two of you in one swift motion so you’re the one who lands on the bed. Your boyfriend towers above you, standing between your spread legs as he looks at you.

Your heart skips a beat. He’s so handsome. Sexy.

But at the same time, you feel your stomach dropping. You’re not good enough for him. And once he sees it, he will leave.

“Mi amor,” Joaquín murmurs, spreading your legs with his. “What’s going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

You open your mouth. Eyes widened as you look at him. But no words leave your lips.

You could lie. But he would know. You could tell him the truth. But he could be mad then.

Turning your head to the side, you look away from him. He can read you like a book. Especially when he looks into your eyes or at your face.

“Mi amor.”

“Nothin’, we want to go out, honey,” you mumble, but Joaquín only raises his eyebrows.

He huffs. Not amused.

“You’re a bad liar,” he growls, bringing one of his hands to your chin to turn your head toward him again. His brown eyes are intensely staring down at you, his lips pressed in a thin line while he narrows his eyes.

He hums. Leaning down until his lips are only inches away from yours. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t break the distance, and it makes you go crazy. And Joaquín knows.

You whine, trying to sit up to reach him better, but he only pushes you down again. Your back pressed into the mattress while he’s still standing between your legs, shaking his head.

“No. You talk to me, or you won’t get what you want either, mi corazon,” he says, sternly. Your eyes almost roll back into your head as his tone changes.

He means it. You don’t talk. He doesn't give you what you want.

“Please?”

“Talk, and I will give you what you want. Don’t talk, and you won’t get anything,” he warns, leaning close enough for you to feel his warm breath against your lips but not close enough to reach his lips with yours.

“I look so fa—”

Joaquín's expression interrupts you mid-sentence. He looks almost angry, not at you, but about your thoughts.

“Say it.”

“I-I look so fat. And the dress, it looks so ugly on me. And you, you’re lying to make me feel good,” you blurt out, shaking your head as tears well up in your eyes.

Joaquín's expression softens, and he leans closer once more. His lips ghost over yours as he presses a featherlight kiss against your lips.

“I don’t say it to make you feel better. I say it because it’s the truth. You’re stunning,” he whispers, finally pressing a proper kiss to your lips.

Your heart squeezes painfully. How could you even question his honesty? His loyalty. The seriousness of his words.

“But you only tell me I’m handsome. Or sweet.”

“Because you are. You’re the most beautiful, mi corazon.”

You shake your head slightly. “But you never say I’m sexy. Or hot. I’m just beautiful.”

Joaquín hums, a smile playing on his lips as they twitch upwards.

“You are fucking sexy. You make me go crazy, mi amor. But I will not reduce you on your body. You’re more than just your figure,” he mutters against your lips. “You're beautiful. You’re smart. But yes, you’re also damn sexy.”

You smile slightly, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks.

He’s a menace. A handsome menace. Your menace.

Joaquín's hands slide down your sides toward the hem of your dress, rolling the fabric down your legs as he gets onto his knees in between them.

He lets his lips trail from your left knee upward before he stops and starts at your right knee once again.

“Beautiful. So beautiful.”

You wiggle your ass, wrapping your legs around his shoulders as you try to push closer toward him.

Joaquín's hands shoot to your hips immediately, gripping them tightly to keep you in place. His lips working their way upward to where your panties hide your cunt.

He blows softly against the fabric, smirking when he sees the slight wet patch forming. And fuck, he loves it.

Way too much for your liking, he loves to tease you. Loves to watch you writhe underneath him. Loves your pleading expression, your soft begging.

“Joaquín, please,” you whine. Your hips pinned to the bed and his strength overpowering yours so you can’t even push him closer with your legs around him. “Please!”

“Please, what, mi amor?” He chuckles, sucking a dark hickey just underneath your panties on your thigh.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of his warm lips. The teasing and the tension are just too much to focus on anything but his lips on your skin.

“Touch me.”

“I do,” he hums. He tightens his grip around your waist with a chuckle. “Need to be more specific, then.”

You whine; your fingers reaching for his hair, but with your dress just above it, you can’t quite reach it.

“You ruin my dress,” you whine, not really caring about it. But it’s a way to get him to look up so you can finally bury your fingers in his hair and pull him closer. “Fuck, please, Joaquín.”

“Cheeky!” He laughs, rolling your dress even further up toward your hips. A low moan escapes his lips as you tug at his thick hair, pushing his face almost into your cunt. “No, no, mi amor. You tell me what you want, or you won’t get it. Use your words.”

“Please.”

You whine when he just keeps kissing your inner thighs. Ignoring your pleas and the pulling on his hair.

A pout forms on your lips. You told him what you want. And yet, he doesn’t give it to you. It’s not on you that it was too unspecific; he knows damn well what you need.

“JOA— FUCK,” you moan, back arching off the bed as he brings his lips to your panties covered clit and sucks it between his lips harshly. “Fuck… yes, please.”

Your fingers curl further into his hair, nails scratching over his scalp. Joaquín groans against you, using his tongue to push your panties to the side, wanting full access to your cunt.

“Mhm,” he hums, circling your clit with his tongue before he pulls away and narrows his eyes. Your panties snap back into place, and you lift your head to look at him with a frown. “Need to get these off of you, mi amor.”

You nod, lifting your hips and loosening your grip in his hair. Joaquín chuckles low in his throat, loving how eager you are for him.

His fingers curl into your panties, pulling them down your legs. Slowly. Too slow for your liking.

He keeps grinning at you, taking in every little movement of yours as you try to get out of the panties as fast as possible.

“So eager, mi corazon,” he chuckles, throwing the thin fabric away before he kisses your leg upward to your pussy once more.

Joaquín licks his lips, kissing your clit. A growl vibrates in his chest, his eyes darkening.

“Fuck, you're so pretty,” Joaquín says, kissing your folds until he reaches your entrance.

His tongue circles around it, dipping in before he pulls away once again.

You're whining, moaning and writhing. You need more of him. More of his touch and more of the pleasure he can offer.

“Please… please, please!” You beg, wiggling on the bed.

“Nah! Stop that,” he huffs, getting up.

“Noooo. No. No. No, Joaquín, please— OUH!” You whine when he slaps your inner thigh unexpectedly.

Your eyes widen as you look at your boyfriend. He’s wearing a sly smirk on his lips, tilting his head as he unbuckles the belt of his pants and pushes them down.

Eyes focused on you, he keeps undressing himself. His rock-hard cock springs free once his boxer briefs are pushed downward.

You lick your lips as you get a good look at his thick length. The tip is red and throbbing with pre-cum, a thick vein running along the underside of his cock.

You whimper. Really whimper. Needy.

You want to touch him. Want to suck his cock. Want to lick the vein. Or kiss the tip of the cock.

But you always want to feel the thickness of him inside of you. Thrusting into you and hitting all the right spots until he makes you see stars.

“Like what you see, mi amor?” Joaquín asks, taking a step closer. His hands find their way back to your waist before he lifts you up and throws you into the middle of the bed.

He’s such a menace. Manhandling you like a little doll. And you can’t even complain about it.

You nod, reaching for the zipper of your dress. Pushing it down, you try to peel the dress off of you.

Your boyfriend's brown eyes are focused on you, watching your wiggling form. A chuckle slips past his lips when you kick the dress off your body, glad you're not stuck in it.

“Spread those pretty legs for me,” he mutters under his breath, moaning when his eyes roam down your body.

Licking his lips when he takes in your exposed chest. Then your glistening folds. You're so wet for him. So ready. Just for him.

“Eres tan jodidamente hermosa, mi amor,” he groans.

And fuck. It's hot when he’s speaking Spanish.

He crawls on the bed, pushing your legs apart with his thick thighs. Before he settles between yours.

Joaquín's hands are smoothing up and down your thighs. Your eyes are focused on his length, standing proud between his legs.

“My eyes are up here, mi corazon,” Joaquín teases, leaning over you.

Your eyes snap toward his, heat creeping into your cheeks.

Joaquín wraps one of his hands around his length, stroking it slowly before he taps his tip against your cunt.

Your hips buck upward, a whine bubbling in your throat.

Your boyfriend repeats his action. The tip tapping your clit, then your entrance. But he doesn’t ease his cock into your cunt; he only plays with you.

“Please, need to feel you,” you pout, lifting your hips to angle his cock with your entrance yourself.

The moment you feel his tip perfectly sitting at your entrance, you push your hips toward him. Only for him to pull his cock away with a chuckle.

“So eager. Doing all the work yourself,” he teases, rubbing his cock over your clit. “Mhm, want me to lie down and let you do all the work?”

You shake your head, pouting at your boyfriend.

“Wanna feel you, please?”

He hums, leaning further above you. Joaquín brings his cock back to your pussy. His thumb pressing his tip between your folds as he thrusts his hips.

The tip bumps against your clit, and your lips part. A moan leaving your lips, your head thrown back.

“OH!”

“Mhm, that’s it, good girl,” Joaquín groans, keeping a slow pace as he fucks your folds.

Your eyes roll back, your back arching. Your hands find their way to his back, holding onto it.

“Ohhh, it-it feels so good,” you whimper, legs wrapping around your boyfriend’s hips.

He groans, his pace speeding up and the pressure he uses to hold his cock down increasing.

Joaquín leans his forehead against yours. You are both panting. His dark eyes are looking into yours intensely. His expression is full of pleasure and yet so lovely and soft.

With every thrust of his, he either bumps your clit or your entrance, though he never pushes into you.

“J-Joa– gonna… gonna cum,” you whisper against his lips.

Pulling him down, you press your lips against his, humming. Joaquín deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding between your lips while he keeps a steady rhythm of his thrusts.

The coil in your stomach tightens. Your legs squeeze around his hips. Moans and pants fill the room.

“Fuck, fuck, gonna come?” He asks, his hips stuttering slightly. You nod, pushing your hips closer to him. “Yeah, come on, mi corazon. Come for me.”

And you do. Fingers digging into his neck, your mouth crashing against his as the coil in your stomach snaps.

Your cunt is clenching around nothing while his cock keeps rubbing through your folds. The tip still nudges your clit until it’s overstimulated and sore.

“Ow… oh! Oh! Joaquín, o-oh,” you moan, trying to wiggle away from him.

Joaquín keeps one of his hands on your waist, holding you in place while he chases his own orgasm.

“Mhm, wanna come inside of you. Quiero darte todo mi semen,” he groans, hiding his face in your neck.

Before you can answer, he brings his cock to your entrance, pushing only the tip into your still clenching cunt as he finishes himself.

His cum shooting into you, painting your walls as you both pant against one another’s necks.

“Fuck, sorry, mi corazon,” he mumbles, but you feel the smirk.

He isn’t sorry. Neither are you. Because his cum in your cunt, slowly dripping out, feels way too good to regret having it inside of you.

“You could have fucked me probably, then,” you grumble.

“I will, mi amor, I will. But after dinner, we only had our starter meal,” he chuckles, pushing himself up to peck your lips. “Let’s get us cleaned.”

You smile as he pulls out, watching him get off the bed.

And – once again – he managed to help you get rid of your annoying thoughts. Made you forget the insecurities and gave you pleasure in return.

“Te quiero, mi amor,” Joaquín mumbles against your forehead as he kneels down next to you. Holding a washcloth, he brings it softly to your cunt, wiping his cum away. “Te quiero más que a nada.”

@armystay89 @rogersbarber @firelilyfox

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part four)

part four ; prom: white house edition

warnings ; alcohol consumption, oc spiraling hard af, emma and paul ?? deserves its own warning

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; *comes out from behind corner, tucks hair shyly behind ear* heyyy.. how yall doing..?

pls no tomatoes thrown at me for how long this part took. mommy was unfortunately quite busy AND this story is taking a complete left turn in my brain. let’s unpack that real quick, shall we? initially, this story was supposed to be a clean ten part fic. however i got inspired by one of abby jiminez’s books and could not restrain myself from exploring a longer slowburn with these two because it fits them SO WELL. so, moral of the story, is you’ll be seeing more of them. how many parts you ask? idk, ask someone else fr

anyways! onto this part — there’s a lot going on here. this whole White House gala is just jungkook circling oc like a hawk and her slowly, sloooooowly softening at the edges (but not too damn much). forgive my girl for not immediately succumbing to him, she grew up in a poor family and doesn’t like to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders (lol see what i did there)

please enjoy to your heart’s content, and read slow (like it’s legit 12k words. what you in a rush for??!!) ALSOOOOSDKD MAJORRRRR MF shoutout to @httpsincity, one of my cutie little beta readers who listened to me spiral about being true to their characters for like an hour and struggled to use box.com😔

playlist here

series masterlist here

The red dress was a mistake of catastrophic proportions. 

You’ll be paying the consequences of it until you’re 85 and muttering about shapewear in a retirement home with subpar pudding. 

It pinches at your hips, digs into your ribs, and you’re walking like someone has a gun to your back. You’re also sweating in places you didn’t know you had sweat glands.

You had pitched every excuse to not attend the gala known to man for the past week. Claimed to have contracted a rare airborne virus (possibly made up), hinted at a tragic scalp burn from a curling iron incident, even floated the idea that you were morally opposed to large public gatherings.

Jenna wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s good optics,” she called it, waving you off like an uncooperative wedding planner. 

You could give two shits about optics. What you do care about is being home in your sweats with a charcoal face mask on and Season 4 of Suits playing in the background while you judge Meghan Markle’s legal ethics. 

Now, you’re trapped beneath an arch of peonies and imported orchids that you're quite certain cost more than your entire salary. You’re lingering — loitering, really — by this floral monstrosity, heels already in mortal pain.

To add insult to injury, three interns glide past you, high on sparkling wine and great expectations. “Did you see the dessert table?” one of them squeals. “It’s shaped like the White House!”

Avoid the dessert table at all costs. Got it. 

You stare after them, slack-jawed. There is simply no way on God’s green earth these interns are going to have a better time at this event than you. You skipped Suits for this.

Pushing off the floral arch, you roll your shoulders back, and decide that if you are stuck here, if you are doing this, then so be it. 

If this is the hand life is going to deal you, then you might as well not bite it off. 

Tentatively, you step into the Hay Adams ballroom like you’re being lowered into a trap. The lighting is spilling warm buttery hues across the room, strategically placed crystal fixtures drawing people under them like moths to a flame. The marble floors are polished so well that when you look down, you can make out every pore on your face. 

There are waiters floating through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks you don’t recognize and appetizers that look too sophisticated to actually enjoy. Some band is playing near the front, but it’s jazz so it mostly just sounds like everyone forgot the melody at the same time. 

You pause a few steps in, eyes scanning the room, instinct already kicking in: assess, categorize, survive. There’s a burn in your chest, a familiar swoop of anxiety that overtakes you. 

You’re mid-gaze into the ballroom, performing what can only be described as an elite-level social avoidance, when something — or rather, someone incredibly clumsy — collides with your left side. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Emma’s voice accuses, latching onto your arm desperately, like she’s afraid you might jump out the nearest window. There’s still enough time that you might. 

She smells like a perfume counter had a passionate affair with the open bar. Her lipstick has migrated slightly north of her mouth, body vibrating with the energy of someone who discovered the champagne fountain approximately four glasses ago. 

“Good lord,” you mutter, finding your balance both literally and metaphorically. “How long have you been terrorizing this event?” 

“Unclear,” she grins stupidly. “Time is fake. You look hot by the way.”

You blink at her, absorbing her physical assessment of your appearance. You can't say hot is what you were going for. Scary, maybe. Not hot. “I’ll take it.”

“You absolutely should,” she insists, squeezing your arm. “Wait, did you just get here?”

The way Emma’s looking at you tells you that you probably need to lie, need to tell her you got here precisely an hour ago and she just somehow missed you. However after years of working together, there’s nothing that gets past her. You whine, shoulders slumping, “C’mon, you know I hate this stupid fucking gala.”

She rolls her eyes, yanking your arm as if she’s dragging her reluctant cat to the vet. “You say that every year and still end up at the after afterparty at someone’s penthouse.” 

Okay, it was one time. You were 24, way too drunk off Moet & Chandon, and the man you were with smelled like a mix of bergamot and cedar. It was nice. Sue you. 

Your heels betray you on the slippery marble tiles, sending you forward. “Emma, I really don’t—”

“No, absolutely not,” she declares, voice dropping to a dangerous register that means she’s made an executive decision about your night. “The ‘silently judging everyone’ portion of tonight’s programming has been canceled. You’re not allowed to roll your eyes in corners until you get drunk enough to start socializing.”

You attempt to come up with a plausible defense, but she’s already steering you past the dessert table, which has become a feeding ground for the interns. One of them clutches what appears to be the Capitol dome covered in chocolate ganache. Your soul recoils instinctively. 

“Have you tried the constitution-shaped cookies?” another squeals, eyes wide with wonder. 

“Who the fuck let them in here?” you whisper mostly to yourself with narrowed eyes. 

Emma catches it, laugh bellowing off the walls and above all the chatter as she guides you around the ballroom like her emotional support pet. “Be nice. They still believe journalism might save democracy. It’s adorable.”

You scan the room, heels skidding with each step Emma drags you. There’s the reporter who “borrowed” your framework for his feature, the communications director who used to hook up with Jenna before she remembered she had a Hinge+ subscription, and that insufferable New York Times correspondent who once corrected your pronunciation of ‘bipartisan’ so smugly you considered a career change. 

Several other journalists you recognize make eye contact across the room. Paul also looks over at you, gives you The Nod, a universal signal that communicates professional acknowledgement but could also mean you look hot (based on Emma’s drunken opinion). 

Emma navigates you closer to the bar, halting right in front of two barstools, “Okay. You need alcohol. I need you to have fun. Both seem fairly easy to accomplish with the help of the other.”

“Just so you’re aware, I despise everything about this,” you sneer, fixing the strap on your shoulder that threatens to fall loose. 

“You say that like it’s breaking news.” 

It isn’t. You hate the lighting designed to flatter the undeserving, the artificial laughter, the way everyone pretends to be off-duty while mentally writing Monday’s opinion piece. You hate the performative glamor and calculated smiles and the overwhelming pressure to network when all you want is to dematerialize through the nearest exit. 

Emma’s already ordering you a vodka soda, draped halfway across the bartop, projecting her voice as if she’s sober enough to make decisions for either of you. You catch her saying “absolutely no lime—I can handle my liquor” and you log out of that conversation so fast before you can do something stupid like get involved. Emma gets hot-headed when she drinks, and although it’s not often, you’ve learned to turn a blind eye when the inevitable does occur. 

You let your gaze perform a sweep of the room, mentally cataloguing emergency exits for once it hits midnight and all hell starts breaking loose. 

Paul, three people over. Awkward eye contact, check. You both give the other a tight-lipped smile and move onto the next person in your line of sight. 

Gavin’s talking to his wife enthusiastically, gesturing in a way that suggests he’s either four rum and cokes deep or recounting a professional tale where he singlehandledly saved journalism. His narrative reaches a dramatic pause as he catches your eye mid-sentence. Your internal alarm system flashes a bright, unambiguous absolutely not across your forehead. 

