#you all want good things to happen to this man
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BUCKY BARNES | SEX POLLEN TROPE

main masterlist | note: as the trope includes smut, all of the fics include +18 content. also since at least one party is under the influence of some kind of a chemical, this is dubious content. please proceed with caution and minors dni. enjoy!
toxic heat ⢠bucky barnes x reader | by @nyletac
summary: while waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off. (smut) (6,4k words)
take you there ⢠bucky barnes x reader | by @heli0s-writes
summary: sam plays a game called fuck or die. it's like he willed it into existence as you and hucky explore the basement of an old hydra lair. (smut, dub-con) (3,8k words)
louder than fear ⢠bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @godmadeaterribleerror
summary: missions involving hydra often go very wrong. this is different. this is worse. this is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as bucky roars you name. itâs echoing in your brain. and you love him. (smut, light angst) (8,5k words)
lustful agony ⢠bucky barnes x plus size!reader | by @fatecantstopme
summary: after getting hit in the face with a pink dust during a visit to an old hydra lab, you are confused as to what happened. thankfully, your mission partner knows what it is, and thankfully he knows the solution. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, masturbation)
what was rule number #2 again? ⢠tfatws!bucky barnes x reader | by @satinestales
summary: messing around in banner's lab, the night before your mission wasn't as good an idea as you thought, and you begin to question your actions the moment you step out of it. things worsen when you realize the super soldier serum isn't immune to an unknown contagious disease. (smut)
delirium ⢠bucky barnes x reader | by @flowersforbucky
summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, angst, friends to lovers, avenger!reader) (4,1k words)
play pretend | part two ⢠bucky barnes x reader | by @wkemeup
summary: when bucky is injected with a substance that leaves him desperate for release, you offer your help. (smut, dub-con) (7,8k words)
summary of pt.2: in the aftermath of munich, bucky struggles to go back to how things were before. but now that he knows how it is to love you, he's not sure he can. (smut, mutual pining) (5,8k words)
strawberries ⢠bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @ellemj
summary: bucky, the man with a long list of girls on his roster, gets exposed to a sex pollen in the field. will he fuck the first girl he calls or the girl he's wanted for the last two months? (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, size kink, fuckboy!bucky) (7,5k words)
does it hurt? | bonus chapter ⢠bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @ellemj
summary: bucky never would've gone out of his way to help you if he knew that hydra was still watching his every move, if he knew that it would shift their focus to you. when you're targeted and taken, it's his fault and he'll do anything to save you. anything. (angst, smut, unprotected sex, abduction, violence, voyeurism, mentions of sa) (24,3k words)
summary of bonus ch.: when you're finally out of hydraâs clutches, the recovery process drives you and bucky farther and farther apart. you can't decide if what you felt between you was real or chemically-induced. what will it take to sway you? (smut, angst, non-descriptive smut) (12,4k words)
untitled ⢠bucky barnes x reader | by @myfictionaldreams
summary: it was your first mission out with your mentor, bucky, but not all goes to plan when you stumble across an old hydra laboratory and accidentally trigger a trap. (smut, dub-con, grumpy x sunshine, rough sex, praise kink)
high for this ⢠new avenger!bucky barnes x reader | by @buckysleftbicep
summary: during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, itâs not the mission that haunts you both, itâs what happened behind that door. (smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, angst, regret) (3,8k words)
desperate | uncertain an sure ⢠bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @buckets-and-trees
summary: enemies? rivals? it's always been reluctant teamwork between you and the winter soldier, but when put in a situation where personal feelings have to be put aside, maybe actual personal feelings are uncovered. (smut, kidnapping)
desperate measures ⢠bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader | by @simplyholl
summary: when you encounter a mysterious substance during a mission, it forces you and your mission partner to get closer. (smut)
petals ⢠bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @biteofcherry
summary: it was supposed to be so simple. a boring reckon mission. just to check the cabin and secure any samples of the ongoing experiments the former hydra doctor ran the place. however the unexpected comes in the form of a flower. (smut, dub-con, fingering)
unleashed ⢠avengers!bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @veltana
summary: during a mission, bucky is exposed to something that removes his inhibitions and all he wants is you. (smut, slight fluff, possessive!bucky, unprotected sex) (4,2k words)
crimson fever ⢠bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @mandoalorian
summary: in the icy shadows of 1944 occupied europe, you uncover a dangerous hydra secret that could shift the warâs tide. but hydraâs ruthless scientist, arnim zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drugââcrimson feverââthat set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. as you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with sergeant bucky barnes, your childhood friend from brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the warâs chaos. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, violence, torture) (6,7k words)
#bucâky barnes#bucky barnes x fem!reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x reader smut#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes sex pollen#thunderbolts#marvel x reader#smut#fic recommendation
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What your favorite Hermit says about you! (In the style of Blake Jennings)
DISCLAIMER: THIS IS ALL IN GOOD FUN AND JEST. NONE OF THESE ARE TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. Also all of these are based mostly on vibes and minimally on research. If you wanna check out the guy whose videos inspired this post, you can click here.
WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY, ONTO THE SHAMING!
BdoubleO100: Chronic scratcher. You've never thrown a proper punch in your life but my god you've turned multiple people's arms into segmented paper after they looked at you funny.
Cubfan135: It's low-hanging fruit to say you're the most neurodivergent person in any room you enter. It's high-hanging fruit to say you're the neurodivergent who spends uncomfortable amounts of time in games like The Sims or People Playground perfecting your handmade torture chambers and killing machines.
DocM77: Horny jail. Your W.I.Ps would get you flogged by a priest in the town square, and there's a non-zero chance you'd actually be into that.
Ethoslab: A majority of the time, you're relatively normal passing. But the times you aren't you are a magnitude 10 quirkquake. This is both an insult and a compliment.
Falsesymmetry: Ah, perfectionists. You poor lot are masters at getting stuck in the "wanting things to be perfect vs knowing you don't have enough skill to make it perfect" loop which leads you into doing nothing and then developing depression.
Geminitay: Out of every hermit fanbase, Gem mains are the ones I believe most when they say they'd kill and die for their hermit. Like everyone else you can just go "haha funny! I am also a fan of hyperbolic humour" but with Gemboys you're not quite sure if bestie is joking or admitting to premeditated assault.