Your eyes glide past the dessert station, beyond another towering floral display that looks like the florist had a meltdown, and land on Sana in the far corner. She’s laughing at something, body angled like she’s engaged fully in what the other person is saying. There’s a soft radiance about her tonight — not that she hasn’t always been stunning — and it reminds you that she’s one of those people who’s universally beloved with no effort. Hell, even you love her when she gives into your interrogations and spills Fox’s insight into certain current events. You take an imaginary sip from your yet-to-materialize drink and mentally file away a good for her with approximately sixty percent sincerity. 

But then, a few strategic inches to her left, you discover exactly who Sana is honed in on.

Jungkook. 

He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, head tipped towards Sana, listening intently. His shirt is white, crisp and fitted, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Enough that you can see his tattoo sleeve — bold that he would do that at White House prom but, whatever, to each their own. 

His tie is loosened, a glass in his left hand, half-full with something dark and his watch catches the light when you look at it. 

Which is not to say you’re looking. 

You’re scanning. It’s a sweep. An environmental awareness thing. Nothing more. 

Except then he nods at something Sana says and mid-turn, his eyes snag on you. 

Those dark brown eyes flick up, mouth relaxing. His brows twitch upward slightly. You nearly step backwards from the intensity. 

His gaze travels downward. A flicker of assessment so understated yet brazenly deliberate that your skin erupts into goosebumps under the fabric of your dress. Suddenly, it feels like your body is operating at a temperature that violates several laws of thermodynamics. There’s also a weird pit in your stomach that feels like you just went barreling 100 miles per hour down a rollercoaster. 

His eyes snap up to meet yours again. Your skin prickles with a wave of awareness that starts at your nape and cascades downward. 

If you’re not totally blind, you’re about ninety percent sure Jungkook just checked you out head to toe. 

Are you drunk? Did Emma somehow magically slip you a roofie when she stumbled across the ballroom with you?

Jungkook, the same dude who got caught re-watching your press briefing, the one who’s been purposefully making your life hell since you were a freshman in college. 

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your throat, suspended in the no-man’s-land of Things We Will Not Be Discussing. Those eyes of yours are getting you into more trouble than you’d like. You swivel your body away from him, redirect your attention back to Emma, who’s now negotiating with the poor bartender like she’s brokering Middle East peace talks, all for a drink you're not entirely sure you want anymore. 

The last real interaction you had with Jungkook was Tuesday, when you discovered him perched on the steps of the west wing, watching your press pool briefing like he was some championship chess player contemplating their opponent’s queen.

Monroe came down with some vague “flu” that’s kept her out of meetings, which — to your luck — means you haven’t had a reason to step into the same room as him since then. Honestly it’s been a little peaceful. No hallway stalking, no press conferences, no internal panic about whether he’s going to pull the rug out from under you with another cheating tactic. 

But still, seeing him here now, in that shirt, sends a weird ripple through your body. Like vertigo. Like nausea. Like—

No. It’s clearly too hot in here. It’s just the combination of societal oppression and your body’s sudden, urgent desire to evacuate itself from your consciousness.

Emma thrusts an overflowing vodka soda into your hand like she just negotiated a hostage release. “It’s a little strong. I tipped extra in cash so he gave me a pour that’s probably illegal in three states.”

You nod numbly. Sip, And then cough because, yeah, it’s mostly vodka. Apparently, Emma’s definition of “a little strong” means “practically moonshine with ice.” 

You take another substantial sip — purely medicinal — and direct a silent, desperate prayer to whatever deity oversees your life that Jungkook has found something more interesting to look at than you. Sana, please, keep that man engaged. 

“So, hear me out.”

Yes, Emma, that is exactly what you’ll do to keep your brain occupied from Sana and those tattoos and the glance that got thrown your way that feels dirty. Borderline explicit. 

“Hm?” you hum, taking another massive gulp of your vodka with a splash of soda, trying to calm the storm of unwelcome feelings swirling inside you. 

She leans against the bar, holding her own martini glass hostage. “We should go talk to those guys over there.”

You squint at the ominous tall figures her nail is pointing towards. She can’t possibly be serious. “What guys?!”

“Those ones!” She tilts her head so aggressively it’s a miracle her earrings don’t fall off. “You know, Paul, his friend in the blue tie.. He’s like, kinda hot.” 

You guess, but refusal is your middle name right now. 

“I do not want to do that.” You deadpan at her, bewildered, sharing a look reserved for work best friends who have clearly crossed several lines of judgement. 

Emma’s basically vibrating with excitement as she studies the two men like she’s just discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet after a week of intermittent fasting. When you follow her gaze, sizing up the two men, you realize… you don’t really know that dude in the blue tie. Never seen him a day in your life. And you happen to know every correspondent that walks through those doors. 

The first thing you notice is his height — six feet tall at the minimum. He has shaggy brown hair, clearly possessing fortunate genetics, and has a wholesome, eager energy about him that just screams “golden retriever.” 

You could probably eat him for dinner.

Emma whines beside you, stomping her heel down, “Come on, what happened to the old [Y/N]? Remember… a few months ago… we went to that bar on 9th street…”

Now that she mentions it, you’ve been actively trying to scrub that entire night from your hard drive until Rosalie brought it up a few days ago.  

“Some memories are meant to remain buried in the graveyard of my brain, Em,” You cut her off, desperately trying to prevent your most embarrassing memories from being aired in public. 

“Just a little fun?” she nudges your shoulder. 

“I don’t—”

But Emma, the hot-headed drunk she is, is already moving, your hand gripped tightly in hers. Your vodka soda tilts over the edge, spilling a little on the marble floor. There’s something admirable about her complete disregard for social conventions, the way she approaches interpersonal chaos. 

She weaves you through the crowd, mumbling ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘pardon me’ at a rate that earns her a few crass side-glances. You find yourself apologizing for each shoe she accidentally steps on.

You’re trying — genuinely attempting to embrace the evening, live in the moment, take a page out of Emma’s book. But your dress has developed its own mind tonight, the air feels thick enough to bottle, and every time you perform a quick pass over the room, you feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest like a caterpillar escaping its cocoon. 

The entire experience feels like standing in a glittery fishbowl where everyone’s pretending the water isn’t slowly reaching to a boil. 

You begin after another few steps in what feels like the wrong direction. “You know, I really think—”

She barely looks at you over her shoulder, “Respectfully, shut up.”

Yes, sergeant Emma. 

You attempt to reorganize your posture, rolling your shoulders back in a futile effort to project confidence. Trying to breathe without appearing like you’re still actively monitoring those emergency exits (although you did spot one in the far right corner). Trying not to look like you’re not cataloguing every face in the room while Emma drags you through the depths of this crowd, as if it’s some march to your final breaths. 

All things considered, you’re not looking for anyone specific. 

Obviously. 

That would be ridiculous. 

Except… your gaze does go rogue again.

Again, those basic survival instincts are just kicking in. But there is this inexplicable gravitational pull, this soft magnetic curiosity that keeps dragging your attention, past the florals, past the swarm of interns at the dessert table. 

Before you can even think of moving your eyes to that far corner again, you take a sip of your drink forcibly. The vodka burns a straight line down your throat. 

Emma parks you in front of Paul and his blue-tied buddy, releasing your hand almost immediately upon contact. “Heyyyy, Paul. How’s the night treating you?”

Her voice is sickly sweet, completely and totally unlike the Emma you see five days a week in the CNN press room. 

He blinks heavily. “Pretty good, Emma. You doing alright?”

It’s endearing how he’s trying to act all cool, calm and collected while clearly having no idea what to do with Emma’s sudden attention. By all means, he really wouldn’t know how to handle all of her. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, tan skin glowing under the golden tone of the chandelier, eyes piercing into his own. 

You think he might cream his pants. 

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” Emma purrs, leaning in intimately. You want to disappear into the nearest floral arrangement. “You know, I was just thinking — we don’t really talk much around the office.”

Paul blinks again, looking genuinely confused. “Yeah, well, you did say I was weird for listening to NPR during my lunch break.”

“NPR, sh-menPR,” Emma waves dismissively, as if yesterday’s mockery was merely a charming misunderstanding rather than a full-on ten minute roast session about his “geriatric taste in current events.”

Somewhere in the distance, a male voice bellows with laughter. You wish there was something to laugh about at this exact moment.

You’re having trouble processing the fact that Emma — who literally just yesterday compared Paul’s open-toed office shoes to a cry for help in leather — is now batting her eyelashes like he’s the last available bachelor in the D.C area. 

Meanwhile, Blue Tie Guy’s gaze has been ping-ponging back and forth between you and Emma. You can practically see the calculations happening behind his golden retriever eyes: Who’s her friend? What’s the dynamic here? Are we running a two-man?

No, Blue Tie Guy. You are not running a two-man. 

You remain silent while Emma blabbers on, mouth super-glued to your vodka soda, which has become alarmingly depleted despite your memory of only taking a few sips. 

Blue Tie shifts his weight, obviously debating whether to introduce himself to you or stare awkwardly into the distance. You take the final sip of your drink and pray that Emma’s sudden lust for Paul doesn’t require you to participate in whatever bizarre social experiment she’s conducting. 

Paul’s now doing that thing that guys do where he tries to lean casually against something that isn’t there, catching himself before gravity betrays him. “So, uh, what changed your mind? About the whole… talking thing?” 

He’s helpless. 

Emma flashes a smile that could probably power a small grid. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises tonight.”

“Right…” Paul nods. He spares a passing glance at you, an afterthought to his attraction to Emma. “Surprises. That’s… good?”

You’re witnessing what can only be described as the world’s most awkward mating dance… if mating dances involved this much uncertainty about whether anyone wants to be actually participating. 

Emma’s radiating pheromones. “I like your tie.” She reaches out, feeling the fabric beneath her fingers.

Paul’s entire face turns an embarrassing shade of red. “Thanks. It’s, uh… my grandpa’s.”

“Vintage,” Emma hums solemnly. “Very nice.”

You’re so absorbed in this exchange that you almost miss Blue Tie Guy’s approach, an expression of friendliness on his face that means he’s been psyching himself up for this interaction for the past five minutes you’ve stood there. 

Why the fuck did you wear this red dress again?

“I’m Steve,” he says, extending his hand.

You accept his handshake against your better judgment. This wasn’t exactly penciled into tonight’s agenda, which had primarily consisted of avoid making eye contact with anyone who might expect conversation.

“[Y/N],” you respond, and Steve grins, teeth on full display. He definitely had braces in middle school. Professional teeth whitening too. 

Theoretically, he seems charming. Steve (Rest in Peace, Blue Tie Guy) is objectively attractive. He definitely photographs well at family events. 

But the problem is your brain has apparently decided that a pleasant conversation with an attractive stranger falls somewhere below a voluntary root canal on a list of things you want to do tonight. 

“So what do you do for work?” 

Oh sweet, sweet Steve. 

Any man who’s gotten laid before knows no woman wants to talk about work. They want to talk about anything but deadlines, their coworkers, and their boss. 

“Correspondent.” 

That’ll be all for tonight, folks. 

It’s pretty clear he’s Paul’s plus-one, and while you also were afforded the luxury of bringing one, you didn’t really have anyone. Rosalie left mid-week on another voyage with her Daddy, and you were honestly still a little weird with her after your last conversation. 

“Oh, cool. I work in private equity not too far from here.” He tilts his body into you, body language sending you all the signals. Steve puffs out his chest a little, like that’s supposed to have you begging him to bend you over the dessert table. 

“That’s nice,” you tightly smile. “How long you been in D.C?” 

And then your mind drifts off to your cozy little apartment. He’s definitely making sounds, mouth moving with hand gestures involved but you’ve completely dissociated into the land of face masks and Netflix.  

You catch fragments of it: best opportunities in private equity are where the politicians are, passionate about bridging the gap between financial institutions and government (yawn), all the ex-New Yorkers are moving out here (fake news).

You nod politely, ignoring how barren your glass seems now that you’re talking to someone who isn’t Emma. 

“I just think your job is really cool, like, how politics is evolving. Like the digital landscape is changing everything, you know?” 

He has the energy of a paper towel. Like the inside of a dentist’s office. Your brain has started playing elevator music. 

He smiles, pleased with himself as if he thinks he just said something incredibly profound. 

Glancing down at your glass, you stare at the melting ice. Still empty. Fantastic. “Yeah, totally.”

“Paul said you work with him at CNN?” Steve’s eyes light up. 

You shake your head agreeably. You don’t really know when they exchanged information about you but you don’t really want to ask. 

“That’s so cool,” he rushes to say, “I was actually talking to someone at Politico the other day about all this. It’s just like.. your work is so important.”

Damn you, Jenna. This is exactly what you had nightmares about. 

If you’re running right on schedule, the Reuters editor should be appearing at any minute now to perform a drunken rendition of WAP, exclusively singing Cardi B’s verse. 

You open your mouth to say something bitter but close it again. You’re almost certain he’s trying to sleep with you, which is fine, you guess, but you really just want to go home at an acceptable hour. 

You offer a polite smile and nod again, and that encourages him to continue. You are now being held hostage by a man with the least amount of edge on this forsaken planet. 

“Paul says you’re a killer in press briefings,” he lowers his voice, leaning in. “I’d love to see that sometime.”

“It’s… all on YouTube.”

This topic should be completely irrelevant to you. Who cares? Every press briefing has been filmed since the dawn of time. 

And yet, a flash of a distant memory you tried to bury wanders to the forefront of your brain — Jungkook, planted on those West Wing steps, with a notebook splayed open, laptop playing your section of a press briefing. 

The memory crawls up your spine, leaving behind a shiver that you immediately blame on the air conditioning. 

“Right,” his cheeks flush a little. “No, yeah. I meant like.. In person.”

Please, Steve. We don’t have to do this. 

“Hm,” you utter passively. “Maybe at the next briefing.”

Steve chuckles like you’ve made a joke, even though you absolutely have not. “That’d be so fun,” he says as if you just invited him to Disneyworld. “Do you get called on, or is it random?”

“It’s not a raffle.” 

“Oh, obviously, I didn’t mean it like that,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant it’d be cool to see you in action. I bet it’s intense.” 

It is. It’s cutthroat. You argue with men on the daily, fight to get your question in. But right now, none of those words are making it past the dull throb in your temple or the vodka-less self-awareness happening inside your head. 

You glance down at your cup. It is, without a question, empty. A ghost of ice. 

“Yeah, definitely that.”

Steve leans in, undeterred. “You ever get nervous?”

Is he really flirting via patronization?

You flash a tight smile. “Not really.”

He laughs loudly at that, beaming at you like he just successfully completed a meet-cute you’ll be telling your kids about. 

It’s obvious to you he’s waiting for something. For what, you don’t know. More insight into the wonderful world of journalism? A Linkedin connection? You’re not sure, and you also don’t want to find out. 

“Excuse me,” you say as nicely as you can manage. Most women have gathered this skill by the age of five; learning how to exit conversations with just the bat of their eyelashes to avoid harsh confrontation. “Gonna go grab a refill.”

You wave your empty cup in front of him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that suggests he’ll try and follow you to the bar, use this as some kind of excuse to get you nice and drunk. 

But you’re turning around quicker than he can move, and all you hear behind you is “Cool! I’ll be here!”

Of course you will Steve. 

You glance over your shoulder once you’re a safe distance away, ensuring Emma hasn’t been abducted or listening to NPR with Paul. But nope — there she is, giggling with him like they’ve known each other since birth. Her hand is resting on his bicep, and he looks like he might explode if she doesn't remove it soon. 

This night is absolutely fucking bonkers. 

A red dress is getting you in the worst situations, your coworker is flirting with a man she’s spent years publicly ridiculing, and somewhere in the midst of it all, you feel completely out of place. 

You slam your elbows onto the mahogany and slightly damp surface of the bartop, chin dropping into your palms, social battery exploding in a shower of sparks. 

“Vodka soda, please,” you tell the bartender the second you make eye contact with him. “And a shot. Dealer’s choice. Surprise me.”

You’re feeling dangerously open to possibilities. 

The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods. You don’t particularly care if he serves you tequila or rum or battery acid, but at this point, if it burns going down, it’s doing exactly what you need it to do. 

You let out a deep exhale through your nose. You’re fairly certain you came here with some kind of plan — something involving networking, the word ‘optics’ and liquidating the open bar. But the details have become frustratingly unclear after what feels like several hours trapped in a room with too many floral arrangements. 

The bartender returns, sliding both drinks towards you sympathetically. You contemplate the shot — some yellow liquid, kind of fruity — and decide a sip of your vodka soda to cleanse the palate is probably the best way to go.  

And then you feel it. An unfortunate warmth behind your body, the heat of a person near you. You swear to god, if Steve followed you, you’ll call security—

“Wow,” a voice begins, smooth like honey poured over a knife. “So we’re just letting civilians into press galas these days.”

The sigh that escapes you could probably be heard from space. 

One of your hands, the one not clutching your drink, promptly facepalms. 

“Please don’t start,” you mutter into your palm. “I’m one drink away from faking a fainting spell.”

But then your stomach does that thing again. That ridiculous little drop it did earlier in the night, followed by a flutter that feels suspiciously like anticipation wrapped in nausea. Your rational brain would very much like to blame this on Emma’s nuclear-strength vodka concoction rather than acknowledge it as anything resembling interest. 

That would just be inconvenient, and absolutely not something you’ll process while you’re wearing a red dress that’s already testing your limits. 

You don’t turn around. Some survival instinct within you is warning you that eye contact with the origin of that voice would be the equivalent of staring into a solar eclipse.

Hopefully, if you ignore him long enough, he might dissolve back into whatever corner of the ballroom he emerged from, taking with him the reminder that your body now apparently has formed opinions about him that your brain would like to shut off. 

Apparently, peace was not something the universe promised for you tonight. 

He moves around the bar to claim the space beside you, hips angled and shoulders brushing the air near yours. The dark brown liquid in his cup sloshes as he adjusts to the small centimeters of wiggle room. 

The scent of him hits you in waves — first his drink, all expensive whiskey, followed by his cologne that always smells like bergamot and cedar. It’s familiar. Nice. 

You stare down into your own drink and the untouched shot that’s sitting beside you, mocking you. 

“Didn’t peg you for a vodka soda girl,” Jungkook observes. His rings catch the lighting as he raises his own glass. Your eyes stay locked on them. “Figured you were more of a dry martini, twist-of-lemon kinda girl.” 

You refuse to grant him the satisfaction of eye contact. “I don’t want to be perceived tonight. Somehow I feel like ordering that kind of drink is asking for it.” 

He laughs, and the pit in your stomach drops even further you’re certain it’s on the marble floors. “Ah. Hiding in plain sight during this event? Classic CIA. You sure you not a narc?”

You finally turn your head to look over at him. Naturally, he’s already intently looking back. 

His chin is tilted, a little curve playing at the corners of his mouth. His hair is disheveled, top strands doing interesting things near his temples. 

His lips —and wow, your observational skills have apparently decided to become deeply unprofessional tonight— are glossy, something that normally happens when someone’s spent the night drinking liquor. A flush washes over his cheekbones, and you take a peek at the scar you noticed the other day on his cheek. 

You briefly wonder where he got it from. 

“You’re staring.” 

You blink. He is insane. You are not. 

“I’m assessing,” you correct, taking what you can only hope looks like a casual sip of your drink. 

“Assessing what, exactly?” 

My escape route, you think, but instead say, “Whether you’re drunk enough for me to win an argument.” 

His laugh is easier this time. “Not even close. You’ll have to rely on insults other than my appearance or work ethic tonight.”

“Damn,” you mumble, peering into your glass. Somehow, despite yourself, you barely notice you’re almost smiling. “There goes my strategy.” 

“Ah, I’ve missed this,” he begins. “You, snapping at me. The thrill of not knowing if I’ll make it out of the room alive.”

You arch a brow. “You’re a masochist.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like watching you be better than everyone else in the room.”

That lands in your chest like a dropped weight. Just drops right into your ribcage and sits there. Did everyone in the room inhale laughing gas before you got here?

But he doesn’t let it sit there too long for you to overthink it. “I mean, not that the bar’s high,” he adds, “Half of any briefing room’s asleep on their feet.”

“Don’t.” you warn, lifting your drink to your lips. You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking him not to do. Don’t be nice? Don’t notice things? 

He continues on, eyes twinkling, “With Monroe out, I haven’t even gotten a chance to try and give you a run for your money.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “She’s out sick, not dead.”

“Right. The flu.. Or the plague. Whatever it was.”

“She’ll be back by Monday.” You roll your eyes. “And if not, I’ve got about twenty pages of questions I’m emailing her way.” 

“Mm.” The sound rumbles in his throat as he swirls his drink, and your eyes can’t help but flicker down to his rolled-up cufflinks, his tattoos peeking out underneath. “True.”

A pause unfurls between you two, and you want to crawl under the bar and die. 

“You know..” he says casually. “I thought you'd been avoiding me this week. Which would be adorable, if you weren’t so obvious about it.” 

Literally what on earth is he talking about? The only reason you haven’t run into him is because your only shared project is out on indefinite leave due to the plague. 

You chuckle uninterestedly at that. “Avoiding you implies I think about you long enough to plan my schedule around you.” 

“Right,” Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours, and you immediately fidget with the straw in your drink. “So, you not coming into the Fox room once this week to ask about any new updates to the student visa crisis..”

“Got my own intel.” 

“Didn’t show up at happy hour on Thursday to make fun of my new piece?”

“Calendar management. I had better things to do.” 

His smile unfolds slowly. “Of course. My bad.” 

Your brows pinch before you can stop them. A soundless what leaves from your parted lips. There’s a lag in your brain, like someone forgot to hit play again, and you just… stand there, Processing. 

What you thought was just fortunate coincidences was apparently strategic hiding tactics. You weren’t doing it on purpose, not one bit. It’s not like you sat down with your calendar and a red pen, plotting routes that would minimize Jungkook encounters. But now that he’s pointed it out, you’re forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that your body has been making decisions about your proximity to him before your brain can. 

You do your best to puff your chest out. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he quips, but his eyes suggest otherwise. Suggest, unfortunately, that he’s been doing his own study on you and reached some conclusions he will indeed be sharing. 

“Well, clearly, you have been.” You take another sip of your drink, hardly noticing you’re down to your final few sips. 

“Every time I look around lately, I don’t see you or hear your little opinions. It’s hard to miss.” The smile on his face imprints deeper into his skin. 

You snort, placing your drink down. “Congrats, you’ve finally scared me off.” 

“Oh come on,” he leans in, far past your comfort zone, and now you’re inhaling too much of him and your head is slightly spinning. “You’re not that easy to scare. I’d know.”

“Really?” you scoff incredulously. “You’d know?”

“I would,” he tuts, bumping his shoulder with yours. You move your body an inch farther away. 

“I guess it’s not all that weird you think that,” you agree, letting your gaze wander the overstuffed ballroom before landing back on him. “You are practically studying me.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and that pit in your stomach returns when you realize how big his biceps look from this angle. “Studying you?”

“Steps of the West Wing ring any bells? My voice echoing out into the universe, your notebook wide open..?”

The image burns into the crevices of your brain. And now that you’re rehashing it out loud, you’re admitting something incredibly mortifying. Him, sat upon the steps in the sunlight, has been haunting the halls of your mind like an uninvited guest. 

He has the audacity to smile like this is some charming story you’ll share at the holiday party this year. “Ah,” he shifts his weight onto his other foot. “That.”

“Yes, that,” you echo drily. “Care to explain? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to copy me for the next press briefing.” 

There’s a flicker of amusement that appears on his features — mixed in with surprise or appreciation for the directness of your words. Like he wasn’t expecting you to address it head-on, which makes you wonder what kind of avoidant people he usually deals with. 

“You want the truth?” He ducks his head towards you, looking around like he’s about to impart the president’s nuclear codes.

“Is that even possible coming from you?” Your pointer finger jabs into his chest. Truthfully, both the alcohol and the way your head is reeling from the proximity of him have the move lacking any real punch, but it still leaves you a little bewildered. 

His laugh comes softer this time. Beneath your finger, the muscles are hard and his heartbeat stable. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve put your palm over an open flame. “I was trying to figure out how you do it.” 

“Do what, exactly?” 

“Make it look effortless.” He gestures vaguely into the open air. “You ask questions that make people tell you things they didn’t plan to reveal. It’s… intriguing.”

You tilt your head and shift your weight onto another heel. A quick glance over your shoulder like maybe someone else heard this too, because surely you didn’t hallucinate whatever the hell just came out of his mouth. 

“So you thought the best approach was to… lurk my stuff? Like a stalker?” 

“When you put it like that, it sounds significantly less charming than I thought it would be.” He takes a final swig of his drink. 

“You’re a fucking freak, Jungkook.” 

His eyes never linger from yours, almost daring you to keep going, like this is some sick, twisted game he enjoys playing every night. 

It feels as if the room is closing in on you. 

“Sounds like it left a bit of an impression on you,” he replies smoothly. 

“Oh I’ve told my therapist allll about it,” you bite back. “Right after we finished unpacking how you got your little paws on Kara Devlin’s quote.”

He pauses for a second before chuckling under his breath. Something involuntary and deeply stupid happens in your chest cavity. You stare down into your melted drink and remind yourself that Jungkook has been unreasonably irritating and easy to look at since you met him eight years ago. None of this is breaking news. 

“So you’re still mad, I’m assuming.” He shakes his head. “Come on, it was nothing. Name of the game. You liked arguing with me before we were paid to do it.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” you deadpan. “You know what really gets me going? Espionage.”

He grins at that, but not with a mean expression. “Same here.”

You side-eye him before turning back to the bartender who’s now juggling 45 drunk orders, “I’m going to need another drink if you’re gonna stand here all night.”

“Make it two,” He downs the rest of the liquid in his cup down his throat and you shift away from him when his elbow brushes against yours.

Emma’s favorite bartender is busy arguing with a New York Times correspondent, so you opt for the girl who seems more interested in texting someone back on her phone than taking your drink order. 

Your mouth parts open to speak when she finally puts her phone down, sauntering over to you while fixing her hair as she spots Jungkook beside you. “Hi, can—”

“Can we get two vodka sodas please?”

He’s far closer than you’d like him to be, warmth radiating off him like a human furnace. Jungkook’s displaced himself behind you — just a smidge, with one hand pressed onto the bar, caging you in — enough for the girl bartender to notice, sigh and nod before pulling up two clean glasses. He’s in your nostrils with that smoky scent of whiskey, in your ears with the hoarseness of his voice. 

God, why is he so close? Why is he standing like that? Why is your skin doing that thing where it feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical outlet?

Please, please let this bartender be the kind of professional who minds her own business. The last thing you need is someone else cataloguing the clear tension crackling between you two like a livewire. 

You fixate on her bartending skills, terrified to acknowledge anything else. He moves behind you again, his other elbow brushing against your back as he puts it somewhere. 

That stupid, treacherous flutter returns. A whole swarm of butterflies or something more like wasps that you immediately begin exterminating mentally. Get away, you absolute pests. 

“Here you go,” she presses her lips in a tight smile as she slides the two drinks towards you both. She takes another moment to eye Jungkook before moving on to her next victim. 

But he’s not looking at her. 

When you turn around to hand him his drink dismissively, he’s staring down at you. “Thanks,” he whispers, taking the glass. 

“Whatever.” 

You whip back around, managing down a few colossal gulps that you’ll remember tomorrow morning as your last ones. A bit of it spills down your neck onto your chest, but all you care about is how it feels going down. 

Setting the glass down, you wipe your mouth and some of the residue with the back of your hand.

When you whip around to make your way back to Emma (and potentially let another lethal comment fall from your lips), you realize Jungkook’s gone. 

No comment lingering in the air like cigar smoke. Gone as if he’d never been there at all. 

You know he was, though, because your whole body still feels like it’s recovering from it. Like standing next to him required physical exertion. 

Somehow your mouth is dry even though you just chugged half a vodka soda. 

You don’t even know why you notice it, or why those wasps in your stomach slowly replace themselves with something else. On the bartop next to you, is the citrusy shot you never ended up taking. It taunts you, condensation melting onto the surface. 

Your eyes dart around, looking wildly. Searching for Emma, duh. But you’re also looking for a sleeve of tattoos that you just spent an abhorrent amount of time with. 

Treason of the highest fucking order.

With that, you swivel back around, wrap your fingers around the shot glass, and down it in one go. It faintly tastes tart, going down like molasses. It’s heavy in your throat and you mash it down with saliva. 

But even with the extra liquor in your body, his absence feels louder in your mind than his presence ever did. 

Four. That’s how many it’s been. 

Four lemon drop shots — because that’s how many Jenna, who has now appointed herself the Chief of Boosting Morale, decided was an appropriate amount. She stopped keeping tally after two. 

After each shot, she says something stupid like “To journalistic integrity!” Declining her felt like admitting defeat in some endurance competition, so you’ve been silently suffering while each shot drags you further and further down the drunk rabbit hole.

Jenna’s husband is too polite to say no to a round so he’s been glued to her side the entire time, whereas Jenna’s arm has been threaded through yours, laughing at something her husband finally contributed to the conversation. Something about a senator using an emoji in a tweet. 

It’s not even that funny, but you’ve reached that point of the night where everything feels a little like a sitcom. 

“Oh my god,” Jenna wheezes, tightening her grip on your arm. “Do you remember when our editor tried to convince us to use ‘yeet’ in a headline?”

You snort into your fifth vodka soda (or is the sixth?), barely dodging a splash up the rim. “No. No. I blocked it out like a traumatic memory.”

“He said it meant to throw??”

“It does mean to throw!” Her husband interjects. 

“Yeah, but the headline was about the debt ceiling,” you giggle. 

Jenna’s husband chuckles politely while his eyes scan the room, probably wondering when it’s socially acceptable to go home and watch a movie.

Jenna is in a very rare form. She’s always put-together, but tonight her dress is perfectly tailored, makeup hasn’t budged an inch, and her nails are a crimson red to match her lipstick.

Tonight, you’re incredibly grateful for her. Grateful she came, grateful she’s kept you busy.

You swish what’s left in your glass and blink through the haze. 

It’s starting to hit, that warm syrupy lag behind your thoughts. Liquid confidence that whispers lies about your ability to be graceful and sophisticated. 

“You know, I don’t know how half those pieces fucking run,” Jenna sips her espresso martini. 

“Don’t you just, like, put a stop to them?” You’ve seen her do it before. 

“I physically intercept like a human firewall, yes,” she grins with all her teeth. 

“We all owe you a medal.”

You both erupt into cackles, and her husband — poor, sweet Greg or Grant or whatever he said his name was — offers a little smile as if he has even the slightest clue of what’s going on.

Your gaze drifts across the ballroom, and Jenna follows your line of sight, brows lifting amusedly in recognition. 

“Would you look at that,” she elbows you gently in the ribs. “They’re still talking.”

Emma and Paul. Paul is upright like a soldier, like he doesn’t fully trust his legs to hold up under the pressure of Emma’s approval, while Emma lounges against the dessert table you swore off.

“I give it twenty minutes before she asks something like ‘can I see your Spotify Wrapped?’” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

“Ten,” Jenna counters. “And if she sees any NPR podcasts, she’s bolting.”

“He probably listens to Benson Boone. Gives me that vibe.” 

“Maybe he has layers,” she shrugs, leaning her head lightly against your shoulder. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad you haven’t ditched me for a man.”

You turn your head slowly to meet her expression. “Ew. At this event? Literally not a soul worth my time.”

She breaks into laughter, lifting her head up, "Right, right. How dare I?”

“I would never do you like that,” you clutch your chest dramatically. “Who else am I going to split an uber with later while we trash every senator we saw leave with someone who isn’t their wife?”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “Wait, what?”

She gives you a sly smile over the rim of her glass, “I said what I said.”

It hits a second later, like a stone dropped into a still lake. A single splash, followed by a thousand ripples. Your chest tightens and there’s a flutter of pride making a home in your heart. 

She hasn’t brought it up again since your one-on-one on Monday. Where she may or may not have hinted at you getting the promotion of your dreams. You’ve done an exemplary job of playing it cool ever since. No prying, no follow ups. 

Hearing the word favorite, however, feels like someone pressed a thumb right into your sternum. 

“I’m touched,” you exclaim. “Even if I know you tell that to everyone.”

She scoffs while looping her arm through her husband’s, “Please. You think I say that to Emma?”

“Fair.”

She takes a final swig of her caffeinated martini, a little tipsier than she was earlier. “Just promise you won’t forget me when you get to my role, okay?”

You snort. “Never. But we still gotta Uber together always.”

“Deal.”

Your eyes wander again around the ballroom. Like clockwork, they land where they always do. On that kaleidoscope of tattoos you can’t miss. 

But you don’t look at him or who he’s talking to for too long. Maybe long enough to question your intoxication but as soon as the moment comes, it goes, and you’re back to Jenna, who’s now talking to her husband sweetly. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the two sharpest women in Washington.”

It’s like the universe has a vendetta against you. Did you accidentally trip over a time traveler or steal candy from a baby in a past life?

It’s an overconfident voice you hadn’t heard in a while that sets off an almost Pavlovian reaction in your brain. 

You and Jenna turn in tandem like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Sure enough — and to your detriment — it’s Mike Montgomery. 

Mike is one of the editors you work with, and has the face of someone who’s probably been told he looks like a young Richard Gere and has never once disagreed. He once unironically told you ‘let’s circle back.’

Last year at the gala, you allegedly had a thirty minute conversation with him near the end of the night where the phrase aesthetic fascism in political media kept getting tossed around freely. But who’s to say. Last year was also the year you had tequila sodas instead of vodka sodas so really, the whole universe was off course.  

“Mike,” Jenna starts, tone flat. She doesn’t even fake a smile, which further proves your love for her. “You remember Greg.”

Greg. Right. Yes — her husband. You mentally file that away. 

“Of course,” Mike sticks out his hand. “Man of the hour.”

Greg blinks back at him like he was plucked straight out of his daydream. “Hey.”

Raising your eyebrows, you tease. “Man of the hour?”

Mike shrugs, letting out a little chuckle, “Well anyone who can keep up with Jenna at one of these things deserves a prize right?”

“He’s had some drinks and a shrimp cocktail. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” She pats Greg’s chest lovingly, and that seems to bring him back to life.

Mike laughs loudly at that. He always laughs too loud, like he wants everyone’s attention in the room. 

“So how’s the correspondent life?” he asks, glancing between you and Jenna like he’s forgotten which one of you he’s more afraid of. “Still dealing with the same old bullshit?”

You purse your lips, cross your arms over your chest. “Are you under the impression the bullshit ended?”

“Fair,” he tries to laugh but it comes out more like a cough, “Yeah, I’ve been currently working on a little passion project, something about profiles of influential parties in media. You two came up, obviously.”

A look is exchanged between you and Jenna. You don't remember agreeing to be profiled. 

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah,” he shoves one of his hands into his pocket. “Just really trying to dig into the psyche of the rising class, you know? What drives you, who you look up to.”

Your arms squeeze tighter around your chest. “Sounds like a very healthy exercise.”

Mike smiles at that. You take an extra long sip of your drink and imagine throwing it directly in his face.

Greg, bless him, tries to nod along, although he has no idea who this man is or what series he’s referencing or why Jenna’s throwing daggers with her eyes.

Mike keeps going. “Anyway, just wanted to say hey. You know. Been a while since I edited your stuff.”

“Funny. I’m actually still waiting for the piece you were supposed to factcheck before publishing last May,” Jenna’s smile is poisonous. If looks could kill, he would be floating in a box down the river. 

Mike clears his throat. “Technical error. I think there was a glitch last time..”

“Mmm,” Jenna nods slowly. “Happens to the best.”

Mike readjusts his tie, sensing perhaps this might not be the enthusiastic crowd he’d envisioned. His eyes flit towards you briefly like he’s about to pivot into a new strategy. 

Please, god, let this man go flirt with an intern. 

“So,” he draws out the word for like, four seconds. “I don’t think we ever got to talk. You and me.”

There’s two routes you can go down. Play dumb, which somehow feels like the smarter decision. Or play smart, which feels like the dumber decision. 

“Yup. Tragic that we never spoke.”

Playing dumb it is. 

He bellows out a laugh, like you’ve just made the world’s wittiest joke instead of insulting him. 

“I always read your work,” he clarifies. “Your coverage during the midterm elections was really impressive.”

You glance over at Jenna, whose lips are now pressed together like she's trying to restrain herself from intervening. Meanwhile Greg (and you will not forget his name this time), has spotted someone he knows but is trying to find the courage to approach them. 

“That’s… nice.” You’re unsure what else to offer up. You can’t tell if he’s flirting or awkwardly trying to send you journalistic admiration. 

Mike’s lips stretch wider. “I get it, you know? Women like you don’t always get credit, but for what it’s worth, you’re one of the best out there.”

You nod, already looking past his shoulder at the crowd. Your drink is also damn near empty, and that simply won’t do. Time for drink six (or is it seven?). “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

He leans into you, “If you ever wanna talk shop.. Or, you know.. not shop.”

He’s so goddamn insufferable. 

You frown, not because you’re offended but because you literally have no comprehension right now. “Not shop?”

“Yeah, like… not about work?”

“Oh. Uh..” you blink, glance down at your drink, and then look back into his eager eyes. “I think I’m good.”

A long pause fills the air. Long enough for Mike to register the rejection, though he recovers fast, snapping back into a cocky grin like nothing demoralizing happened. 

“Open invite,” he says with a wink that makes your molars grind. “In case you change your mind.”

You hum noncommittally before angling back towards Jenna, who has a brow raised and a husband who’s gone from her sight. 

Jenna inquires, “You didn’t clock that?”

“Clock what?” You shrug your shoulders, scrambling for nonchalance. 

She shakes her head, smiling to herself, “Nothing. You’re still my favorite.”

And that makes you feel better than anything Mike could've said. 

“Alright, I’ve gotta get a refill before I lose my mind.” You shake your drink at her like it’s going to magically refill itself. 

"I've gotta go find Greg,” she sighs. “Text me when you’re down to leave?”