Grian: I get the feeling that you are the type of person who, when asked what you want to eat, will say "I'm fine with anything!" but you'll get genuinely frustrated if they pick something you didn't want.
GoodtimeswithScar: You guys are the embodiment of the bed of nails vs one nail phenomenon. The most traumatic thing could happen to you and you're like "eh" but if a stranger called you mid you would start sobbing.
Hypnotizd: WHERE ARE YOU?! What kind of dark, hidden discord servers do you people hide in??? Hypno mains are like the goddamn Higgs-Boson, finding evidence of one existing in public is damn near impossible but you MUST EXIST or there would be a fundamental error in the fabric of the universe. I can't even poke fun at you because I CANNOT FIND YOU.
iJevin: I'm guessing Vulture Culture is very important to you. If it's not, it's only a matter of time until it will be.
ImpulseSV: You, like him, are a cavalcade of undiagnosed mental disorders that you don't feel like getting treated. Really, the only difference between you and him is the fact that you are a lesbian.
Joe Hills: Your right-wing older relatives call you a woke leftist and your cousins call you a weirdo. What no one will call you is a maladaptive daydreamer because you've at least got the sense to keep that to yourself at family reunions.
Keralis: *sigh* Daddy kink. And that's all the descriptive words you deserve because you are neither slick nor subtle with it.
MumboJumbo: He is babygirl. You want to be babygirl. You are not babygirl. You're sitting on your throne of bones and this man is the bunny you pet while you watch the heroes lose to you in children's card games.
PearlescentMoon: Hello art kids! Specifically, art kids who could not have a normal student-teacher relationship with art teachers. There was at least one art teacher in your life who either adored you or hated your guts and which one you got completely depended on how neurodivergent YOU were and how neurodivergent THEY were. (This includes all forms of art)
Rendog: People who are most likely to be turned into bangmaids by their boyfriend/girlfriend. Look, it's completely okay that you like your partners a little bit cringe and pathetic and dumb, but remember that weaponized incompetence is not sexy!
Skizzleman: You have daddy issues, or you have intimacy issues. You could even have both. Whatever you have, you NEED to seek therapy because he cannot fix you.
Smallishbeans (Joel): You're the type of person who's kinda obsessed with the idea of biting people as a show of affection. Which is unfortunate because associating that behavior with a brunette British man historically hasn't ended well.
TangoTek: Oh my god, PICK A STRUGGLE. Are you addicted to having 500 problems at once and 65% of them are self-inflicted? I can't think of any other reason you'd do these things to yourself because it's not like you ENJOY this, you meet every single battle with the disposition of a SOAKED CAT.
VintageBeef: I know you'd lose ALL self-respect if you met a man (or woman) like Beef in a bar or club. Like, biblical levels of self-disrespect. You'd lose all morals, all convictions, everything you've ever known about the world and yourself, just for a chance. I don't know if it's admirable or really, really sad.
Welsknight: Oof, how's that religious trauma treating you? If you were brought up in a non-religious environment, swap this out with that emptiness you feel when you realize you will never be able to truly convince yourself to believe in any faith, even if you want to.
xBCrafted: Hey diva, how's your mid-to-late 20s going? Still having a crisis over being able to drink fewer and fewer glasses of wine without feeling like death in the morning? Oh, you're not in your mid-to-late 20s? Damn, you've probably been called an old soul your entire life, and I'm not sure you've realized yet that it's not a good thing.
Xisumavoid: It's hard to pick on you guys because you already have it hard enough, so let me give you some advice instead. DO NOT DATE THAT TRADWIFE/TATER TOT YOU'RE CHECKING OUT. I know the temptation is there but YOU CANNOT FIX THEM. THEY WILL RUIN YOUR LIFE.
Zedaph: You could not explain your gender identity to your cishet family members if you tried. Honestly, you couldn't explain it to your fellow gays either. You have ascended to gender beyond most people's imagination.
ZombieCleo: You have a thing for authority, don't you? You want nothing more than for a person higher up the food chain to tell you straight up what to do at all times so you don't have to navigate the minefield that is small talk with people you don't know.
And that's all of them! Thank you for reading through this project of mine! If the comment under your favorite hermit doesn't fit you, feel free to write your own in the tags or something. Or yell at me for being stupid and dumb and bad and knowing nothing about you. We love free will and attention here at the Eluminium Tumblr blog.
#hermitcraft#hermitblr#bdoubleo100#cubfan135#docm77#ethoslab#falsesymmetry#geminitay#goodtimeswithscar#grian#hypnotizd#ijevin#impulsesv#joe hills#keralis#mumbo jumbo#pearlescentmoon#rendog#skizzleman#smallishbeans#tangotek#vintagebeef#welsknight#xbcrafted#xisumavoid#zedaph#zombiecleo#my writing#holy moly the amount of tags
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Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt
Youâre absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gutâand your deeply flawed instinctsâsay yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.
You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But heyârent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.
What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.
You were brushing your teethâhalf-dressed and fully irritatedâwhen you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed byâ
"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"
You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?
Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek outâand there he was.
Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."
You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."
Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:
Vampire. 100%. No notes.
No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."
Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh⌠need help?"
He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.
"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trĂŠsor."
You blinked.
He smiled. Too many teeth.
"âŚRight," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."
You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.
You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.
Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.
"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."
You stared at him.
He stared back. Smiling.
"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."
You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.
And in your heart, you knew.
You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.
You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird thatâŚ" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.
But then came The Curtain Incident.
It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal thingsâdish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.
And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.
Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.
You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?
Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.
You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.
You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.
"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little⌠home improvement?"
He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sunâah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too⌠insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness⌠c'est magnifique."
You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.
"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."
His smile widened.
You were spiraling.
Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, andâswear to Godâa hand mirror.
Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!
You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:
Never seen him in daylight.
Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.
Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.
Blackout curtains.
Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.
Smiles like he knows how you die.
By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.
You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?
hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here
Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.
Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accidentâand if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.
Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.
All you wantedâall you wantedâwas to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.
But fateâunrelenting, nosy fateâhad other plans.
You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked upâand there he was.
Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.
He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this timeâŚ
This time he had a sunburn.
Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway lightâbut no. It was there. Angry and tender.
Your brain slammed the panic button.
OH MY GOD.
IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.
I KNEW IT.
The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit ĂŠternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.