“Duh.” You flash her a salute, then pivot toward the bar, slipping back into the current of people. You nearly step in a puddle of what you hope is someone’s spilled gin and not a gastrointestinal emergency. 

You snake your way forward, elbow grazing someone’s sequined bag, catching the edge of someone’s shoulder and finally land in a spot wedged between a man in a tux and a woman who shoveled a half-eaten shrimp into a napkin. 

“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender when she makes brief eye contact, and you lean your forearms on the table. The bartop is sticky again. 

You haven't checked your phone all night. Part of it was intentional. Nothing good happens on your phone at events like this. Nothing you want to deal with, anyway. 

But you’ve got a few minutes while your drink’s being made and your feet kind of hurt and you’re incredibly tipsy and suddenly the soft glow of your phone screen feels too tempting to ignore. 

So you dig into your purse. Pull out your device. 

When your phone boots to life, you lazily scroll through the notifications. A few texts from your college group chat. Texts from Emma asking ‘where are you??’ even though you’re maybe 50 feet away from her. You snort under your breath. 

And then, below that, a message from Rosalie. 

Rosalie❤️: hey, did jungkook ever say anything abt me?? dmed him when i was drunk and never heard back :( lol 

You stare at the screen like it’s displaying launch codes in a foreign language. 

There’s this erratic rhythm tugging at your heart, like someone’s tapping impatiently against your ribcage. 

It’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine. Who cares about Rosalie’s romantic DMs or her apparent inability to handle rejection with grace? You could have predicted this development from three miles away, honestly. Rosalie drunk texting someone tracks with her pattern of impulsive behavior. 

But.. you are curious. That’s all. Curiosity is a natural human reflex. 

Why would she message him despite your entirely fictional narrative about STDs? And why, more importantly, do you find yourself genuinely invested as to why he didn’t respond to her?

You lock your phone and shove it back into your purse. 

“Vodka soda,” the bartender slides the drink towards you and you grip onto it like a life raft. 

You barely get a full step away from the bar before that voice — his voice — is haunting your ears again. 

“Careful. You keep showing up at my favorite spot in the room, people are gonna start talking.”

Mid-step, you pause and inhale once through your nose like you’re gathering patience from thin air. 

Slowly, you swivel to meet his eyes. His tie is long gone, brown hair even more unkempt from when you last saw him. You lean back against the bar with all the theatrical grace of someone who’s had four, maybe five, lemon drop shots and has decided, for once in her life, not to flee when Jungkook starts speaking to you. 

God will strike you down for this. You can feel the lightning forming. But whatever, you’ve had a long week. You’ll repent tomorrow. 

“Are you gonna sneak up on me all night?” you ask flatly, raising your glass to your lips. You’re not even going to try and hide the exhaustion in your tone. 

“Potentially,” he takes a step closer. “Everyone here’s boring.”

You cock a brow. “What? No one here worth your time?”

He tips his glass a little, watching the ice swirl. The liquid is clear. It looks unusually familiar… like a vodka soda. You wonder if it’s the same one from an hour ago or if he ordered one on his own merit. “Nah, you know I like to be intellectually stimulated.”

Your laugh comes out dry. “Oh, so I stimulate you?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. They’re darker despite the hue of the chandelier you’re standing under. “In more ways than one.”

“You’re fucking gross.”

“Mm,” he hums, and it’s definitely not an apology, but moreso an acknowledgement. Like he’s well aware of the filth he peddles and would sell it to you wholesale if you gave him the chance.  “You set that one up.”

“Did not.”

He takes another step closer. The man that was beside you earlier has fled the scene, and Jungkook wedges himself into the open spot. When did it get so crowded in here? 

“Did too.” His fingers tap lazily against his glass. “You know, you always act like conversation with me is a federal offense.”

You roll your eyes. “Because every conversation with you is like stepping into quicksand.”

“You haven’t left me yet, so am I winning?” His eyes are twinkling with amusement. 

Scoffing, you deflect. Deny. “I’m tipsy. I make bad decisions when I’m tipsy.”

“Noted.” His gaze flickers down to your mouth for a millisecond. The gesture lands somewhere in your stomach, sending an embarrassing, vodka-amplified flutter cascading through your body. 

God, you need a priest. Or someone to physically remove you from this ballroom. 

“I saw you talking to Mike earlier,” Jungkook casually says, like he’s commenting on something trivial like the weather or whether or not vodka sodas are his new go-to drink. 

You groan immediately. “God, don’t remind me.”

“That bad?” His lips twitch as he settles his glass on the bartop.

“He tried to flirt with me, I think. According to Jenna.” You want to mentally facepalm at the memory. 

“Mike?”

You give him a look. “Yes, Mike.”

Jungkook whistles softly, shaking his head as if this is genuinely a tragedy. “Wow. I always thought his type was more fresh out of college and terrified.”

“It probably is,” you agree. “I thought maybe he was doing community service.”

“Hmm,” he looks deep in thought. Surveys the room for a beat. “What did you mean by according to Jenna?”

You shrug, lifting your glass to your lips to take a quick sip. “I don’t know. She caught onto the flirting before I did, I guess.”

“Oh.” His expression shifts a little, into one you can't make out. After knowing Jungkook for eight years, you’ve gotten familiar with the faces he has. But this one is unrecognizable. “You always that clueless?” 

“I guess,” you concede. He looks like he wants to say something more to that but decides against it. 

“So, what did he say?” 

“Something about how we never really speak, which is just rich coming from him considering we had a long ass conversation at last year’s gala about fascism.”

Jungkook chokes on his spit. “No.”

“Oh yes,” you nod solemnly. “He also pronounces Kremlin as Krim-lin. I rest my case on him.”

You expect him to chuckle or at least fake one, but it doesn’t come. He looks at you for a second, drinking you in. It almost feels like you’re back on the steps of the West Wing, where he was seeing every part of yourself you bore to the world. Like he’s been listening this whole time, which is somehow worse. 

“You’re funny when you’re off-duty,” He smiles into his glass. 

“When am I ever off-duty?”

“Right now,” he gestures toward you with his cup. “Sort of.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think this is me relaxed?”

“I think this is you after a few shots,” he jokes. “And slightly less terrified of being seen with me in public.” 

“Bold assumption, buddy,” you quip. You need to find your sanity and walk far away as hell from this conversation. 

“Is it wrong?”

You hesitate long enough for that to be a confession, and the look on his face says I win. 

“Exactly.” And there’s that smug tone you know so well. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You let something between a snort and laugh fall from your mouth. “Like a tumor.”

But the smile you’re biting back makes it a little harder to sell the insult. 

You clear your throat and straighten up slightly, ignoring how the vodka seems to have settled in your bloodstream like a warm compress. 

“Anyway,” you say, “How’s your coverage going for Monroe?”

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. “Pivoting? And to Monroe?”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk about how you think I’m growing on you.” 

Jungkook’s smile could light up half of DC. “You started it.”

“Ending it right now.” 

“You always think you’re the one ending things,” he counters. 

You shoot him a look, then echo louder this time “How’s your coverage going?”

He leans an elbow onto the bar, glass resting loosely between his fingers. “Good. Bet you’re dying to talk to her again, though.”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending to scan the room like you’re searching for someone — Emma, Jenna, literally even Blue Tie Guy at this point — but all you really find are name tags you don’t care about and plates of passed shrimp. 

“Not my fault she came down with that rare plague. But it is weird she came down with it just after we had our first session with her,” you mutter. 

“You sound disappointed,” he points out. To be honest, you are. She has a hell of a story to tell and you want to write it. 

You glance at him again. “What?” 

“You miss her,” he coos at you playfully, “Now admit you miss me too. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

You roll your eyes, using the motion to buy yourself a few seconds of mental reorganization. “I miss being able to ask real questions.”

He nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the glass. “Yeah. You're good at those.”

You gape at him through your lashes. They’re just words that are perfectly arranged in an ordinary sequence that just so happens to reference your competence. But now it’s one time too many that he’s praised you for something, and you're running out of fingers and toes to count on.

It lands in your chest with a quiet thud, like he tossed a coin into a wishing well you didn't realize was inside you. 

You shift your weight and conduct another sweep of the ballroom. Still no Emma, no Jenna. 

“I really should find Emma..” you trail off, eyes darting across the room like a prisoner looking for a fire escape. “Before I start enjoying this conversation and lose all sense of who I am.”

Jungkook leans into your body. His cologne hits you again square in the face. “That would be tragic… if you forgot you hated me.”

You clench your jaw. “Please. I don’t hate you, that’s too much energy. I just think you’re—”

“Objectively infuriating?” he offers. 

“Exhausting.”

“Better than forgettable,” he smirks. 

You grip your near empty cup and wish you had something better to throw at him. Or honestly, something else to look at — something that doesn’t talk like him, look like him, smell like him. 

And as you’re searching in your repertoire for that something, your brain decides to shove Rosalie into frame. 

Her text. That stupid little ‘lol.’ The digital ghost of her face.

The alcohol in your body is doing that unfortunate thing where your filter stops working but your nerve hasn’t quite kicked in yet. And his cologne — Jesus, it’s warping your actual brain chemistry, 

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt the words out. “Have you.. heard from Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” He cocks his head, scratches his jaw. 

You shake your head up and down, suddenly extremely interested in the ice melting in your cup. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Slow furrow of his brows. “Rosalie from college?” 

You aim to keep your expression cool but your stomach does something distinctly uncool. Like a fish flopping on the deck. “The one and only.”

Jungkook blinks at you. His body is still, but his face guards itself. He’s squinting as if he’s scanning you for the motive behind your question. 

You hate how well he reads people. You hate that he’s doing it to you right now.

“Why?” he treads lightly.

You shake your head quickly, “Just tell me.”

He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to you both this isn’t a nothing question. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, “She reached out to me.”

Your throat goes uncharacteristically dry. 

The lightness from before — his little jabs, the crooked smile — it’s all taut now. Like he’s waiting to see what this really is. You also would like to know what this is. 

You scramble for a reason, anything to make this make sense outloud.

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with one of the bracelets on your wrist. “She’s my best friend,” you shrug like it’s no big deal. “She tells me everything.”

He flinches subtly, a brief twitch in his jaw. “Well,” he utters finally. “I didn’t answer her. If that’s what you want to know.”

And that is when your chest does the thing again. 

It’s an awful, disloyal twist. It heard the words and immediately reached for them, clutching at some fragile thread of relief you didn’t place there.

You inhale, trying to drown it back down. The thump thump of your heart, the tiny voice in your conscious going, good. 

The wasps are back too. Buzzing and furious and unavoidable, even as you swipe at them with your mental fly swatter, one by one. 

You feel regrettably stupid. Now you’re standing there, tipsy and humiliated and flinching at your own internal reaction like a girl in some cheap romance novel where the brooding rival turns out to be a chill dude and your panties fall off in chapter eight. 

No thank you. Not today. You are a professional, a fully grown woman with access to two-factor authentication and press credentials.

You do not feel things when Jungkook says things like “I didn’t answer her.”

Though, clearly you’re having trouble leaving it alone. Clearly, that little skill of yours of asking the right questions — the one people applaud, the one Jungkook complimented an hour or two ago — has decided to clock in right now, under a chandelier and several ounces of vodka. 

You meet his eyes even though your gut is screaming don’t, and say, “Why didn't you respond?”

Air leaves his lungs, barely. His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. One flicker of thought behind his eyes before he smoothes it all back out. 

The silence looms over you two like an unsuspecting fog. Your stomach starts writing its own obituary. 

You’re about to take it back, about to say never mind ha ha silly me asking about your DMs, when he finally responds with, “She’s not who I’m interested in.”

There’s a hiccup in your brain. Like someone pulled the emergency brake on the subway and your neurons are just stuck, powering down and firing blanks.

She’s not who I’m interested in. 

You don’t dare blink, breathe, or even think, which is crazy because thinking is your whole personality. His pupils practically eat up his entire eye as he peers down at you, 

A whole rolodex of faces spins through your head. Maybe someone new started at Fox? There was that blonde you passed in the cafeteria, maybe that’s his type. Or maybe… maybe he made a move on Sana tonight. He and her always had that weird click, right? They have matching resumes, wouldn’t that just be poetic? Full circle and all that.

Your voice is crawling up your throat again, forming something stupid like oh yeah? Who’s someone you’re interested in? Because apparently vodka and lemon drop shots have taken control of your frontal lobe and are now driving the bus.

But before the words can land, there’s a blur of movement from your left. 

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Emma materializes beside you in a cloud of perfume, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. 

Your neck whips to her. “Jesus.” 

She latches onto your arm immediately. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she’s breathless. “Did you die? Be honest.”

“I was just —” You flick a glance at Jungkook and regret it upon impact. 

Emma doesn’t notice or care, undoubtedly in a bubble of her own. “Ugh, I have so much to tell you, I feel like I’ve been living a double life tonight.”

Right, and that’s cool and all. But your body is still humming, tingling under your skin as if someone left a speaker buzzing in your chest. She’s not who I’m interested in. 

Your brain is dying to ask then who the fuck is?

Emma’s too busy blabbering away to care about any of it; your facial expression, Jungkook’s eyes that haven’t moved from you, the way your hands are slightly trembling as they hang loosely down at your side. “Okay, I know I’ve ignored him for the past few years but Paul is actually so funny. He told me this story earlier about his dog and I was crying. Literally crying. I’m just like, why have I never given this man the time of day—”

She pauses suddenly, looks over at Jungkook. Freezes mid-sentence like she just saw a coworker she drunkenly sexted. 

“...Well.” Her voice drops multiple octaves. “Whatever.”

Words aren’t coming to you as easily as you’d like. 

Emnma clears her throat, forcing her gaze back to you. “Anyway. You’ve been summoned.”

“For what?” you question, but your voice comes out thinner than when you practiced it in your head. 

“Afterparty,” a sinister smile makes its way onto her lips. “Duh. Do you not realize what time it is?”

“No, Emma,” you bite back. “You don’t realize what time it is because you’ve spent the past few hours eye-fucking Paul.”

Emma shrugs. “Okay and? I told you, he’s kinda funny.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. 

“And he also knows about the current crisis in Venezuela,” she adds proudly, like that qualifies him for marriage. “Which is honestly more than I can say for half the men I’ve dated.”

You sigh. “I’m not going to an afterparty.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Emma—”

“You owe me. For that night.”

You do actually owe her. That night a few months ago, where you went home with that random guy, she went home alone and buried her face in a Dominos pizza while you had mediocre sex. 

Your body is already 40% vodka and 60% bad decisions, and you’re hovering alarmingly close to making another one—

She turns to Jungkook. “You’re coming too, right?”

You whip your head toward her. You absolute fucking traitor, Emma. 

Jungkook’s grin is so infuriatingly cheerful that you’re torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth or seeking refuge behind the bar, anything to avoid that smile.

“I mean…” he replies. “If she’s going..”

Why are you the deciding factor in all of this?

Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s going.”

“I really wasn’t—” you start, but then realize they’re making eye contact over your shoulder like they’ve coordinated to ruin your night. 

“I’ll… see you there?” Jungkook asks, shooting Emma a look you don’t miss.

You can't help but daydream about what it’d be like to toss all your worries out the window, party like there’s no tomorrow, drown yourself in whatever booze is lying around the afterparty, and wake up to the faint memory of a random hookup who’s definitely ghosting you before you even finish your breakfast. 

You, a tipsy bundle of bad decisions, look at Jungkook — his hair a windswept disaster, eyes twinkling like he's just heard the world's worst joke, and those tattoos dancing on his golden skin — and as tempting as it is, you remind yourself you really should just say no and sprint away from this mess, while dreaming of a life where the world isn’t dragging you down like an anchor in a swimming pool. 

But… you have always been dangerously open to possibilities after a few shots. 

You drain the rest of your drink and go, “I’ll see you there.”

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

[tokyosnowd]

[Love&Deepspace 21+, Sylus]

{Sylus would definitely..}

Sylus would definitely like rough, intense sex. The tension, the aggression, the build up, he loves every part of it. Bringing you to the highest of highs that you have ever experienced. So high that you wouldn’t even know where it ended and where the next one began. He would hold you down at first and force you to take everything that he is willing to give. You would fight and shift and squirm under him as you would start to burn from the stretch . Silent gasps and soft cries would fall from your mouth but that would only spur him on even more. His eyes watching your face shift from discomfort to pure bliss when you finally allow your body to feel. As many times as you need to, until you’re ready to set your own pace. And he would read that loud and clear.

Sylus would definitely lie back and allow his eyes to slowly peruse the plains of your shivering body as you struggle to take him all. You’d have to plant your feet below you, bite the inside of your lip to keep from moaning, and press your hands down on his thighs for stability. His skin scorching to the touch, your palms burn as well. He’d watch the way you struggle to take him at this angle. His cock sliding in and out of you on full view only for him to see. Face contorting from the searing hot pain of being stretched to mind blowing, body shaking pleasure soon after. Too embarrassed to even open your eyes because of how exposed you feel to him, but don’t worry.

Sylus would definitely encourage you. He would tell you to keep going in a tone that’s so tooth-achingly sweet . It’ll ooze out like honey. That it almost sounds patronizing and every time he spoke you would tense up in reaction to the silkiness of his voice. But you would listen to his words nonetheless. Because something about the words he uses and the tone that he says them in seems almost unbearable. The way your name would fall from his mouth like it was a prayer or maybe it was the way he would praise you in such a way that you clit would throb. To the point where even you would even find it frustrating to even move and Sylus knew it all too well.

Sylus would definitely change his tone to what seemed like a purr, intentionally. You’d make a measly attempt to fight against his voice considering it’s your weakness and still, predictably, surrender to it. Or maybe it’s the things he says. While he encourages you vulgar words would slip from his mouth, adding more fire to your belly. You cunt squeezing him like a vice as he aids you. The words that are slipping past his lips are so foul that you almost want to cover his mouth with your hand. To surrender to the way he makes you feel, to the way your pupils dilate, to the way your chest rises and fall, and to the way your legs buckle. And he knows this all too well but don’t be mistaken, Sylus isn’t a brute by any means of the word. He isn’t a monster or a big terrifying beast that paints himself in his victims blood. He will charm, use his silky voice, beg, even, or plead to get you to open up as you fight against your inhibitions. Knowing deep down you’ve been wanting this all along.

Sylus would definitely play the role of the villain, and play it remarkably well. Knowing full well that if he does he’d help you bring your deepest, darkest, impurest desires to light. Letting your guard down the more you’re tightly wrapped around him to the point where even you would start to question if this is really for him or you. Maybe you’ve gone too far? Maybe this has gone too far? But don’t second guess yourself.

Sylus would definitely reaffirm that this hasn’t gone far enough in fact. He would push it an extra step further by stripping himself just as you did in return. Exposing his impurest of fantasies. You’d find yourself on your back with whiplash as he presses himself against you. Pressing himself deep inside you until you feel like it’s getting harder to breathe. Until it’s almost too much for you to bear and your eyes start to gloss over. Your hands would press against his sides desperately, your nails scratching at his skin as you practically milk him dry.

Sylus would definitely bring you to the edge and push you over into the awaiting chasm below again and again to drive home the belief that your darkest urges are normal. He encourages that and will show it by throwing himself off the edge with you as many times as it takes to get you to believe it too. You both will be exhausted, tired and sweating by the time the night ends but it’ll all be worth it. Sylus would put your needs and wants before his own because he cares.

Sylus would definitely clean your sensitive, sweat covered body and tell you how well you did. Pressing soft, gentle kisses as he goes and tucks you into bed after, making sure you’re comfortable and not in any pain. He’d study your face and body language, without you knowing while he’s tidying up the mess you both made. And by the time the lights turn off you would be curled up by his side as he talks you through your raw, unfiltered feelings.

Sylus would definitely caress your scalp and play in your hair until you slowly notice how heavy your body’s grown. And if, by chance, anxiety rears its ugly head Sylus would talk to you through the whole night if need be. You two would babble about random nonsense and bring up spontaneous thoughts. Until your heart is at ease, until sleep makes its appearance and you dose off snuggled up to his chest. Listening to his heart beat as you drift away for the night. Sylus will be there holding you tight and secure because that’s what Sylus would definitely do.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ ｐｌｅａｓｅ ｍｅ ♡

♡ Pairing: drug dealer!wooyoung x good girl!chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: fluff/smut/playful enemies to lovers

♡ Summary: If there's one thing you've learned from having a criminal as a step brother it's this: Never, under any circumstance, get involved with a guy like him. It's messy, it's risky, and it almost always ends in tears. It's the #1 reason you've pushed Wooyoung away for so long but sadly for you he's sickeningly handsome and painfully persistent. A combination that was bound to break you down and today's the day.

♡ Word Count: 3.7k

♡ Warnings: san's your step brother (only mentioned), wooyoung's a criminal but a cute one, heavily tattooed woo, he low key/high key worships reader's body, kissing, oral sex (f receiving, reader's first time actually), fingering, a lil handjob, scratching, unprotected sex, a lil rough sex, cock riding, choking, creampie, pet names (baby, princess).

♡ A/N: Hello, my darlings. For whatever reason (he's super fucking hot) I've had a thing for Wooyoung lately. I'm also such a sucker for a criminal/mafia/etc boy who's super soft for reader and that's how we ended up here. As always, if you end up reading this I hope you have fun with it my loves. xoxo

The perfect sunny day. You’ve been waiting months for the weather to break and finally you’ve been blessed with one. Refusing to waste it, you’ve been relaxing by the pool all day. Occasionally you’ll take a dip, letting the cool sparkling blue waters wash over you, but mostly you’ve been right where you are now. Spread out on a lounge chair, your earphones blaring your favorite song as the sun sprinkles its rays across your soft skin. 

This is the most peace you’ve had in a long time and the preciousness of it isn’t lost on you. At any second your stepbrother and his “business associates” could charge through the front door, bringing chaos and bloodshed with them, but you try not to think about it. For now this sprawling villa is all yours and nothing can take that from you. Well, almost nothing. 

“What are you doing out here, kid?” Wooyoung asks, staring down at you through a pair of dark tinted sunglasses. 

With your eyes closed, you hum along to the music, blissfully unaware of his existence. Wooyoung takes a long look at you, his gaze scanning you from head to toe. In all the years he’s worked for your stepbrother not once has he missed an opportunity to observe your beauty and this is the opportunity of a lifetime to say the least. He prides himself as being a man who bows to no one but he’d get down on his knees just to beg for one nibble at that plush figure of yours. 

Pushing his glasses back to the top of his head, he leans in closer to that pretty face and shouts, “You should really be more aware of your surroundings!”

His breath skims your cheek and you open your eyes only to see the shadow of a man, his features obscured by the sun. “Aah, shit!” you scream, scrambling out of the chair and nearly falling as you do. 

Wooyoung cackles, reaching out to you in a half hearted attempt to offer some comfort. “It’s okay! It’s me!”

You snatch your earbuds out, your eyes adjusting to the brightness as you begin to make out who it is in front of you. “Woo?” you squint, “You son of a bitch! What’s wrong with you?” 

“Wait, I’m sorry!” he apologizes but you’re already raining slaps down upon him. Using the duffle bag in his hand, he holds it up, blocking a few of your hits. 

You maneuver around it, landing a half dozen more hits before you tire yourself out. “You don’t sneak up on people like that! You almost gave me a heart attack!” 

“I said I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to scare you, honestly. Come here, let’s make up” Woo opens his arms, approaching you for a hug and, as always, you shove him away. The rejection doesn’t even sting anymore, he just takes it as a part of your charm.

Eyeing the hefty bag in his hand, you fold your arms across your chest, eager to get him out of your hair. “Tell me what you want. Quickly.” 

“Well, I have this delivery…”

You throw a hand over his mouth, refusing to hear another word. The less you know the better. “San’s not here so you can go. Thank you. Goodbye.” 

With that you ease back down into your chair, ready to carry on with your day like this never happened, but Wooyoung’s not giving up so easily. Part of you knew he wouldn’t. 

Wooyoung scoffs, his tongue poking his cheek, “You know I can’t do that. Today’s the drop off date and I don’t miss my dates, not for anyone. Not even you, princess. So here…”

He holds the bag out to you and you shoo it away. The only thing worse than knowing what’s in that thing is having your fingerprints all over it. “Fine, I’ll show you where to leave it but get that thing away from me and don’t call me ‘princess’, got it?” 

You get up with a huff, pushing past him and storming towards the house. Wooyoung takes his time, lingering behind for as long as he can, too stunned by this perfect view of you from behind to move.

“So…” he says when he's finally caught up to you, “How’s work?”

“Fine” you snap, navigating the halls with little care for if he can keep up. 

“You still best friends with that girl, uh, Charlotte?”

“Scarlet and yeah, still friends.”

“How about your little boyfriend?” 

His mocking tone makes you roll your eyes and you throw back a sharp look at him as you turn down a hall lined with sleek, black doors. “Broke up.”

Wooyoung pouts, hand over his heart, “Ouch, sorry to hear that.” 

He may be offering his condolences but that slick grin on his face says otherwise. Wooyoung’s been trying to get with you for as long as you can remember. You’re far from oblivious to it and for his part Wooyoung’s been far from subtle about it. Being mean to him has done nothing to discourage it but you continue to try, hoping that one day he’ll get the message and back off. It’s not that you don’t like him. The truth is the exact opposite. The crush that Wooyoung has on you is mutual. So mutual that just the sight of him has your stomach in knots. 

With those gorgeous features and that silky dark hair, he’s your every fantasy come true but he’s also trouble. You’ve seen what falling for a guy like that can do to a girl and you refuse to spend your days crying while he rots in a prison cell somewhere. You just weren’t built for it but sometimes when you’re alone and his eyes are on you the way they are now, his gaze hotter than the sun itself, you contemplate letting your inner desires cave to your better judgement. 

Refocusing on the task at hand, you push the thought away. “You can put it in here” you say, opening the door to the guest bedroom. 

Wooyoung steps inside, waiting for you to join him, “You scared to come in or something?” 

“No, I just don’t need to. Closet’s over there.” 

“I’m kinda blind without my glasses. Help me out?”

There’s that smile again, the one that has you melting beneath that cold exterior. Giving in, you walk over to the closet, sliding it open for him. 

“Here.” 

Wooyoung tosses the bag inside and when he does you swipe his glasses away, inspecting them. “I know these aren’t prescription by the way.” 

He just shrugs, snatching them back, “Yeah but they’re cool, aren’t they?” Stepping closer to you, he slips the glasses onto your face, beaming at how adorable you look. “They look cooler on you though.” 

A tingly feeling comes over you at the realization that you’re wearing something of his. It’s such a silly, schoolgirl thing but it’s nice and you can’t keep yourself from enjoying it. You crack a smile, a rare occurrence, and Wooyoung’s face lights up at this new achievement. 

“Oh my god, did you just smile at me?” he teases, tattooed fingers extending to brush along your arm. 

You grab his wrist before he can, staring him down behind the pitch black lenses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about” you deny, forcing the cursed smile way, “You must be, I don’t know…seeing things.” 

Wooyoung laughs, inching closer to you until you’re pressed against the doorway, a thin layer of clothes the only thing separating your barely clothed body from his. Taking the glasses off of you, he shoves them in his back pocket, making sure your eyes are visible when he asks this. “How long are we gonna do this?” 

“How long are we gonna do what?” you ask, your pulse racing at his closeness to you. He’s even more attractive up close, not a solitary flaw in sight, and the dark shift in his demeanor only makes you swoon harder. 

Twisting his arm free of your grip, he laces his fingers between yours, his thumb drawing light circles on the back of your hand. “Go back and forth like we don’t both want the same thing.”

It’d be typical of you to pull away and it crosses your mind that you should but for some reason you can’t. Chewing at your inner lip, you try to avert your eyes elsewhere, “And what exactly is it that you think I want?” 

Wooyoung tucks a finger under your chin, tilting your face closer to his. Your lips are dangerously close to touching. One wrong or right move—depending on how you look at it—and they’ll meet. 

“Me” he whispers and your body tenses, giving away just how correct he is. 

“I…I’ve never said that” you stutter, flustered by him for the first time. You feel naked, your secret laid bare. How could he know? 

“Then say it now. Say you don’t want me and I’ll stop” he says, brushing your lips with his. 

His tongue peeks out, teasing the seam of your lips and they part for him instantly, granting him easy access to the warmth of your mouth. That’s it. Years of fighting this blown to bits by a simple kiss. Only it’s not simple at all. The motion of his tongue is like a whirlwind, sweeping you up in him and nothing has ever felt so right. 

Your hands float up to cradle his face, your touch more precious to him than anything in the world. He didn’t know you’d surrender. For all he knew you could’ve kicked him in the balls and showed him the door. But it was worth the risk to put to rest what felt like an eternity of pining. He needed to know and now that he does there’s no turning back. He couldn’t if he wanted to.

The kiss grows deeper with every motion of your lips. Time itself seems to stand still as you fall deeper into each other, a thin haze falling over your minds at the heaven of this indulgence. Slipping a hand along the curve of your hip, he reaches back to grab a handful of your ass, groaning at how deliciously soft it is. 

“San says guys like you are no good for me” you say, the aching between your thighs betraying the very concept of that. 

His fingers find the strings of your bikini bottom, tugging at the carefully tied bows little by little until the fabric falls away. “Let me show you how good I can be for you, princess.”

You bite down on his lip just hard enough to make him pay for calling you that again. Wooyoung grins, kissing his way down your body. He takes care to press his mouth against every inch of you. Your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach. By the time he’s down on his knees, his tongue dragging along the meat of your thigh, your body’s vibrating from the sensation of being devoured so fully. But there’s still more of you to taste and Wooyoung’s drooling at the sight of it. 

He glances up at you eagerly, tapping his left shoulder and you know exactly what he’s asking. You drape your leg over his shoulder, your thigh pressed right up against his cheek. Wooyoung’s always known you to be this bold, confident girl but a sudden shyness washes over you and he can’t even lie, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. 

“Don’t tell me no one’s ever…”

You bury your face in your hands, shielding yourself from the truth of his statement. It’s not like you haven’t been with guys before but they were all too focused on themselves to give you the special attention you so intensely longed for. Now, with Wooyoung’s face hovering close enough for his breath to tickle your clit, you can barely keep yourself together. 

Wooyoung strokes your entrance, swirling his fingertips in the juices dripping from you. “That’s a shame. She’s so pretty” he groans, curling his tongue against your clit.

You tremble at the contact, walls clenching as his digits press into you, scissoring you open. Moans spill into your palms, the feeling of him licking between your folds too perfect for you to keep quiet. 

He reaches up to grab your arm, tearing your hands away from your face. “We’re all alone, princess. Let me hear you.”

Slurping harshly at your pussy, his fingers sink in deeper, your cushy walls swallowing them hungrily. The silver watch on his wrist clicks with every rotation, matching the rhythm of him pounding your core. He purses his lips around your bud, alternating the amount of pressure he applies to make sure you can’t possibly predict what’s next. 

Your body tingles from head to toe, pleasure creeping into parts of you that you didn’t even know it could reach. The room’s just quiet enough to hear your arousal swishing around on his tongue, the space between his fingers squelching as you leak down his hand. You’ve never been this wet before and that knowledge only makes you wetter. A part of you has always known that Wooyoung could give you exactly what you needed. It seems criminal to have denied yourself of it for this long. 

“Woo, aah, baby…” you gasp, hands clamping down on his shoulders when he hits your sweet spot. 

He leans back, lips glistening with your essence. “Did you just call me ‘baby’?” he asks, lightly petting your spot to keep your walls quivering, “Sounds so cute coming from you.”

Wooyoung picks up speed, moisture splashing on your thighs as his fingers dip in and out of your core. Your nails dig into his shirt, hips rocking to match his movements. The pressure building is so intense it makes you dizzy. Your brain’s so scrambled that you have to remind yourself to breathe. You arch with that next desperate gasp for air and he takes advantage of this new angle, sneaking a third finger into you. 

“Say it again” he begs, still lapping at your clit, “Be a sweet little princess and say it for me.”

“Baby…” you whine as your glossy eyes meet his, “My baby.”

Wooyoung’s been hard for you since he saw you by the pool and it’s only gotten worse with your arousal coating his tongue but the sound of your voice—floaty and satisfied—calling him yours does something special to him. Something that has every bit of blood in his body rushing to his cock, the throbbing of it against his zipper borderline unbearable. 

A switch flips on in your brain reminding you that, your current position aside, he’s the one wrapped around your finger and there’s something incredibly hot about that. He’s a man that’s committed crimes you’d never dare ask about. He’s been to prison more than once, made men twice his size wish they were never born, and all his heart desires is for you to want him. You might not know what it feels like to wield the power he has outside of this room but, if it’s anything like what you’re feeling right now, it’s no wonder he can’t let it go. 

Summoning all of your inner strength, you thread your fingers in his hair, tilting his head away from you. “Take your clothes off” you demand, sliding your leg down from his shoulder. You do your best to put on a strong front but your legs are turning to jello and it’s only a matter of time before they give out. 

Wooyoung rises to his feet, staring back at you defiantly. You think for a fleeting moment that he might not listen. Maybe your bossy act was over when you opened your legs. But your fears are quieted with two simple words. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

You can’t take your eyes off of him as he strips down, slowly revealing a toned body mapped with tattoos and a cock you can’t resist wanting inside of you. “Like what you see?” he asks, pretending not to notice you blushing. 

It’s distracting how pretty the head of his cock is, pearls of precum decorating the swollen tip. “I’ve seen better” you lie, prying your attention away from it. 

Wooyoung takes your hand, wrapping it around his length to let you feel it pulse. “Have you?” he teases, noticing how you mindlessly trace each vein, admiring the slight curve of his cock as you stroke it. 

You shake your head, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, “Can I ride it? For…research purposes.”

“Research purposes? Is that it?” he laughs, guiding you over to the bed. 

Pulling you down onto him, he captures you in another sugary kiss, untying your top to let your bare breast rest in his palm. You straddle his lap, your pussy gliding down his length as he toys with your nipple, the bud pebbling with every pinch. He grabs your ass, lifting you up until his tip is pressed right up against your entrance. When he lets go your body slams down onto him, the thickness spreading you so wide that you scream between his lips. 

“You said you wanted a ride” he whispers, raising his hips to meet yours, “Take it.”

Tiny spots of color litter your vision, a flash of heat catching you off guard as you do what you can to adjust to the stretch. Your lashes flutter away the moisture forming in the corners of your eyes as you sit up in his lap, hands splayed out on his chest feeling it rise and fall with every uneven breath.

“Ah, fuck, princess…” he hisses when your full weight settles onto him and he bottoms out, his tip kissing your cervix. 

Your pussy hugs him tightly, hips rotating to feel him in every way you can. Feeling him in your hand is nothing compared to having him between your walls. You cling to him, picking up on all the finer details. It’s as if your body wants to remember it. Commit it to memory so that the ecstasy of this fullness never fades away, even after he slips out of you. Not that he has any intention to. He’d stay here forever if he could, enveloped by walls as smooth as velvet, his senses overwhelming him like its his first time. 

“Anyone ever tell you how cute you are?” he asks, gently massaging your thighs. 

You pout, knees pressing into the mattress as you lift up a few inches, pausing your movements. “Just cute?” 

Wooyoung grabs you by the hips, slamming you back down, and the force of his thrust almost makes you fold over. “Cute. Beautiful. Gorgeous…” he hums, palms tracing your figure, “You’re everything I could ever ask for and I knew from the day I met you that I’d do anything to have you.”

“Even get on my nerves?” you tease, intentionally flexing your walls around him. 

A whimper escapes him, the shock on his face beyond amusing to you. “Now that was cute” you giggle, repeating your actions but this time he holds back, refusing to give you the satisfaction. 

Lacing his fingers around your neck, he gives it a light squeeze that warns he can go harder. “Don’t threaten me. Do it” you dare, scratching red marks down his chest.

Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate, tightening his hold on your neck with a controlled strength that makes you feel safe and in danger all at the same time. His free hand finds your clit, his thumb toying with your bud as you ride him faster.

The deprivation of air leaves you lightheaded, heightening the feeling of everything else and you find yourself zoning out. There is no room, no bed, no house. Only the two of you pushing each other further towards the edge. Wooyoung can tell when you’re right there, the stuttering of your hips giving away how close you are to falling apart. 

“You gonna cum for me princess?” he coos, thrusting into you. 

You bounce in his lap—a mindless, helpless, whining mess—and his brain’s eating itself alive trying to decide where to look. At all those pretty faces you make? At the way your body jiggles from the impact? At the place where your bodies meet to make all of those delectable sounds? His eyes dart back and forth, indecisive and needy. He wants to take in all of you but there’s not enough time for it. His stomach muscles are tightening, that familiar tension clawing at his insides. 

He flicks your clit faster, maintaining his hold on your throat until you arch one last time, a moan ripping from your throat even in the absence of air. He turns you loose, the air rushing back into your lungs as your high takes you under wave by devastating wave. You collapse onto his chest and Wooyoung holds you close, too hypnotized by the feeling of you soaking his length to brace himself for how quickly he comes undone. He erupts deep within you, spraying your walls in thick layers of warmth that only make you crave more. 

It’d be the lie of the century to say that sex wasn’t something you’ve always wanted from each other but that was never just it. You wanted what came after too. The closeness of having your bodies intertwined, basking in the afterglow with his arms around you. The softness of his lips pressed to your forehead as he whispers the sweetest things to you. 

“You know you’re mine now, don’t you?” he asks, lovingly petting your hair. 

“Oh, really? Who says?” 

He leans down to kiss you and any shred of resistance melts away. You are his. You should’ve been all along. Somewhere in the back of your mind your worries linger. What if he gets into trouble he can’t get himself out of? What if you lose him one day? But, as he stares at you with stars in his eyes, you can’t imagine the alternative of not having him at all.

[captain-huggy-bear]

https://www.tumblr.com/captain-huggy-bear/779118635182702592/okay-but-keller-writing-your-initials-on-the-tape

okay would you be up to writing something small following this? with her finding out about he initials on his stick ?