He caught you staring andâlike a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved itâtilted his head, utterly unbothered.
"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was⌠overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."
SĂłl. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.
You cleared your throat. "So⌠you got burned? By the sun?"
"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminderâah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."
You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."
He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.
"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and thenâbecause of course he didâhe pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.
You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.
In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.
It was real.
He was burned by the sun.
This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yetâalert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?âbut you did know one thing:
Your neighbor was a vampire.
And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.
Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.
It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.
You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candleânot romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.
When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.
"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."
You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."
He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and thenâfroze.
His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.
You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.
"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So⌠persistent."
"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.
He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is⌠not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."
You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"
"I find it⌠overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."
Oh. OH.
He hates garlic.
He fears garlic.
He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.
You knew it.
You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.
But thenâ
He sat down.
And without flinchingâhe ate the garlic bread.
The entire world went silent.
You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd broughtâred for the recordâand turned to you with a serene expression.
"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."
You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.
HE ATE IT
HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN????
Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?
Or.
Oh no.
What if he's a half-vampire?
What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?
You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.
You were spiraling again.
You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So⌠you're definitely not allergic?"
He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."
You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."
He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.
You were absolutely losing it.
Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man⌠a monster⌠or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.
And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.
You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.
Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.
But today? Today broke you.
Because today, Rook complimented your socks.
"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."
You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.
And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.
And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.
"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"
Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."
You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."
He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."
Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just⌠a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."
You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."
"âŚIs that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.
"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bamânext thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."
Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."
"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."
Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."
Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean⌠if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"
"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."
At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.
You are no closer to solving the mystery.
Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.
He may be a vampire. He may just be French.
He may, horrifyingly, be both.
And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.
This had nothingânothingâto do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughterâit rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.
You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.
That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.
Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.
Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."
But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.
"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."
The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.
A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).
A late-night jazz cafĂŠ, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.
A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.
He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.
He called them dates.
You called it recon.
You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just⌠use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."
He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"
You choked on your breadstick.
Every time you tried to interrogate himâ"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"âhe'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.
You were flailing.
You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.
But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.
When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.
When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."
You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.
You were vampire watching.
That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.
And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.
But that was research.
Totally. Entirely. Academic.
And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"âthat was probably just heartburn.
You were on a mission.
You were not falling for him.
You were simply⌠emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.
It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.
You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole dealâthe entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encountersâwas that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You wereâ
"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.
And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.
He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You let him.Â
You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.
What the hell was happening to you.
When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.
You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.
You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.
You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.
You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.
You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.
In factâ
Oh god.
You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.
You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.
You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:
"Oh no. I'm into it."
You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.
Worseâyou hadn't even noticed.
And now you were spiraling.
Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yetâ
He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.
You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.
Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.
For now.
Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.
But maybe⌠maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.
Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.
Maybe he was a vampire.
Maybe he wasn't.
But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?
That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.
You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.
By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.
And that was when Rook showed up at your door.
Unannounced.
With soup.
"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."
You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.
He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.
"Mon pauvre cĹur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."
You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.
He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.
And then he brought the soup.
It was⌠soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.
He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.
"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."
And youâ
You just looked at him.
Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cĹur andâ
Oh.
Oh no.
You were in love with him.
It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.
You were in love with Rook Hunt.
Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.
Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."
Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.
And you did not care.
You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love balladâand for once, you believed it.
Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformationânone of it mattered anymore.
You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.
You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.
"âŚCan I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.
"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.
You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever⌠will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"
He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.
"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."
You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.
Vampire or not.
You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:
Rook was sitting beside you.
Still holding your hand.
You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:
He was warm.
Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.
You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.
Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:
"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."
But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.
Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.
When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.
"Ah, bonjour, petit trĂŠsor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."
You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long�"
"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."
You tried to sit up.
Your body politely declined the request.
Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one handâstill gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.
Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.
"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."
And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.
If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"âyou would have said yes.
You would have said yes so fast.
You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.
He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.
And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.
You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.
Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.
You were in love.
Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.
And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.
Preferably after he kissed you.
Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.
You know.
For research.

You ended up taking another nap.Â
You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmthâsunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.
Rook. He'd stayed again.
Then he did the unthinkable.
He walked to the window.
He reached for the curtain.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trĂŠsor. Even a flower must bloom."
You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.
Because no.
NO.
You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."
You didn't even think.
You launched.
With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NOâYOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.
The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Rook blinked up at you.
Thenâlike you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in historyâhe started laughing.
Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.
You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are youâ? You were in the sun!"
He wheezed. "You thoughtâmon dieuâyou thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"
"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "Youâmidnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodgingâyou showed so many signs!"
He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trĂŠsor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."
You froze. "You what."
"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myselfâI wanted to see how far you'd go."
You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"
"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owlâstaring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."
You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."
"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."
You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.
"So you're human," you muttered.
"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."
You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."
"You did. With great passion."
"I thought I was saving your life."
He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."
You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."
"âŚYou did do that."
"And if I had been a vampire," he added, "I assure you, you'd be one by now."
You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.
Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.
Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.
Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So⌠turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."
Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"
"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."
Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."
"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"
"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."
You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."
Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."
You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."
"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"
"I was being thorough!" you cried.
Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."
"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."
"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."
You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.
"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the wayâI almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."
You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just⌠calling a guy?!"
Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."
Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."
You flipped him off.
"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."
Ace choked on his drink.
Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"
You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."
They both stared.
Then Ace said, "You are so weird."
And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."
You sighed into your straw.
Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."
You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."
"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."
You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."
Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.
He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he hadâholding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.
And youâfoolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious youâhad melted for all of it.
You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.
Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.
"Mon cĹur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"
Your brain static'd. Justâflatlined.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.
You kissed him.
You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surpriseâpleased, delightedâand kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.
When he pulled away, he was smiling.
The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.
It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.
Because with that smile?
He drove a stake through your heart anyway.
You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.
He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'dâyeah."
"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."
He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.
You let it happen.
Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?
This was it.
He was your person.
Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist
#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#twst#twisted wonderland#rook hunt x reader#rook x reader#rook hunt#rook x you#rook#twst rook#twst rook x reader
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IN EVERY LANGUAGE, IN ANY PLACE.