Follow up to this <3 Requests are open for specific people only, please see my pinned post for details :) Writing Masterlist

You don't find out because of the mini mic...you find out because one day he hands you his stick while he's sorting out his padding in the tunnel.

It's not uncommon for you to hang around the tunnel before he walks out for warm ups, in fact you made it a bit of a habit, wanting to see him before he goes out and before you're stuck behind a bunch of glass and unable to truly talk to him or be close to him.

He'd been retaping his stick before warm ups and so had it already in his hand, not really thinking much of it when he handed it off to you for a moment while he adjusted his padding.

It's massive, all hockey sticks are and while Clay's tend to be on the shorter side compared to others it still feels like you're holding a broadsword or a battle axe.

You're trying to resist the urge to swing it about in the direction of Kess or Cools, neither of whom would be impressed if you managed to high stick them before they even got on the ice. In the process of holding it tight and close to you, your eyes catch on the tape job at the top, the knob that Clay's created, and the little black initials at the top.

You'd recognise them anywhere because they're your own. They're not Clayton's. They're not his mum's or Lucky's or anyone else's. They're yours.

"You okay, baby?" You're transfixed by it, the realisation that Clay has been putting your initials on, presumably, each of his sticks. Something that he has to purposefully do each time he retapes the end.

The way you look up at him is almost in awe, mouth dropped open a little, eyes wide and slightly wet. Like he's just given you the moon or your dream house.

"You put my initials on your stick?" You show them to him like a little kid bringing their new drawing to their parents, shoving the initials in his face like he doesn't already know they're there...like he didn't just re-write them five minutes ago.

Clay's cheeks flush, red high on his cheeks, hand coming to the back of his neck and rubbing awkwardly. His eyes shift to his team mates around him, waiting until they take the hint to start down the tunnel and out onto the ice, leaving the two of you alone.

"Have been since we started dating..." There's part of Clay that's a little surprised that you haven't seen the mini-mic episode yet...you're usually an avid watcher of any Utah content.

"Why?"

"You're my good luck charm." He shrugs like it's that simple, like he's not just turned your entire world upside down and twisted it all about. Still his cheeks are red, his shoulders a little nervous, a little tense like he thinks you're going to take this badly.

"I'm your good luck charm?"

"Well, yeah, baby...play better when you're here...so this way you're always here." Clay's always played better with you in the building, mostly because he always wanted to impress you...to show off a little. He never wanted you to be embarrassed or disappointed in him, so you made him play twice as hard, three times as hard...and when you're not there things feel...wrong.

"Clayton Keller..." You sigh out his name with a scrunch of your face, unsure how to process all the things you're feeling right now. That gigantic ache of affection in your chest that makes you want to crush him into a hug.

"What?"

"I love you so fucking much."

"Love you too, baby, do I get my good luck kiss now?" He laughs, a relief that you're not going to tell him he's a weirdo. That you're looking at him like he hung the moon.

You practically launch yourself at him. The usual sweet good luck peck replaced with you dragging him down to your level and kissing him like you want to eat him alive. It's explosion of all the things you're feeling in that moment. Every single ounce of love you have for him and the sweetest gesture that he never intended for you to ever know about. The initials aren't performative, they've not been done to impress you...they've been done because he loves you and it's as simple as that.

[fic-girlie]

I would like to ask for a story where Pedro and the reader are actors and hate each other, but when they are going to film a hot scene for an adult film they end up letting their desire speak louder. Lots of obscenity, Pedro being cute and charismatic in front of the cameras but tough behind them and the reader being a bratty girl (not that much of an age difference, Pedro is 50 and Reader is 30)

Rolling

Pairing: pornstar!Pedro Pascal x actress!reader Summary: You hate him—your arrogant, charming co-star—but when the cameras roll for a steamy scene, you lose control, and acting turns into something dangerously real. Warnings: haters to lovers (kinda), language, age gap (reader is 30 and Pedro is 50), explicit sexual content (+18), dom!Pedro, bratty reader, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, pinning, breeding kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, on-set sex, cocky Pedro, aftercare, cuddling, basically just pure filth A/N: I feel like I went a little too far with this one too but I hope you'll enjoy it!

You can’t stand Pedro fucking Pascal.

Everyone else melts around him—makeup artists, camera crew, even the goddamn caterers. He walks around the set like he owns it, flashing that golden-boy smile, whispering something charming and dirty into someone’s ear, letting everyone fall in love with him a little. But you know better. When the cameras stop rolling, so does the charisma. With you, he’s smug. Short. Superior. He treats you like some reckless brat who got cast on accident—like he’s the seasoned professional and you’re the wildcard. Which is probably fair but still pisses you off. And now, after a week of tense scenes and glancing blows, you’ve reached the finale. The big one. Full nudity, full contact, full simulated sex—though judging by the size of him when you caught a glimpse in the dressing room, there won’t be much simulated about it.

During blocking, he stands close. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off his body as the director explains the positions, the angles, the rhythm. Pedro listens politely, nods, then turns to you with a smirk so subtle only you catch it. “You gonna be a good girl and actually follow direction today?” he murmurs, low enough for no one else to hear. You tilt your chin, giving him a practiced smile. “You gonna keep pretending you’re not ancient, or should I buy you a walker for the next take?” His smirk deepens. “There’s that mouth.” You step closer. “You’ll be crying for it later.”

But it’s not until the cameras start rolling that things really change. The set is minimal—warm golden lighting, soft bedding, that high-end, expensive kind of porn that’s more about chemistry and atmosphere than cheap thrills. The director calls for action, and Pedro leans over you on the bed like he’s worshipping you. On camera, he’s gentle. His voice is low, sweet, coaxing. “You feel so good, baby,” he says against your neck, the backs of his fingers trailing over your ribs. You arch beneath him because you’re supposed to, but the sound that slips out of your throat is more real than it should be. And when his body presses fully against yours, you realize he’s hard. Very hard. And that? That is not part of the scene.

“You’re soaked already,” he whispers, his mouth just below your ear. “Knew you’d like it when I got my hands on you.” You try to stay in character. You try to respond the way the script says, but something raw pulses through your belly. You dig your nails into his back. He doesn’t flinch. “Told you. That mouth,” he mutters. “Bet it’ll feel even better when it’s wrapped around my cock.” You let out a soft, involuntary sound. The director hums in satisfaction from behind the monitor. “Perfect. Keep going.” Pedro doesn’t stop. Doesn’t break character. But the way his hands grip your waist? The way his eyes darken when he rolls his hips against you? None of that is acting.

They shift to the oral scene, and you’re supposed to spread your legs while Pedro goes down on you. Easy. You’ve done scenes like this before. But you weren’t expecting the way he moves between your thighs like he’s hungry. Like he’s starving. His hands press your knees wide apart and he looks at you—really looks—like he’s been waiting for this moment. Then his tongue licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds and you almost forget where you are. “Oh fuck—” you gasp. He doesn’t let up. He drags his mouth over your clit, slow and merciless, then sucks with enough pressure to make your back arch off the bed. “Keep quiet,” he murmurs. “Let me work.” You’re shaking. Your hand fists the sheet beside you. And the sound that tears from your throat is completely unscripted. He flattens his tongue and slides two fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly, and you lose it. You come, real and hard, legs trembling as he keeps licking through it, moaning into your cunt like he enjoys it more than you do.

When the director finally calls cut, you’re panting. You sit up quickly, robe yanked around your shoulders, avoiding Pedro’s gaze like it burns. You hate how smug he looks. Like he knows what he did. “Y’alright?” he asks, voice smooth and low. You glare. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” He just shrugs. “So did you.”

You storm back to your trailer afterward, still damp between your legs, your body flushed with something more than embarrassment. You’re halfway through slamming the door when a hand stops it. Pedro slips in behind you, calm as ever. “You don’t get to just walk in here,” you snap, but he’s already pushing you back against the door. “I don’t?” he breathes, his hand wrapping around your wrists and pinning them above your head. “’Cause that little moan you made while I was in your pussy said otherwise.” You try to twist free, but it only makes your hips grind into his thigh. “You’re a dick,” you hiss. His grin is slow and lethal. “Brat.” The word hits somewhere low in your stomach, a coil of heat tightening as he presses his body fully against yours. “You want me to prove it?” he asks. “That you’ve been mouthing off because you wanted this?”

You open your mouth to retort, but he kisses you instead—hard, messy, filthy. Nothing like the fake sweetness on camera. His hands slide under your robe, over your ass, squeezing roughly as he lifts you and walks you to the couch like you weigh nothing. When he drops you down, you scramble to sit up, but he kneels between your legs and shoves your thighs apart again. “Told you,” he mutters. “Such a fucking mouth, but your pussy? She’s honest.” He runs his fingers through your folds and groans. “So wet. So messy for me. Bet you’ve been touching yourself after every scene.”

You slap his shoulder, but your eyes are glassy, your body arching up into him. He pushes two fingers inside you again, slow and deep, then curls them and drags his thumb over your clit. “Want me to fill that bratty little mouth?” he asks. “Choke you until you cry?” “Fuck you,” you pant. He grins. “That’s the plan.” He fucks you with his fingers until you’re dripping, until you’re whimpering and squirming and close to the edge again. Then he pulls them out, sucks them clean, and unbuckles his jeans.

The first thrust knocks the breath out of you. He’s big. Thick. Stretching you open in a way no one ever has. He doesn’t go easy. Not anymore. He fucks you like he’s mad about how long it took, like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of you. And maybe he does. Because by the time you’re clawing at his back, crying out as you come again, you’re not mouthing off anymore. “That’s it,” he growls, pounding into you with sharp, perfect rhythm. “Take it. Take all of it. That’s my good girl now.” You moan for him. Shameless and soaked. He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw. “Still hate me?” You kiss him. Hard. He bites your lip and you whimper into his mouth.

When he finally comes, he buries himself deep, groaning your name like a confession. And then he collapses on top of you, his chest heaving, one hand cradling the back of your head like he didn’t just ruin you. Like he cares.

The next morning, he’s all smiles again. The Pedro the crew loves. Winking at you, teasing you with soft little touches, whispering “good girl” in your ear when no one’s looking. “You two really hate each other?” the director laughs, watching yesterday’s footage. “Could’ve fooled me.” You sip your coffee and say nothing. Pedro smirks across the room. You roll your eyes.

But your body’s still sore. And tonight? You’re not walking back to your trailer alone.

——

You should’ve said no. When he leaned in that night, brushing his mouth against your jaw and whispering “come home with me” like it wasn’t a threat—you should’ve said no. Instead, you’re in his bed again. Sore from the first round and somehow already aching for more. His place is bigger than yours, quieter, tucked away from the madness of New York, and somehow it still smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, and something warm that stays in your nose long after he’s left the room.

He makes you tea. Just hands it to you in a chipped mug like he didn’t just fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight. Like he’s not watching you from the other side of the couch with those same hungry eyes, thumb pressed to his bottom lip. “You're quieter tonight,” he says eventually, sipping from his glass. “That brat mouth finally ran out of gas?” You don’t answer right away. You’re stretched out in one of his oversized t-shirts, no panties, bare thighs curled under you. The fabric still smells like him, too. “Just thinking,” you mutter. “Dangerous,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

He shifts, turns slightly to face you, one arm slung over the back of the couch. “About what?” You sip your tea. “About how you act like a prince when the cameras are on, but behind closed doors you’re a complete fucking menace.” Pedro smirks. “You love it.” You glance at him, slow and sharp. “Do I?” He leans forward, elbow on his knee, voice dropping. “You came twice last night. You moaned my name like it hurt. You begged.” “Did not.” “You did,” he murmurs. “And you’ll do it again.”

You shift in your seat. Your thighs press tighter. It’s humiliating, how easy it is for him to read your body. To sense that pulse of heat before you’ve even admitted it to yourself. “You know,” he says casually, “they rewrote the next scene. Gave us another ‘intimate’ moment.” You arch a brow. “You mean another excuse to have your tongue in my pussy?” “Didn’t hear you complaining.” “I was working,” you say, lifting your chin. “I’m a professional.” Pedro hums. “Sure, sweetheart.”

He’s beside you before you register it—tea forgotten, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “Want a rehearsal?” You mean to scoff, to push him off, but you’re already shifting toward him. Already letting your head fall back as his hand slips under the hem of the shirt. “You’ve been acting like you don’t want this,” he mutters, fingers trailing up the inside of your thigh, “but your body gives you away every time.” You shiver. “Shut up.” “Make me,” he growls, suddenly over you, pinning you to the couch with one hand around your wrists again.

You squirm, pushing at his chest, but your hips are grinding up against his thigh, desperate and warm and soaked. “Still hate me?” he teases. “Fuck off.” “That’s not a no.” He yanks the shirt up and off you in one smooth motion. “You act like I’m the problem,” he says, voice low, fingers tracing the curve of your breast, “but you’ve been staring at my mouth since we met. You wanted this.” You gasp as his tongue flicks over your nipple, then moan when he sucks it into his mouth. “You wanted me to ruin you.”

You claw at his hair, panting. “Then do it already.” And he does. He drags you off the couch, onto the carpet, his body warm and heavy over yours. His mouth is everywhere—your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. He eats you out slow, lazy, like he’s got all night. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. “God, your pussy’s so sweet.” You tug at his hair, your legs wrapped around his shoulders, hips rocking against his tongue. “Pedro, fuck—please—” “There’s my girl,” he growls, gripping your thighs tighter. “Beg for it.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Please, I want your cock, I want it so deep, I need it—” He slides up your body and pushes inside without warning, and you cry out—loud, sharp, desperate. He’s rougher tonight. Harder. His hand closes around your throat as he thrusts into you, his other arm braced beside your head. “You’re mine now,” he mutters against your mouth. “No more pretending. No more attitude. You want to be my good girl? Say it.” You gasp, nails digging into his back. “Yours. I’m yours. Please don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He fucks you until your vision goes white, until your voice is wrecked and your whole body is trembling beneath him. You come again with a sob, and only then does he let go of your throat, only then does he kiss you—deep and sweet, full of something almost gentle. He stays inside you after, his weight heavy and solid, his nose nudging your cheek. “Still hate me?” he whispers. You manage a laugh, dazed and breathless. “So much.” He smiles against your jaw. “Liar.”

When you wake the next morning, it’s to the smell of bacon and coffee. You shuffle into the kitchen in his shirt again, hair a mess, thighs aching. Pedro’s already up, already dressed, charming someone on the phone in Spanish. His voice drops when he sees you. He ends the call, walks over, presses a kiss to your temple like he’s done it a hundred times. “I made you breakfast.” “Why are you being nice?” you ask suspiciously. He grins. “Gotta keep my girl fed if I’m gonna fuck the attitude out of her again later.”

You roll your eyes. But you eat the bacon. And when he kisses your shoulder while pouring your coffee, you don’t move away.

Not anymore.

——

The new scene is set in a sleek hotel room mock-up—low lighting, expensive props, champagne flutes placed just so on the bedside table. It’s supposed to be the climax of the film—pun intended—where the tension between your characters finally breaks. And you know how they wrote it now. No dialogue. Just a look, a kiss, and then bodies colliding against the sheets. Let the chemistry carry it. Let the audience believe you want each other more than anything.

Problem is, that part isn’t acting anymore.

Pedro’s across the set, talking with the director. He’s dressed in a crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, slacks that cling to his thighs. Hair slightly messy, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed just right. He’s nodding politely, grinning at a joke. So damn charming. So good. And then he looks at you. Just a flick of his eyes across the space, like gravity snapped tight around your throat. Like he’s already fucking you with his gaze. He tips his chin up just slightly, smug, dark-eyed, like he’s already won. You hate him for it.

You’re in a silk slip dress, no bra, nothing underneath. You can feel the cool air prickling across your thighs as you step up to the bed. The assistant director mics you both, then clears the room. Just the bare minimum crew now—camera, lighting, the intimacy coordinator keeping a polite distance. Pedro climbs onto the bed beside you as they adjust the angles. You feel the heat of him through the mattress, your skin already buzzing.

“You ready, princess?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “Fuck off,” you mutter. He smirks. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Action.”

You face him. The camera is on your profile, catching your expression as you lean in. His hand finds your jaw like the script says, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. It’s supposed to look tender. But there’s pressure behind it. Control. A warning. You let your mouth part, slow and soft, eyes locked on his like you’re daring him to take it further.

He kisses you. Open, slow, deliberate. His tongue slides against yours and you swear it’s worse than last night—hotter, deeper, needier. His hand cups the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, and you can already feel the tremble in your legs. You shift closer, gasping softly into his mouth, and that’s when it happens.

The kiss breaks. Your eyes flicker to his. There’s something there now. Not just lust. Not just the high of performance. Something hungry. Curious. Territorial. You’re not supposed to speak, but you whisper, too quiet for the boom mics. “Are you hard already?” He chuckles low, dark. “You make me hard the second you walk into a room.”

You straddle his lap, like the script says. He slides the straps of your dress down your shoulders, kisses your neck, your collarbone, his mouth moving like he owns you. And maybe he does. Because you’re grinding against him, open-mouthed and gasping, and you can feel it—he’s not faking. Neither are you.

His hand slips between your thighs and finds you wet, already leaking onto his slacks. He swears under his breath. “Fuck, baby. Look at you.” “Shut up,” you hiss. “Then stop moaning,” he growls, and that’s when his fingers sink into you.

You nearly cry out. His fingers fuck you open, slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit just right. The camera gets it all—your face, your hips rocking down, the way you clutch his shirt like you’ll fall apart without it. “You want my cock so bad,” he mutters into your neck. “Say it.” You shake your head, breath hitching. “Say it, or I’ll stop.” “Fuck—yes—yes, I want it, please—” “There’s my girl,” he breathes, and pulls his hand away just long enough to undo his belt.

He pushes inside you, raw and slow and real. No padding. No barrier. The way you gasp is not acting. The way your nails claw into his back is not scripted. He fucks up into you with hard, deliberate thrusts, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other gripping your throat—not tight, just enough to make your breath catch. “You feel that?” he growls against your ear. “That’s mine. This pussy is fucking mine.”

You’re shaking. Moaning. Writhing. But somewhere under it—under the filth and the sweat and the obscene rhythm of your bodies—you feel it. The shift. The ache. The way he’s looking at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize every second. Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You come with a scream, grinding down hard, your body spasming around him. And he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, eyes locked on yours, jaw clenched. “You gonna let me come inside you, baby?” he hisses. “Want to feel it? Want me to fill you up while they all watch?”

You nod, whimpering. “Yes, yes—please—” “Good fucking girl,” he growls, and then he’s coming too, burying himself deep, groaning into your neck like he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Cut!” someone calls.

You collapse against his chest. Still inside you. Still trembling. He holds you, quiet, hand stroking your back. For the first time, there’s no smirk. No smug line. Just silence. Just his heartbeat thudding against your cheek.

He whispers, barely audible. “Did that feel like acting to you?” You swallow hard. Shake your head.

He pulls back to look at you. And his eyes—dark, soft, searching—say what neither of you has dared to speak.

Yet.

[zorosgirlfriend]

Here's a good one? One time I was listening to a song call "jolene" by "dolly parton" and it got me thinking..... what if there was a girl who was trained to get in between the monster trio and their girlfriend but they stay faithful to reader?

monster trio ~ !! Loyalty Proven.

warnings: none. pet names such as baby, babe in luffy's.

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

Monkey D. Luffy

The girl leaned over the bar counter,

Laughing way too loudly at one of Luffy’s jokes.

“You’re so funny, Captain~ I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Luffy blinked.

“Nope. Just my baby.”

She twirled a strand of her hair.

“Oh? You sure you want to be tied down so young?”

Luffy grinned, wide and proud.

“I love being tied down! To them.”

He pointed directly to you across the tavern,

Lighting up like a beacon when he spotted you.

“OI! BABE, THIS LADY’S WEIRD!!”

You just waved, watching the girl’s face drop.

She tried again later, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Don’t you ever get curious?”

Luffy tilted his head, confused.

“Why would I want another when I already got the best one?”

Roronoa Zoro

The girl tried to corner him during a training break,

Offering him water and pressing close.

“You’re always training alone. Doesn’t it get lonely?”

Zoro didn’t even look at her.

“No.”

She stepped in front of his weights, pouting.

“I could keep you company. You don’t even have to tell them…”

That made him pause.

Then, coldly,

“You just insulted them by thinking I’d go behind their back.”

He picked up his sword again, walking right past her.

Later, when you brought him a towel and kissed his cheek, he grunted softly.

“Some chick tried to mess with me today.”

Your eyes widened,

“Oh?”

“She’s lucky I don’t waste sword swings on pathetic distractions.”

Vinsmoke Sanji

This girl was trained in seduction.

Every move graceful, every look smoldering.

She sat beside Sanji in a café while you were out grabbing drinks.

“You must get tired of doting on just one person. Don’t you want to try something… different?”

Sanji smiled gently.

“You’re very charming, mademoiselle.”

She leaned in.

“Then why don’t you—”

“—But there’s only one person I want to charm,”

He cut her off, voice low and serious now.

“And it’s not you.”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by the shift in tone.

He lit a cigarette, looking toward the door, sensing you returning.

“I love them. And I don’t entertain ‘tests.’”

You came back to him, and he rose immediately to take your tray like a gentleman.

She watched, dumbfounded, as he kissed your hand with a smirk.

“Missed you already, mon amour.”

[sangunary]

Listen, I suddenly had an idea. How about a reader like Makima? We'll definitely be hard to get along with.

- Her Love.

BatFam x Makima Reader.

SYPNOSIS: Inorder to collect all the pawns you need to tear some people apart.

Warning: this is just reader being a horrible person for her own benefit.

You couldn't tell which was more pathetic, for a dog to submit so fast or for a dog to invite you to appear tough.

Bruce or Batman was a tough dog to leash, so deprived of emotions and affection he just couldn't phantom anything happy in his life.

Every time he felt your touch that sent shiver down his spine he would push you away. Sometimes you do wish to just crush his already broken heart under your fingers but you weren't one to act so wild.

Not so quick. You couldn't ruin his life yet...

Although your interraction with him open a gate to a better pawn, his family.

He allowed you to stay with him and his family, after you kept on bringing up about how miserable life was even tho you saved countless of life and how you had nothing waiting you at home.

How life was picking at you limb by limb.

Men are easy creatures to lure. Just tell them you need them and fake some tears in their arms, they can't resist the urge to be the one sheltering a poor woman in their arms, who is desperately in love with them by word.

His family on the other hand were full of great shaped pawns to your chest, a new addition for your collection.

Each of them already broken, it would only take for a kind hand to pick their broken pieces and assemble them however they wish to.

However they resist your kind hands far too many times and it was starting to irritate you.

Although not biological family they do still have trance of that bat DNA in them, isolate themselves from affection, hard to crack, deny you constantly and reject your advance.

Unfortunately as a result you had to made some adjustments as if this rejection kept on repeating you won't be able to achieve your goal.

So you started with Jason.

The poor misunderstood boy who despite having serious problems managed to curve his name.

He was one of the most interesting person in the family, body full of scars. Like a stray dog was paranoid and warry... Couldn't except love and affection.

Poor boy.

It was such ashamed he had to went through such horrifying situation, it would be such shame if Bruce let it happen again...

He wasn't easy to get close to, always avoiding you and throwing hursh word at you like you meant nothing.

But seeing him submit was satisfying.

A dog can't bark without it's pride, it'll shiver and cover itself to protect itself since barking would certainly irritate the threat.

You didn't mean to hurt Jason so badly, atleast it wasn't physical.

You took him out with memories, fog his mind with that night... Watching his mother die with him just because he couldn't take orders.

He curled up near a conner trying to get it out his head and fortunately you walk there just in time to comfort him.

Filling his nostril with that alluring yet irritating smell you always had, the warmth of your embrace and most importantly your comforting word.

One pawn added to the bag just some more needed.

Dick Grayson the oldest, the charming one.

He's absolutely annoying.

Tho he could be a great collection. Strong, charming and handsome.

You knew how much Kory meant to him, yet he wasn't the best lover not even close.

As much as he love's her some people just can't control their lust and you knew exactly what to do.

Bringing it up to him would scare or irritate him but with the right word he could simply submit.

The way he would beg you to stop torturing him, it was satisfying.

He would willingly walk into fire just to make sure you didn't bring the information to Kory and it was sickening to watch.

Him bombarding her with everything to hide his guilt, the way he would stare at you with mercy... You love the feeling of power.

Next was Tim Drake, the genius.

One push was all it took for the claimed genius to collapse.

He was tired, exhausted... He just needed some caring.

He resisted at first but you didn't give up, you just found a better way to start it all again and he took it.

It was pathetic for a genius to fall just because someone cared enough to go the extra step.

Damian Wayne... The child of the bat and Talia.

He definitely had parents issue.

So, you become his mother. It wasn't easy.

He was stubborn, cold and act like an adult when he infact was a teen...

He couldn't accept that someone was so willing to be the mother he never knew he needed.

Play with his hair when he tries to sleep, help him whenever you could and feed him absolutely lies.

Afterall, a mature kid is still a kid.

You didn't want to hurt them obviously, to break and rebuild but they left you no choice.

They all wanted to be something, knew you were danger yet fell onto your trap so easily.

Bruce knew you were no good just like the rest, yet he took you in. Stupid.

Now he doesn't have a choice but to watch as his precious kid's help you fight right, for something so simple as your attention.

he despite you, wanted to pull your guts out for ruining the family he had been protesting, yet he willingly let the most untrustworthy person in.

Yet, here he was.

The same bedroom with you on his knees, as much as he wanted to break his own rules another part of him wanted you badly.

He wanted you gone, yet he begged for you to ruin him aswell.

- Sorry this isn't the best, im unwell but I wanted to fulfill the request eitherway.

[angelickks]

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌, 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐊𝐈

synopsis. Lion Kaminski has only ever fought for two things—Stan’s approval and your hands in his hair. In the hours before every underground fight, he doesn’t come alive until he sees you. You are the ritual. The reason. The tether. After the fight, when his body is wrecked and his soul frays at the edges, you hold him together with slow kisses and whispered promises. warning(s). nsfw. mdni 18+. established relationship. reader's nickname is "lucky." language. canon-typical violence. some bruising/blood. lowk softdom! reader. emotional dependency. breeding kink undertones (possessive language). touch-starved trauma. praise kink. quietly feral lion. no use of y/n. not proofread. angel talks. HAAAAA told u. i needed this fr cuz i love him sm.

pairing. walter "lion" kaminski x fem!reader

BEFORE EVERY MATCH, Lion waits. Quiet. Still. Like he’s not fully there until you touch him.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

The motel smells like cigarette smoke and bleach. Thin curtains, bad pillows, the kind of bed that groans even under your soft weight. You're painting your nails—black with little stars—because it’s the one girly thing you still get to do when you're on the road with them. You sit cross-legged in one of Lion’s ratty old shirts, sleeves pushed up, your lip tucked between your teeth as you concentrate.

Lion’s watching you from the foot of the bed, knuckles bruised and swollen in his lap. He should be asleep. Fight’s tomorrow. But his eyes are heavy-lidded and stuck on you like gravity.

"You're gonna chip ‘em," he mumbles.

You look up and smirk. "You watching me that close, baby?"

He doesn’t answer. Just ducks his head, a faint blush creeping up under the hollows of his cheekbones.

You put the polish down and crawl across the mattress. Your knees brush his thigh. “What’s goin’ on in that head, hmm?” You whisper, voice soft like lullabies and lull in the storm.

He doesn't say much. He never really has. But his hand—rough, scarred, and trembling—rises to curl against your cheek.

“You’ll be there tomorrow, right?” he asks. And you know that question isn't about attendance. It's about survival.

"Yeah, baby. I'm always there."

────────────

Stanley’s pacing outside the locker room like a cat in a cage. Lion's got his hoodie on, fists tight in the pockets, head bowed like he’s praying to whatever’s left.

But he doesn’t move until you walk in.

You look out of place here, too pretty, too soft—like moonlight in a dungeon. You don't belong here, not in this washed-out world of sweat and blood and broken noses—but you come anyway. Like you always do.

His girl.

Lucky.

The whole ring. That’s what they started calling you too. Fighters spit to the side when you walk past, tap their gloves, muttering prayers under their breath like you're some saint.

But they don’t really know. Not like Lion does.

Because for him, his "Lucky" isn’t a charm.

You're oxygen.

No one dares mock you anymore. Not after they saw what happened the last time someone tried.

Lion sees you and straightens. Like his spine’s been tied to your heartbeat. Like your presence reassembles him.

You walk over, lip gloss glinting under fluorescents, wearing one of his oversized flannels over a tank top. You've got two rings on your fingers and that necklace he gave you the night he won in Trenton.

“Hi, baby,” You say softly, kneeling in front of him.

He exhales like he’s been underwater.

“Hey.” His voice comes out low, barely there. Hoarse from the weight he carries and the fact that he doesn’t speak unless it’s to you.

“Head okay?”

He nods. Lies.

You take his face in both hands and kisses the tip of his nose. “You been thinkin’ too much again.”

He nods again. That one's honest.

You move closer, hands sliding down to his chest. Your fingers splay across his ribs. That’s where you always touch him first. Like a key fitting into a lock.

“You need me to do it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just presses his forehead to your collarbone and breathes. So hard you feel his ribs move under her palms. That’s his answer.

You pull back enough to see his eyes. They're glassy. Desperate. Like they’ve seen the worst of the world and still found one soft place to land: you.

Your thumbs graze his cheeks. “Look at me, Lion.”

He does.

You start the blessing.

His hands are already out, palms up, desperate.

You take them, cold and calloused, and press kisses to every knuckle, slow. Deliberate. Your thumb brushes the scar near his thumb—the one he got the first night they met. Back when you weren't “Lucky” yet. Just some girl in the back of a dive bar who stitched up his hand without asking questions.

You kiss his jaw, then his forehead.

“Win or lose,” you whisper into his ear, “you come back to me.”

He nods.

You rest your hand over his heart. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s mine. It stays mine. Okay? Right here—you stay mine. You don’t lose that.”

Lion closes his eyes and leans into you, like he’s trying to breathe you in. You kiss his lips, slow. Not deep. Just enough. Just to center him.

When you part, Lion’s hand cups your neck like he’s grounding himself. Like he’ll lose control of his body if you leave too soon.

────────────

The crowd roars. Or maybe it doesn't. Lion doesn’t hear any of it. Blood drips down his lip, ear ringing, body sore like always—but the only thing he cares about is finding you in the blur.

He wins.

He always does when you're there.

The fight’s a blur of fists and flashes and his own blood dripping from his eyebrow—but you're there in the hallway after, holding gauze in one hand and his hoodie in the other.

And when he stumbles off the ring, dazed and shaking, he walks straight past everyone. Straight into your arms.

You catch him like he’s a crashing wave and you're sand. Your arms around his ribs. Your lips brushing the crown of his sweat-soaked hair.

“I got you,” you whisper. “Always.”

He presses his forehead to yours. Closes his eyes. Breathes you in like the first inhale after drowning.

“Take me home,” he says.

────────────

Lion never had soft things growing up. Not for long.

His life’s been cold water, cold concrete, cold hands. Everything that ever touched him left a bruise. So when you, his Lucky, came along—with your lip gloss smiles and pink hair clips and the way you always said his name like it meant something—it rewired his entire system.

He doesn’t know how to ask for touch. Doesn’t know how to beg. So he clings instead.

Sleeps with a fist in your shirt. Rubs his face into your neck like a feral cat. Kisses your wrists like prayers.

You call it sweet. Call him your baby in that soft, sing-song way that makes his teeth ache.

You don’t know it’s obsession.

That it’s faith.

That he wakes up in a cold sweat some nights terrified you’ll leave and take all the warmth with you.

When the world finally goes quiet and the cuts dry under stinging antiseptic, he never asks to be touched.

He just lays there—quiet, watchful, fists clenched—and waits. Like he’s hoping you'll crawl into him without him having to say it out loud. Like he thinks asking would scare you off.

But you know. God, you know.

He only breathes easy when you're on him. Above him. All over him. Like your weight alone keeps him from floating out of his body. Like you're the only thing holding the pieces of him together.

So you straddle his lap in the dim, creaky motel bed. The room smells like cheap soap and old blood, but Lion smells like salt and adrenaline and sweat-soaked cotton.

His hoodie is half-off. His eyes are glassy. He’s starving.

“Baby,” you whisper, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You with me?”

His hands come up slow. Almost like he’s afraid. Then they land—tentative, reverent—on your thighs.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I just��fuck, I just missed you.”

“You saw me three hours ago.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. But his voice is a wreck. “Doesn’t matter. Miss you the second you’re not on me.”

You lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, and Lion whimpers.

Whimpers.

Because it’s too much. And not enough. And because every part of his body is begging to be kept.

When your hips rock forward, he gasps. You're warm, slick, barely grinding against him through your panties—and he’s aching.

“Please,” he breathes. “I need—I need you.”

“What do you need, baby?”

His jaw clenches. His hands shake.

“You. Just you. All of you.”

It’s not fast. Not rough. Not like what people expect from someone who fights for a living.

It’s slow. Deep. Devastating.

Lion is gentle. Not because he’s afraid he’ll break you—but because he needs you to stay. Because every thrust is a confession. Every breath is a vow.

“You feel like home,” he groans into your neck.

You cup his face, keep him close. “You are home.”

He loses it a little then. Voice cracking, hips stuttering, arms locking around you tighter like you're slipping away and he’ll never survive it.

“You’re mine,” he pants. “My Lucky. My girl. My fuckin' girl.”

The air shifts, his hips moves faster, like he’s scared you’ll leave.

Like this is the only moment he gets.

Like if he doesn’t show you—prove it—you’ll vanish and he’ll shatter into dust.

He’s kissing you everywhere. Your neck, your chest, your shoulders. Mouthing at your jaw like he’s praying. Whimpering your name.

Chanting it.

“Lucky. Lucky. Lucky—fuck—please, don’t go—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “You have me. I’m yours.”

And that breaks him.

His head drops to your shoulder, and his body shudders. “I love you. I love you so much I can’t fuckin' breathe—”

He falls apart inside you—arms locked tight around your back, lips at your collarbone, moaning your name like it’s holy.

You feel every tremor. Every broken breath. Every part of him unraveling in your arms.

And you hold him through it.

Because Lion Kaminski doesn’t need a lucky charm.

He needs someone to catch him when he falls.

Lion doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t speak.

He just stays inside you, face buried in your chest, breathing like a man dragged back from the dead.

You stroke his curls. Kiss his forehead. Murmurs to him like he’s your favorite secret.

“You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re mine.”

He whispers it back without even meaning to:

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✵Under the hood.

✦ Pairing: Modern!Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: A beautiful day quickly turned into a very shitty one when your car broke down in the middle of a mountain road. Thank Goodness, a charming cowboy luckily crosses your way and talks you through fixing your fussy engine. ✦ Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI!! Not properly speaking sexual intercourse, but this contains sexual themes. "Talking you through it". Dirty talk. Mechanical sex metaphors if that's even a thing??? Sexual tension. Arthur is a smooth b*stard. ✦ Words: 2,3k (once again relying on @arthurmorgan-vp for this gorgeous pic of Arthur!)

Sooo! This was initially an ask for my mini prompt sprint from @cloudywithachanceofcrisis (awesome url btw), and it turned into this whole fic because I'm too deep into modern Arthur and I just couldn't stop writing. Basically, the ask was for Reader's car to break down and for Arthur to talk her through fixing it, "Megan Fox Transformers" style. 😏 I had too much fun writing it. Enjoy!

✧.*

A creaking sound of metallic agony rings out as you pull your car's hood up, quickly followed by a horrible smell of burnt pieces of metal and plastic.

Shit.

This really wasn't what you had planned for today. A barbecue party at your best friend's ranch, cold beers, the smell of grass mixing with seasoned steaks and hay. And laughter, and horses, and riding. The sun embracing your face as you and her would gallop through the fields, just like when you were kids. The real start of summer.

That's what you had planned this morning when waking up. Now the sun is roasting your neck, your car is stopped, front pitifully open as a wounded animal you would have just hurt, along one of Wyoming's lonely rocky mountain roads. Needless to say, you were in deep trouble; no network, traffic as low as the school's road on holidays.

Except for other locals, of course.

After long minutes of panic and desperate calls into the void of a connectionless dial tone from your phone, you finally heard your salvation from the other side of the road. A blue Chevrolet pickup truck, some Creedence Clearwater Revival bursting through the windows, sunrays gleaming on the immaculate bodywork.

The truck slows down and stops right next to you. Window down, its owner smiles at you with an unmistakable smirk and blue eyes shining almost as much as the perfectly polished metal of his vehicle.

"You alright there, sugar?"

Arthur Morgan. Another ranch owner from your valley. He's bending to your direction, turning down his music, and you notice the pile of country and rock albums on the countertop. You internally chuckle; it fits his character way too well. You knew him a little; all the breeders know each other in the valley. Most of them, as with your family and his, have beneficial relationships, like symbiosis in nature. Clownfish and anemones. Trees and lichen. Make yourself useful to the other party and you'll never fight again. Instead of destroying yourselves over a piece of land, you've learned to take advantage of each other and to prosper together. The Man is an animal, after all.

You had very good memories of the time you had spent at his ranch, usually for the breeding season. He owned one of the finest horses in the whole county and rode them like no one else could. And you would have lied if you had said you didn't find him handsome, in this typical cowboy rugged charm. Always wearing jeans, sometimes chaps. Tight, simple black or white shirts that were always stretched around his biceps or pectorals. Never without a pack of Marlboros that smelled like fresh nights, talking about life under the porch. A leather hat and jacket for riding, a cap when around his ranch. Today is a baseball cap type of day too, it seems.

"Of course not, Morgan! Do I look peachy?! My car broke down and I can't fix it." You explain, hands on your hips.

"A chance I was passin' by then." He smirks even more, readjusting his position in his seat. "Don't worry darlin', we'll get it in mint condition no time."