You met him by accident in Monacoâbad parking, shared laughter, and a night where he taught you French. You never expected to see him again. But in Italy, there he was, this time, speaking Italian. And suddenly, it all made sense. It was him.
pairing. Charles Leclerc x fem! reader.
warnings. age gap (22/27), 8,1k words, google translated french & italian, teasing, suggestive (make out), sexual tension, one-night stand, soulmates kinda, reader wears dress, pet names.
music. Mystery Of Love & Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens.
MONACO FELT LIKE THE PERFECT PLACE to fix your struggle with French. After years of studying, somehow, the language still slipped away from you when you needed it most. It frustrated you, how much effort you had put into learning it, only to still feel lost in conversations. You told yourself that spending a week in Monaco would be the answerâthat being surrounded by the language, hearing it every day, would finally make everything click.
That was what you told yourself, at least.
In reality, you had mostly come for the experience. Monaco was beautiful, exciting, full of life. The clear blue water, the elegant streets, the sound of laughter mixed with the hum of expensive carsâit was the kind of place people dreamed about visiting. And if improving your French was the official reason for your trip, it was just a bonus.
Still, despite your best efforts, English had taken over almost every interaction. Ordering coffee? English. Asking for directions? English. The one time you had really tried to hold a conversation in French, the waiter had simply nodded politely and responded in perfect English, like he knew there was no point in struggling through your accent.
It had been embarrassingâbut also a relief.
You wanted to get better, you really did. But between the beauty of the city and the ease of slipping back into English, you werenât sure if you were actually learning anything or just enjoying a break from reality.
Not that it really mattered.
If nothing else, it was a good excuse to be here.
Parking in Monaco was proving to be more of a challenge than you had anticipated. You had expected tight spaces, expected expensive cars lining the streets, expected to feel slightly overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of it allâbut actually squeezing your not-so-small sports car into a ridiculously tight spot without scratching paintwork worth more than your entire life savings? That was a different kind of pressure. Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as you focused, adjusting the angle, inching forward with painstaking caution, all while trying not to imagine the disaster that could happen if you miscalculated by even a fraction.
And then, just to make things worse, someone was watching.
A man stepped out of the sleek black Ferrari parked beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone whose car was in immediate danger. He leaned back slightly, the sunlight catching the lenses of his sunglasses, making it impossible to tell exactly where he was lookingâbut you didnât need to see his eyes to know he was amused. His smirk was obvious, practically dripping with enjoyment.
"You better not crash my car," he said, laughter easy, smooth, effortlessly confident, like this was nothing more than casual entertainment for him.
You exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as frustration flared in your chest. You had barely been in Monaco a few days, but the city seemed to be crawling with people like thisârich, cocky, completely at ease in a world where expensive cars and effortless charm were just a given. You muttered under your breath, resisting the urge to say something snarky. Just another arrogant idiot with too much money.
But he didnât just walk away.
Instead, he stepped closer, taking his time, moving like he had all the patience in the world, like he had decided that watching you struggle was far too entertaining to pass up. His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket as he reached your open window, his posture casual, the smirk never fading.
"You want me to do it?" he asked, the words slow, confident, teasingâbut not mocking.
You inhaled, turning to finally look at him properly, prepared to brush him off with some sarcastic remarkâbut then you saw him. And wow.
Messy brown hair, like he had just run his fingers through it. A mustache that shouldnât have suited him but somehow did, framing his lips in a way that added to his already unfair level of attractiveness. Sunglasses shielding his eyes, but not hiding the way he carried himself, the easy confidence in his stance, the quiet amusement in the way his smirk deepened.
You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel as uncertainty flickered through your mind. Was this really a good idea? Letting a complete stranger slide into your driverâs seat and take control of your car? For a split second, an irrational thought crossed your mindâwhat if he just drove off? What if he disappeared down the street in your car, leaving you standing there, utterly humiliated?
But then, reality kicked in. You were in Monaco. This wasnât some shady alley where people stole cars out of desperation. This was a place of luxury, wealth, and ridiculous displays of status. The man standing next to you had stepped out of a Ferrariâone that was probably worth ten times more than your own car. If there was anyone in this world who didnât need to steal a car, it was him.
You sighed, finally letting go of that last bit of hesitation, exhaling sharply like the act of trusting him was somehow exhausting. "Better than humiliating myself any longer, I guess."
The moment the words left your mouth, he moved. Effortlessly, smoothly, like he had done this a million times before. There was no uncertainty in his movements, no hesitation in the way he slid into your driverâs seat. His hands settled on the wheel, adjusting for a brief second before shifting into gear.
And thenâjust like thatâhe parked.
Perfectly.
One smooth, confident motion. No back-and-forth adjustments, no struggle, no second-guessing. Just precise control, like he had been doing this since the moment he learned how to walk.
You stared, blinking, processing.
Well. That was humbling.
He stepped out of the car with the kind of confidence that only someone truly comfortable in their own world could have. His smirk hadnât faded, and as he shut the door behind him, he glanced at you with a look that practically radiated smug satisfaction.
"See? Easy," he said, flashing a smile, like parking a car in Monacoâs ridiculously tight spaces was the simplest thing in the world.
You scoffed, crossing your arms but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. "Show-off.â
He shrugged, completely unbothered by your comment. "Iâve lived here my whole life," he said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "I know every parking space."
You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. "Every parking space?"
His smirk deepened, his sunglasses catching the light as he leaned casually against his Ferrari. "Every good one," he clarified, voice smooth, effortlessly confident.
His gaze lingered for a moment, sweeping over you before shifting toward your carâs plate, his smirk deepening with quiet amusement. There was something about the way he looked at youâlike he was studying, piecing together details, making his own quiet assessments without needing to ask any questions.
"Youâre not from here," he observed, his voice effortlessly smooth, carrying just enough intrigue to make the statement feel like it meant something more than just a simple remark.
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly as you shifted your weight, arms crossing loosely over your chest. "Was my parking that terrible?â
The corner of his lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin, one brow lifting ever so slightly in a way that made it painfully obvious he was enjoying himself. "Maybe," he admitted, dragging out the word like he was savoring it, like he was deliberately teasing. Then, after a beat, he shrugged. "But alsoâyour plate."
You glanced toward your car for half a second before looking back at him, the realization settling in. Right. He wasnât wrongâyour plate was a giveaway. A clear sign that you werenât local, that you were just passing through, that maybe you didnât quite belong here the way he obviously did.
And yet, there was something about the way he said itâthe easy confidence, the teasing smirk, the way he made the most basic observation feel like it carried weightâthat made you wonder if he was sizing you up for reasons beyond just where you were from.
Wow. He knew exactly how to charm a woman.
You shook your head slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you clarified, "No not at all. I'm just here for my studies."
Your tone was light, casual, the kind of response that was meant to keep the conversation simple, easy, without giving too much away. But somehow, saying it out loud made Monaco feel even more like an unfamiliar worldâlike you were an outsider dropping into a place that wasnât entirely yours.
His smirk didnât fade, but his interest sparked just a little more, like your answer had intrigued him in ways you hadnât expected. He tilted his head slightly, watching you carefully, processing your words before responding.
"Studies, huh?" he mused, the word rolling off his tongue with casual amusement. "Let me guessâFrench?"
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head, knowing he wasnât entirely wrong. "Yeah, and before you say anything, yes, I know my parking skills werenât helping prove that."
He chuckled at that, a rich, low sound that sent a flicker of something through your chest. His posture remained relaxed, his hands slipping effortlessly into the pockets of his jacket as he continued to study you. "I wasnât going to say anything," he teased, but there was something in his toneâsomething playful, something knowingâthat told you he absolutely was going to say something.
You rolled your eyes, exhaling softly, feeling the light breeze move through the streets around you. Monaco might have been full of cocky, charming menâbut something about this one felt different.
His smirk lingered, and even though you had answered his question, it was clear he wasnât quite done with you yet. He shifted his weight slightly, the ease in his posture never fading, and you could tell that this conversationâthis interactionâwas something he was enjoying far more than just idle small talk.
"So, a week in Monaco to improve your French?" he mused, the teasing edge still in his voice. "Bold choice."
You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. "I wouldnât say bold," you corrected, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. "Necessary might be a better word."
He hummed, tilting his head as he studied you again, like he was deciding something about you that he wasnât going to share just yet. "And howâs that going for you?"
You let out an exaggerated sigh, glancing around for a moment, pretending to survey your surroundings like you were searching for evidence of your progress. "Well," you started, dragging out the word, "so far, Iâve mostly spoken English."
His chuckle was immediate, rich, the kind of sound that felt entirely too warm for someone as effortlessly smug as he was. "Ah," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "So, failing, then?"
You narrowed your eyes at him, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed any real attempt at annoyance. "I wouldnât say failing.â
His smirk deepened, and for a second, the moment stretchedâcomfortable, easy, natural in a way that caught you just a little off guard.
His smirk remained steady, the confidence in his stance effortless, like it was second nature. He leaned against his car with ease, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the way he was watching youâcurious, amused, intrigued in a way that made it clear this conversation was far more entertaining to him than just polite small talk.
"Whatâs your name, pretty girl?" he asked, voice smooth, laced with something teasing, something knowing. "Maybe I can help you with your French."
You couldnât stop the smile that tugged at your lips. There was something about himâthe way he was so unapologetically confident, so comfortable in the way he carried himself, so assured in his approachâthat made it hard not to enjoy this. He wasnât hesitant, wasnât shy. He knew exactly what he was doing.
"Iâm Y/n," you said finally, letting the words roll off your tongue with the same casual ease, letting your voice carry the same playfulness, the same subtle challenge that told him you werenât just going to let him lead this conversation. Then, after a beat, you tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flicker over him deliberately before adding, "And you, pretty boy?"
The moment the words left your mouth, you saw itâa flicker of something in his expression, barely noticeable but definitely there. Surprise.
But only for half a second.
Because then, just as effortlessly as before, his smirk returned, deepening like he had expected you to play along, like he had hoped you would. And suddenly, you were certainâhe was enjoying this just as much as you were.
His smirk didnât waver, but there was something in the way his head tilted slightly, like he was sizing you up, weighing your reaction, testing the waters of your confidence. He had expected you to flirt backâyou could see it in the way his lips curled, in the amused glint behind his sunglassesâbut that didnât mean he hadnât enjoyed the confirmation.
"Pretty boy?" he echoed, amusement dripping from his tone, his posture shifting just slightly, the casual confidence never fading. "I havenât been called that in a while."
You shrugged, keeping your expression light, playful, effortlessly unbothered. "Well, I call it like I see it.â
His chuckle was slow, rich, the kind of sound that carried more meaning than it should have, like he was taking his time with this moment, like he was deliberately drawing it out. Then, in one smooth motion, he reached up, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyesâsharp, green, filled with something that was equally teasing and analyzing all at once.
"Charles," he said finally, his name rolling off his tongue like it belonged here, like he belonged here.
Something about the way he said it told you this wasnât just a nameâit was an introduction. A moment meant to stick. A small shift in the atmosphere that hinted this wasnât the last conversation the two of you were going to have.
Charlesâ words hung between you, smooth and effortlessly confident, like he had extended the invitation knowing you wouldnât refuse. He leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the smirk beneath themâfelt the unspoken meaning lingering just behind his offer.
âSo, Y/nâtonight on my yacht?" he suggested, voice easy, teasing, yet somehow carrying a quiet challenge. Then, after a beat, he added, "For a French lesson."
You raised a brow, crossing your arms, your lips twitching at the corners as you studied him. "French lesson, huh?" you echoed, letting the words stretch just enough to make it clear you werenât fooled. "Thatâs the reason youâre going with?â
Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, completely unbothered by your skepticism. "You do need the help," he pointed out, the teasing laced in his tone impossible to miss. Then, with that same smirk, he shrugged. "Besides, is there a better way to learn than on a yacht, under the stars, with someone who actually speaks French?"
You exhaled softly, pretending to weigh your options, even thoughâdeep downâyou knew there was only one answer.
Charles watched you carefully, his smirk never wavering, the challenge in his eyes evidentâeven through the shield of his sunglasses. He wasnât just inviting you onto his yacht for a simple lesson; he was inviting you into his world, into his Monaco.
And somehow, despite the little voice in the back of your head telling you to be rational, telling you that this was probably a bad idea, you still found yourself intrigued.
"Alright, fine," you finally said, crossing your arms, tilting your head slightly. "But only if you promise Iâll actually learn something.â
He chuckled, pushing off his car with a casual ease. "I promise," he mused, his voice carrying just enough mischief to make you question if he meant it.