With a smooth move of the wheel with one hand, he pulls over just a few meters from you. Your hear the old truck turning down, the door opening; he grabs a toolbox and a bottle of water before joining you in front of the open hood of your poor suffering car.

"Here, first, drink a bit. Don't want ya droppin' dead in the middle o' nowhere."

You chuckle as you take the water he's handing to you, the coldness of it on your palms enough to make you feel at ease. "Would be hard to explain to the cops eh?"

"Sure would." He concedes with a snort, his left hand taking support on the hood as he bends towards the engine. After a few seconds of him probing the wound with an expert gaze in silence, he turns to you. "Ya know what? You're going to learn and fix it yaself. I'll teach ya. That way, you won't have to wait on a... dirty cowboy to save your ass next time you break down."

You smile, amused and somehow grateful for his proposition. You definitely should have known better in cars already, considering how life was demanding in those wild plains.

"Alright then, let's hear what the "grand master" of cars has to say." You joke, and just for the way his crinkles showed more in the corner of his eyes, the smile it brought to his face, it was worth it.

He takes a dirty piece of fabric and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans out of habit, before giving you a pair of gloves from the toolbox, greasy and used, and you put them on without complaint, hard, used cotton surrounding your skin.

Your eyes involuntarily notice how his neck is more tanned, compared to a part of his torso you can catch a glimpse of. His forearms, too. The veins that run through them are like great streams that sublimate his muscles. He really is cut out for the hard life on the ranch, even more than most people you know.

"First, you need t'find your brake cylinder. Check the fluid level in it." He points at the plastic reservoir and waits.

You bend towards the engine too, and touch the cylinder. It is one of the only things you knew about.

"That's right, that' thing. Does it look full?"

"Yes."

"Good. 'Could be leakin', though. Brush your hands under it..." He commands, one hand still on the hood and the other holding his belt. He looks so casual, as if he were giving mechanic lessons every day. "Come on, don't be shy, darlin'."

You do exactly as he tells. You don't know why, but there's something suddenly extremely intimate in this whole situation. The way you're both bent inward, bodies close, way closer than how you would stand next to someone. The way he speaks those orders, his voice even more gravelly, rasping, almost purring in your ears. Deep, so deep, and the way his accent is eating half the words in that southern drawl is doing things to you. Stomach fluttering, you try to keep your head cool and actually focus and fixing your damn car.

"So? S'it wet?"

Jeeeesus, he's not making things easy. Making violence to yourself not to answer yes on instinct, you force out a too casual "Nope."

"Alright, now do the same with the coolin' system. S'right next to it."

You bring your hand to the other plastic cylinder, wrapping your fingers under the round pipe coming out of it. Your muscle memory is stronger than your rational thinking. You can't help but imagine how it would feel to have them wrapped around something else, something just inches away from your own hips right now. Something you knew would be undoubtedly big considering the way that man is carrying himself, the way it shows when he's riding, big and heavy and obvious through his jeans. You close your eyes, unable to keep those unholy ideas away.

"No leaks, sir."

"Perfect. Oh, ya should always check up for leaks first, but never open this damn thing with your engine still runnin', ya hear? Could splash hot chemicals all over ya."

"Copy that."

"Good girl." He drawls in a satisfied praise, his left hand tapping on the hood in a satisfied way. As if he had just finished with you and would pat your ass contently. You shiver, his words and the fucking delicious way he said it igniting and unresistable fire between your thighs. "Now let's check the engine fluid. Pull out the dipstick from it."

You slowly remove the long and thin wand from your car motor, and to your surprise, you feel one of his big and rough palms on top of your glove to help you carry it, as his left one finally leaves its perch and grabs the top of the stick.

"See the fluid? If the thing looks like you have just shoved it in an oil fryer, you're good. But if you notice some other stuff like... somethin' that looks like thick water, or a creamy stuff right here, it ain't good."

Fluid. Shoving. Thick. Creamy. There's no way he isn't aware of what he's doing. The way his gigantic hands handle yours and the stick. The way you can smell his strong perfume, petrolic reek of the damaged engine long gone, replaced by heady notes of sweat from the scorching sun making him pearl, mixing with remnants of his cologne. Or was it woods? Cedar and pines, with hays, and faint traces of this so specific scent that farms and ranches have.

"Darlin'? Ya got it?"

"Y-yeah yeah. Oil good, creamy stuff isn't." Oh my god, you sound so dumb you're almost embarrassing yourself.

"That' right. Now the filter. See that big fan underneath? We have to make sure it's perfectly running and sealed, overwise your engine is pumping stuff from nowhere and ends up damn dirty."

He arcs himself completely, lying his side against your car to slip his hand under the piece of metal, and grabs a pipe you can't see from where you stand. He probably tests the solidity of the thing, but all you see is him wanking a fucking engine. Does he handles his cock like that? Does he jerk it slow and steady like he rides his horse in an elegant walk? Slow but deliberate, meticulous like he is with his own truck? Or is it all the contrary, does he treat it rough and quick? Like an urge he needs to get out, contrasting with his precise and conscientious work? Does his shaft fuck his fist, jerking off so fast he's almost done in a few minutes? Does his-

"Here, I need to show it to ya. Come."

Oh. You're dead on the inside, your pussy isn't even trying anymore, burning without any restriction and you're happy it's a hot day because at least you have an excuse to be sweating that much. He's still leaning his side against the car, arm folded, and he gestures for you to join him in the same position. Throat hoarse, legs mushy as if they were boneless, you get closer and lean on your side too, your back touching his chest. You two are basically spooning on your car right now. He removes his hand from the engine.

"See? S' that one, right there. Go on, grab' it."

Jesus all I want is to fucking grab it you complain in your head. He must realise this is extremely erotic, right? You couldn't be imagining it on your own. You hope not, or else it means that you're completely crazy. Your body is entirely tensed as an arched bow, you bring your own hand to the filter pipe.

"Now... shake it. T'make sure it's sealed."

His breath is almost brushing against your ear. His deep raspy tone, resonating through his chest when he speaks, scratching against his tongue, feels like honey and whiskey both at the same time. Languorous and coarse. It swirls and rolls all against you, coating you as if you were a candy waiting to be eaten whole. You shake the metal piece, trying at all costs to push away the sinful thoughts the gesture is bringing to you.

"Thaaat's it... How does it feel, girl?"

"F-feels good to me." You're blushing, you're sure you're blushing. You know you are, cheeks burning at the double meaning this whole conversation is holding. You hear and feel him humming a positive, deep sound in answer.

"Well, if it ain't mechanical, it's probably your electrical darlin'. Let's look at that battery o' yours."

He finally gets up, pushing on his arm. You're almost sad not to be turned the other way, you could have witnessed the way his biceps had flexed, veins popping for a few seconds, grease and oil now painting his skin and beautifully emphasizing his muscles, a perfectly shaped and shaded Greek statue.

You start to get back up too, and suddenly feel the weight of his gaze and you. You were bent, half folded just a few seconds ago, basically presenting your ass to him. Oh, you congratulate yourself for having chosen to wear these little shorts this morning. There was no way he could have looked at something else. Once fully up, you greet him with a not-so-innocent smile, fixing a strand of your hair behind your ear. A vein on his neck shows as he reciprocates your smirk, and his own body tenses. He's enjoying this whole situation.

"Mmh. I can already tell ya, she's the one causing trouble." He states, pulling his cap back in place with two hands. You're not even sure he's actually talking about the car anymore.

"H-how do you know?" You didn't want your voice to sound that weak. This man had the effect of disconnecting every basic function from your biology; except all the ones related to sex of course. Those, those they were on fire, on the verge of fucking overheating.

"Look, it's loose." He explains slowly, voice drawling, each word slurred in a husky rumble. He's saying it like that on fucking purpose. "Some bolts must have blown out. So, that littl' bitch bounces as you drive, and it ends up disconnected. All... messy, 'n overused..."

You religiously nod at his godly speech. Your eyes are fixated on his hands moving the battery in periodic movements, repetitive sharp snapping noise filling the air, fingers sliding in between the pieces of metal.. He could have well been thrusting his hips into it, it would have had the same effect on you.

"Now... let's get this bad girl to behave." He adds, devilish smirk on his face, a hand leaving the battery to pull a wrench and a few new bolts from his toolbox.

All your life you had prided yourself on being a strong and independent woman. The ranch chores? No problem. Riding? Easier and funnier, even barrel racing. Lassoing, helping a cow give birth? Done and done. Not that it was easy, but you could handle it yourself, and pretty damn well on top of that.

But right here, right now, this ego is crushed under the dirty boots of this Appolon of a cowboy, odd but unforgettable mix between a rough rancher and a mythological God, palming a car battery as if it was your ass. You could have done anything if he had ordered you to, you had never been weaker because of someone. You would have been on your knees, God, you wish he'd let you get on your knees for him.

With just a few turns of the wrench, the temperamental car is repaired. He tests the engine from the conductor seat, and it works perfectly fine. It's almost humiliating how easy it was. He gets out, pulls the hood down for you, and stands tall, satisfied with his little intervention.

"You're good t'go, darlin'."

"Thank you so much, Arthur." You don't know if you should be thanking him for the battery or for the litteral porn show he delivered you for free. It had been years since your hormones had gotten that wild.

And they weren't about to stop, considering how he had taken back his water bottle and drank straight from it, some of it beautifully streaming down his scarred chin, then his throat before getting soaked up by his already sweat-drenched shirt. He takes some of it in his right hand and wets his neck, and you have to contain a sigh. The base of his hair, all wet like this, makes you want to run your fingers through it more than ever.

"T'was nothin'. Am happy t'help a pretty girl in need."

There are a few seconds, just a few, hanging in the thick air between the two of you, where you both look at his other, his abyssal marine blue eyes sinking so deep into yours you're almost surprised he's not falling right into your soul. Maybe he is. But his gaze doesn't waver for a single second, not even by an inch, and you realize that only he maintains such intimate contact for so long without showing the slightest sign of nervousness. No one else does. For him, it doesn't have to be a source of discomfort like most people, and it becomes so intimate that you feel your legs weaken once again under the weight of that gaze. Just the two of you. Fucking with your eyes.

He gets closer to you, and you move back against the front of your car. You don't say a word. Neither is he. There's just his deep breaths and the deafening beating of your heart. He raises his arms around your waist, as if wanting to lean on the hood, trapping you. Your thighs and your aching core between them are just a few torturous inches from his jeans-covered crotch. You want to take a quick peek, burning to know if he's indeed painfully hard, if the blue pants are as tight as his shirt is on his bicep. But you can't, unable to break his eye contact, sucked into those blue seas. There's a small grease stain on his cheek you'd like to cover with your lipstick. You hold your breath. Your whole body freezes, which made no sense at all to you, considering how hot you were feeling, how ardent the atmosphere was with him almost bent on you. It's like those mind-numbing summer days, when the air is so hot and heavy and full of electricity that all you want is for the storm to finally break, never mind if the lightning strikes your whole body.

All the better if it does.

He grabs his wrench he had forgotten behind you, and pulls back. In an instant, it's winter. You don't want it to be. He looks at you with this knowing smirk, this hard jawline almost cheeky, this goddamn ballcap like a crown.

"H-hey uh -" You cough, unable to let things end like this. Searching for the thunderstorm. "I was... I was going to the Miller's Ranch for a barbecue. D'you wanna come?" You bite your lip at yet another double entendre. Shit. "I could... Offer you a beer, for all of that?"

Gently pulling the working gloves off your hands, he answers, taking his sweet time, his face holding this repressed mischievousness and desire, well hidden behind his smug expression.

"Well... I'd very much like to come. Thank you, sugar."

✧.*

Well, thank you for this amazing request that sparked this obsession in my brain I guess, Rhae! Also I won't lie to you guys, I was clearly inspired too by these amazing art pieces from @/altergoat02. Check out their blog, all of their art is prodigious.

And if Modern Arthur is your kind of boah just like me, I highly recommend you to check out Evie's Takin' care of business!! And yes I've completely looked for a tutorial on youtube about car motors. I'm just that ignorant.

tagging the sweeties who had shown interest in this/my work: @stottlemorgan, @moons-honies, @arthurmorganist, @redwritr, @cloudywithachanceofcrisis, @a-court-of-valkyries

[616ioi]

❛ #PUSH! MULTIFANDOM.

────────── oh man, my first crush, what devastation .ᐟ.ᐟ

⤿ pairings. yoji uruha, kuguri (kagurabachi), shishiba (sakadays), higuruma hiromi, nanami kento (jjk), marc spector (moon knight), könig (cod), kafka hibino (kaijuu no. 8), levi ackerman (aot), shota aizawa (mha), ego jinpachi, noel noa (bllk), woo jinchul (solo leveling), kim dokja (orv), shinichiro sano (tokrev) x gn reader

⤿ contents. sub character, older man, little experience, like close to zero, drabble. this contains mature content, read at your own discretion.

⤿ thoughts. and one day, you're nineteen, and you find older men attractive.

In love with the idea of an older man with very little experience. A man who has been too preoccupied with things that it isn't a priority. Never been touched, never been kissed. Hasn't experienced anything remotely romantic, apart from a kiss on the cheek when he was like six.

He's a 30+ year old virgen!

He's a pervert.

He's sick, pathetic, a degenerate, a thirsty blood hound who can't help but have a crush on you — his new neighbor.

Ugh, it's sickening. He likes someone so young, with so much potential ahead, and much less life experience.

He tells himself to turn away.

He is in denial of you. Not so much being 'in denial', more so — refusing to push his feelings any further.

He's accepted his feelings.

Sure, yes, he does think you're quite charming. But he refuses to give in to you. To the thought of you.

No, he will never even consider you.

His spare glances and mutters should be enough to put you off, yet you still try to befriend him.

But then he dreams of you. In his head, he lays so softly against your chest, listening to the sound of you breathing, and he tries to mimic it. It's something so intimate, something so rare to him. New.

Why do his pants feel tight?

The lines near his eyes crinkle as he shuts them tightly, and his lip curls into a snarl. He feels ashamed, disgusted with himself. He's never even once thought to touch himself to someone. What does he do? What should he do? What's the right thing?

Tell him what to do with the feelings he caught.

But it only drives you to push it deeper, it seems. The way he stumbles and averts his lingering gaze when you catch him staring. He gets tongue tied trying to respond back.

His reactions are just so... cute. At least that's what you told him that night you invited him over for some dinner. You said you felt lonely, that you could bring countless people over, but they don't exactly make you feel fulfilled.

He knows this is true. There's a vent connecting your rooms. Sometimes, just sometimes, he can overhear what goes on.

And he hears you sigh, disappointed. His heart throbs at the sound, and he can't help but think that he'd be a much better replacement.

So, the rough pads of his fingers trail down his boxers as he tries to remember what you told the last guy — "Don't get ahead of yourself, sweetheart." — he thinks the guy was trying to take over your roll. He heard the guys' pleas of mercy to give him what he wanted.

Most of them did that.

"I won't give it to you until you make me feel something."

He wouldn't be like that. He would take everything you give him, even when it comes to be too much and his hips are bucking underneath you, until he's trying to push you away by the shoulders and his eyes threaten to shut, touch him while he's begging for you to give him a minute, while he passes out and you're still buried to the hilt, he'll let himself go and not think of a single thing but you.

Even when he's drenched in his own fluids — be it white and sticky, be it clear and wet that squirts out of him after he came way too many times, be it a mixture of both his sweat and drool.

He'll push through his own orgasm to make you satisfied.

He wants to be devoured by you.

He wondered how your hand would feel around his cock. Warm, you probably know what you're doing too. Would you kiss him afterward? He would, even with his semen coating your tongue. He'd clean it off for you just to get a taste of your spit mixing with his.

He isn't embarrassed by the wanton moan that escapes him as he squirms into the soaked sheets. Your name is on the tip of his tongue, it's ready to burst, he's ready to burst but he keeps some clarity to bite his tongue and force it down when he hears your car pulling up.

And he pulls away, hips thrusting into the warm air of his bedroom as his sticky hand comes up to muffle a gasp.

He'll keep on denying himself.

He wants to forget you but he can't. He'll miss you when he doesn't have you near.

He'll cry from thinking that he was yours. He never was, never will be. He knows this. You'll quickly move on, find someone your age, much more capable in satisfying you.

He can't give in.

[viperify]

hii marls my baby 🤍

ofc yk im a slytherpuff (more huff tho ofc), cancer rising, fav is DADA, and not an ideal date but I would love to dance in the rain like those cinematic scenes 🤭

I love you SOOOO much, youre so talented and creative, I can't wait to see what you have in store for us in this event!

1k celebration | ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⛆ ݁˖ Dancing In The Rain.

A/N: my baby soph!!! Ilysm 🥺 thank you for requesting and all of your support. you know how much I love and appreciate you being here. <33 I hope you like this.🤎 and of course I had to choose Matty for you. ;)

In this drabble, you will find HINT NR #5.

You have always loved rainy days like today. The soft clattering against your bedroom window as you are tucked beneath your sheets—reading the latest novel you’ve just recently bought at your local bookstore, just around the corner of your apartment.

These are the kinds of days where you don’t get out of bed until noon, completely engulfed in the fictional world you are currently reading about. The places you wish you could escape to when life gets just a little too much—vanish from your city and move far away. To the countryside of Scotland perhaps, where castles sprout from the ground everywhere you look. Surrounded by green grass and vast forests, and most importantly, peace and calmness.

Perhaps even with your own prince charming—a girl can dream.

“What are you reading this time?” A curious voice asks from beside you, the mattress dipping under their weight as they settle down beside you—gently pressing a kiss to your temple.

There he is—your own prince charming.

You smile at his question. “They are on their first date, and it started raining,” you explain, placing the bookmark between the pages before you close the book, laying it down on your lap. “But they didn’t let it stop them. He took her hand and took her dancing.”

Mattheo quirks an eyebrow, studying your face. “In the rain?”

“Yes,” you reply softly. “I have always wanted to do that, you know? To feel the rain on my skin, without a care in the world. It must make you feel so alive.”

You see Mattheo’s eyes light up for second, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Before you get to ask what he is thinking about, he grabs your hand and helps you out of bed, guiding you down the stairs.

“What are we doing?” You ask, trying to keep your balance as he hurries through the kitchen—telling you to put on your shoes as you reach the apartment door.

“You wanted to dance in the rain—I am taking you outside to do exactly that.” He replies casually, leading you along the corridor, the first drops of rain falling onto your skin as you step outside the front door. 

“Mattheo!” You squeal, a chilly breeze brushing past you, leaving goose bumps in its wake. You glance around quickly, checking whether anyone is passing by—

“Hey, look at me,” he instructs softly, cupping your face before pressing a kiss to your lips, one arm wrapping around your waist. “Don’t worry about anyone else. It’s just you and me right now. Focus on me, pretty girl.”

Looking up at him, you see his chocolate-brown eyes shining softer than usual—offering the comfort you needed, his fingers tenderly caressing along your jaw. 

You nod.

Then, he takes your hand in his—and you dance.

Until your hair is soaked, your clothes drenched. But none of that matters—not right now. It’s you and him. And you feel alive.

Perhaps you don’t always need to move away to live your own fairytale.

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