Something told you that stepping onto that yacht wasnât just going to be about learning French.
Charlesâ smirk deepened ever so slightly, like he knew he had wonâlike he had expected you to say yes but still enjoyed hearing the confirmation. He reached into his pocket, effortlessly pulling out his phone, fingers moving smoothly as he sent off a quick message, probably setting things in motion for the evening ahead.
"You wonât regret it," he assured, slipping the phone back into his jacket, watching you with that same quiet confidence. "Meet me at the docks around eight."
You raised a brow, pretending to weigh the offer in your mind, even though you had already made your decision. "And what exactly can I expect from this so-called French lesson?â
Charles chuckled, pushing his sunglasses up slightly, the smirk never fading. "That depends," he mused. "Are you a fast learner, or do you need some extra motivation?"
There was something about the way he said itâsomething teasing, something layeredâthat made it clear tonight wasnât just about learning French.
And somehow, you found yourself looking forward to it.
"I prefer motivation," you said, your smirk matching his, refusing to let him have the upper hand too easily.
Charlesâ own smirk widened, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze, like he had expected that answer but still enjoyed hearing it. There was something about the way he carried himselfâan easy confidence that never wavered, a natural charm that wasnât forced but felt effortless. Every movement, every glance, was calculated just enough to draw you in without seeming deliberate.
He pushed off his car with a casual ease, adjusting his jacket like he had all the time in the world, taking a slow step forward. The shift was subtleâbarely noticeable to an outsiderâbut you noticed. He wasnât just moving closer; he was setting the pace, drawing out the moment, stretching the space between you just enough to make it feel intentional.
âGood," he murmured, voice smooth, carrying a teasing undertone yet laced with something undeniably confident. He let the words settle between you, his smirk never fading, his gaze locked onto yours. âBecause I happen to be very good at motivation."
You raised a brow, refusing to back down, meeting his challenge without hesitation. There was a playfulness in the exchange, but also something elseâsomething neither of you were quite willing to name yet.
âââ
The evening was warm, the air carrying the fresh scent of the sea as soft waves lapped against the dock. Lights from the yachts reflected on the water, casting a golden glow, making everything look just a little more magical. The docks werenât too busy, just enough movement and quiet chatter to remind you that Monaco never truly slept.
You stood there, shifting slightly, adjusting the books tucked under your arm, as if they made this feel more like an actual lesson instead of⌠whatever this was becoming. Your black dress fit just right, hugging you in all the places that made you feel confident. It was shorter than what you usually wore, but tonight felt different. You had spent extra time getting ready, making sure everything was smooth, perfect, just in case.
Your eyes moved over the yachts, each one shining under the dock lights, sleek and expensive. Some were massive, almost too large to seem real, while others were slightly more understatedâbut only in the way Monacoâs wealthy could be. You wondered which one belonged to him.
Then, footsteps. Steady, calm, unhurried. The kind of walk that told you this person had all the time in the world.
You turned just as Charles stepped into view. He looked effortlessly put together, wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, the top few buttons undone. He fit here, belonged in this world, carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew he was charming.
His smirk appeared the moment he saw you, his gaze sweeping over you with easy amusement before flickering to the books in your arms.
âNot bad, Y/n," he mused, voice smooth, teasing. âYou actually brought them?"
You couldnât help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Of course," you said, tilting your head slightly. "I take my lessons seriously.â
Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, like he wasnât sure whether to be impressed or just entertained.
âWell then," he murmured, stepping aside, motioning toward the large, sleek yacht behind him. "Letâs get started."
Charles led the way up the dock, his movements easy, natural, like he had done this a hundred times before. As you stepped onto the yacht, the soft sway beneath your feet reminded you that this wasnât just any boatâit was luxury, through and through. Sleek, modern, with soft lighting that cast a golden glow over the pristine deck. Everything was polished, elegant, effortlessly perfect.
You barely had time to take it all in before Charles turned to you, hands slipping into his pockets, smirk still in place.
âMake yourself comfortable," he said, motioning toward the seating area at the back of the yacht, where plush cushions surrounded a glossy table.
You exhaled softly, moving toward the spot, setting your French books down before settling onto one of the seats. The evening air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and expensive cologneâa mix that somehow suited the moment too well.
Charles took the seat next to you, leaning back, stretching his arm over the edge of the seat like he belonged there, like he belonged everywhere.
âSo," he mused, eyes flickering toward the books before back to you. âWhere should we begin?"
You raised a brow, tapping your fingers lightly against the cover of one of the books. "That depends. Do you actually plan to teach, or was this just an excuse to get me here?â
His chuckle was immediate, warm, amused. "A little bit of both," he admitted, flashing you a grin. "But donât worryâIâm a great teacher.â
Charles wasted no time. The moment he settled into his seat, he leaned back, his smirk unwavering as he casually started speaking in smooth, fluent Frenchâhis words flowing effortlessly, his tone relaxed yet confident, like he was testing you, like he was enjoying watching your reaction.
You blinked, trying to catch at least some of what he was saying, but it was hopeless. His words blended together too quickly, too naturally, and before you could even try to keep up, you found yourself laughing, shaking your head as you lifted a hand in protest.
âHey, heyâslow!" you said, amusement clear in your voice, your laughter slipping between the words. "Iâm trying to learn, not get overwhelmed!"
Charles chuckled, his expression practically glowing with amusement, clearly enjoying this. He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider your request before shrugging.
âAh, but learning under pressure is the best way, no?" he teased, eyes flashing with something both playful and smug.
âI ended with animals," you said, smiling as you flipped through the pages of your book. Somehow, despite all the effort, all the attempts at forming proper sentences, you had ended up learning random animal names instead of anything actually useful. It wasnât exactly what you had planned when you stepped onto the yacht, but at this point, you werenât sure if anything about tonight was going according to plan.
Charles raised a brow, clearly amused, his smirk deepening as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The soft glow of the yachtâs lights cast a warm hue over his skin, making the teasing glint in his eyes even more noticeable. "Animals?" he echoed, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement.
You grinned, feeling oddly proud of your one solid takeaway. "I know how to say owl," you announced, sitting up a little straighter, ready to flex your knowledge.
âChouette," you said confidently, looking at him like you had just won something.
But the moment the word left your mouth, Charles burst into laughter, shaking his head immediately, his whole body leaning back slightly as he let the sound roll through him.
âNon, non,â he chuckled, his amusement clear as he ran a hand through his hair, still grinning. "Your accentâwhat was that?â
You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. "Excuse me?â
âExcuse you,â he teased, still laughing, his eyes shining with pure entertainment. "That was terrible.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing too, shaking your head as you grabbed your book again, flipping through the pages like you were searching for proof that you had said it correctly. "Fine," you huffed, pretending to be annoyed even though you were enjoying this far more than you should. "Teach me how to say it properly, professeur.â
Charles smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel too intentional. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something elseâsomething neither of you were quite acknowledging yet.
âGladly," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours for just a second longer than necessary.
Charles didnât hesitate. He leaned in just a little more, closing the space between you, his smirk still firmly in place as he spoke againâslower this time, deliberate, letting the word roll off his tongue in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
"Chouette," he repeated, his voice smooth, rich, carrying that effortless charm that made even a simple correction feel like something more.
You watched him carefully, trying to focus on the actual lesson, but it was hard when he was this close, when the warmth of the evening mixed with the quiet hum of the water beneath the yacht, when the teasing glint in his eyes made it clear he was enjoying this far too much.
You cleared your throat, straightening slightly, determined to get it right this time. "Chouette," you tried again, mimicking the way he had said it, paying attention to the way the syllables should sound.
Charles tilted his head, considering it for a moment before nodding slowly. "Better," he admitted, though the smirk never faded. "Still not perfect, but better."
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "Youâre impossible."
"Iâm thorough," he corrected, leaning back slightly, finally giving you a little spaceâbut not too much. "You wanted motivation, didnât you?"
You exhaled, pretending to be exasperated, but the truth was, you were enjoying this far more than you had expected.
"Fine," you said, crossing your arms. "Whatâs next, professeur?"
Charles chuckled, reaching for your book again, flipping through the pages like he was searching for something specific.
"Letâs see⌠something useful this time, maybe?" he teased, glancing up at you with that same playful glint in his eyes.
He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, amusement playing behind his sharp gaze as he leaned back against the cushioned seat. There was something about the way he carried himselfâunrushed, confident, like he had all the time in the world and was thoroughly enjoying the moment. The soft glow of the yachtâs lights reflected in his eyes, making his expression even more unreadable, more teasing.
"Quel âge as-tu? (How old are you?)" he asked, voice smooth, effortless, slipping into French like it was second nature. The words rolled off his tongue easily, and you wondered briefly if this was still part of the lesson or if he was just trying to collect details about you, learning bit by bit, pretending it was all just casual conversation.
You actually knew what that meant. For a split second, you considered whether he was testing youâgauging how much you had actually picked up from your lessons so far. Was he genuinely curious, or was this just another excuse to keep the conversation going, to shift things into something more personal? Either way, you werenât going to make it too easy for him.
But you played along anyway.
"J'ai vingt-deux ans (Iâm twenty-two)," you answered, keeping your voice casual, easy, like you werenât thinking too much about the way he was watching you now. The words felt familiar, comfortable enough that you didnât stumble over them, and you felt the smallest twinge of pride in that.
Charles raised a brow, nodding slowly, considering your response like it meant more than just numbers. He let the moment stretch for a second longer than necessary before finally speaking again.
"Vingt-deux (twenty-two),â he mused, rolling the words over his tongue like he was tasting them, testing how they felt in the space between you. "Not bad."
You smirked, tilting your head slightly, matching his energy. "And you?"
His smirk deepened, like he had been expecting the question, like he had been waiting for it. There was something unreadable in his eyes for just a brief secondâsomething calculating, something amused.
"Vingt-sept (twenty-seven)," he said finally, the number settling between you in a way that made the space feel smaller, more intentional, like the conversation had shifted into something just a little more personal.
And for some reason, you didnât mind.
You hadnât expected him to be twenty-seven. Maybe twenty-five at most, but hearing the number settle between you made you reconsider. It suited himâthe quiet confidence, the effortless charm, the way he never seemed unsure of himself. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly who he was, someone who had already carved out his place in the world and wasnât wasting time doubting it.
And really, was it a bad thing?
Rich, pretty, older than you? That was basically everything you wanted wrapped up in one dangerously charming package. He had the kind of presence that made people take notice, the kind of energy that drew you in without you even realizing.
Charles must have noticed something in your expression because his smirk deepened just a little, like he could read your thoughts, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. His eyes lingered on yours for half a second longer than necessary, like he was quietly enjoying your reaction.
"Surprised?" he asked, voice low, teasing, as if he already knew the answer.
You shrugged, refusing to let him see too much, keeping your expression neutral even though you could feel the way the conversation had shifted slightly. "A little."
He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, like he was figuring out the best way to keep this moment stretching just a little longer. "Donât worry, twenty-seven isnât old," he mused, his tone playful yet steady, as if daring you to challenge him. "I promise Iâll keep up."
He handed you a glass filled with crisp white wine, the cool surface pressing against your fingers as you accepted it. The golden liquid shimmered under the soft yacht lights, casting reflections that danced with the gentle sway of the boat beneath you. There was something effortlessly smooth about the way Charles moved, like every action was carefully measured yet completely natural at the same time.
"Comment trouvez-vous Monaco? (How do you like Monaco?)" he asked, his voice carrying that same teasing lilt he had kept throughout the night.
This time, you actually understoodâor, well, you understood one word. Monaco. The rest? A blur of syllables spoken too fluidly, too easily for you to process.
Still, there was no way you were about to admit that so quickly.
You mirrored his movement, lifting your glass slightly before taking a small sip, buying yourself a second of time. Then, after setting it down, you smirked. "Monaco," you repeated, nodding as if that was a perfectly valid answer.
Charles chuckled, shaking his head slowly, setting his glass down for a moment. "Thatâs it?" he teased, watching you closely.
"Thatâs all I got," you admitted, laughing lightly, swirling your wine in the glass. "Something about Monaco. Am I close?"
His grin widened, and he exhaled through his nose, clearly entertained. "Close enough," he mused, swirling his own glass gently before taking a sip. "I asked what you think of it."
You hummed thoughtfully, glancing out over the water, the city lights shimmering in the distance, the soft hum of waves filling the quiet spaces between words.
"Itâs⌠surreal," you admitted after a beat, looking back at him. "Like itâs not real life, you know?"
Charles nodded slowly, studying you for a moment, his expression unreadableâbut curious.
"Itâs a world of its own," he said, voice softer now, reflective. "Some people come here and never leave."
For a moment, you wondered if he was including himself in that.
You swirled your glass absentmindedly, watching how the golden liquid caught the yachtâs soft lighting, reflecting the quiet glow of the Monaco skyline in the distance. There was something surreal about being here, about sitting across from Charles, about the effortless way the evening had unfolded.
"Just like you?" you asked out of curiosity, tilting your head slightly, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your glass.
Charles' smirk remained, but his eyes held something softer now, something thoughtful. "I was born here, actually," he said, the words coming out effortlessly, like it was something he had explained a hundred times before.
You blinked, processing his words as you set your glass down. Somehow, the idea of Charles being born in Monaco made perfect senseâbut at the same time, it caught you off guard. You had always assumed people came here, drawn in by the glamour, the exclusivity, the effortless luxury. But for him, this wasnât just a place to visit. It was home.
Charles leaned in slightly, his smile lingering, the challenge evident in his eyes. He had been enjoying this, guiding the conversation just enough to keep you engaged, watching closely as you navigated your way through each question, each attempt at forming sentences.
"But I want you to answer," he said smoothly, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his wine glass. "In French."
You took a breath, steadying yourself, determined not to let this moment slip. French wasnât easy for you, and answering on the spot, with him watching, only made it feel more intimidating. But you werenât about to back down.
Carefully, deliberately, you put your best effort into the answer.
"J'aime cet endroit, surtout maintenant (I love this place, especially now)," you said, the words coming out slower than his but clear enough, confident enough.
Charles tilted his head slightly, considering your response, his smirk deepening just a little, like he was amused by the effort, impressed despite himself.
"Not bad," he mused, taking a sip of his wine, eyes still locked onto yours. "You like this place⌠especially now?"
You nodded, meeting his gaze, holding onto the moment just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
"Yes," you admitted, setting your glass down, fingers grazing against the rim absentmindedly. "The lesson is helping."
Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Ah, so I am a good teacher," he teased, sitting back, watching you like he was still figuring something out.
Charles moved in, slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you with an ease that made your pulse quicken. His presence was impossible to ignore, his confidence effortless, like he knew exactly how close he could get before it became too muchâexcept this time, too much was exactly what you wanted.
The wine had settled in your system, warmth spreading through your limbs, but that wasnât what made you lean in slightly, wasnât what made you hold his gaze with unwavering certainty. You wanted this. You wanted him. Even though, just hours ago, he had been nothing more than a stranger who happened to help you park your car.
His voice was low, smooth, carrying that undeniable edge of amusement as he spoke. "Tu es vraiment jolie, tu le sais? (You are really pretty, you know that?)â
And for the first time tonight, you understood every single word.
You felt your breath hitch slightly, but you didnât let it show. Instead, you exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.
"You think so?" you mused, tilting your head slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened in response.
"I know so," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, carrying just enough certainty to make the air between you feel heavier, charged.
The hum of the yacht, the quiet waves against the dock, the distant sounds of Monacoâit all faded into the background. Right now, there was only this.
Only him.
Charlesâ breath was warm against your ear, his words barely above a whisper, yet you felt themâevery syllable, every hesitation. They werenât just words; they were an unspoken confession, a quiet unraveling of the careful, effortless charm he had worn all evening.
âJe te veux un peu. (I kinda want you)â
It was quiet. Careful. As if he wasnât sure if he should be saying it at all, as if he was testing the weight of the admission before fully giving in to it. Until now, every glance, every smirk, every lingering touch had felt intentional, like he knew exactly how far to push without giving too much away. But now? Now there was something uncertain, something raw beneath his teasing façade.
âIs it weird?" he asked, his voice softer now, lower, suddenly hesitant in a way that didnât feel like him.
You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, to catch the faint flicker of uncertainty in his expression, something rare, something unexpected. The space between you was dangerously small, but neither of you moved to widen it.
âYou only kinda want me?" you asked, arching a brow, a teasing lilt in your voiceâbecause you werenât uncertain. Not even a little. You wanted him. More than hesitant words and uncertain breaths. You wanted all of him.
Charles exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against yours in quiet confirmation. His smirk returned, curving just at the edges, but there was something different about it now. Something heavier. Something decisive.
âOkay," he murmured, voice lower, thicker, like the hesitation had finally melted away. âBeaucoup. (A lot)â
Charles' eyes held yours, dark with intent, his grip firm against your waist, like he already knew what was comingâlike he had been waiting for it. The tension between you had stretched for too long, simmering beneath each teasing exchange, each lingering touch, each second of withheld restraint.
And then, finallyâ
âEmbrasse-moi, Charles. (Kiss me, Charles)â
You barely finished the words before he acted.
He kissed you. Hungrily. There was no hesitation, no teasing buildup anymoreâjust pure, undeniable want. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, needing you closer, needing more.
His lips moved against yours with intoxicating urgency, fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he drank you in, as if he had decided in that moment that this wasnât just desireâit was necessary.
The warmth of his body, the steady hum of the yacht beneath you, the rhythm of the waves against the dockâit all blurred into insignificance.
His fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress, his grip tight but controlled, holding you in place as if he couldnât stand even the smallest bit of distance between you. The yacht swayed gently beneath you, the rhythm of the waves mirroring the way his lips moved against yoursâdeliberate, intense, possessive.
You sighed into him, your own hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer, matching his urgency, meeting his pace.
Charles exhaled against your lips, his breath uneven, his grip tightening at your waist like he was trying to steady himself, like he was savoring the way you fit against him.
"Dieu⌠(God)â he murmured against your skin, voice low, rough, nearly a groan. "Tu es dangereuse. (You are dangerous)â
Charles' lips moved slowly along your neck, warm and wet, leaving behind red marks that tingled on your skin. Every kiss felt like a spark, like he was setting your nerves on fire with every press of his mouth. He wasnât in a rushâhe took his time, letting each touch sink in, making sure you felt everything.
Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sound escaped your lipsâhalf sigh, half moan. You could feel him smiling against your skin, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did. He always did.
âFuck, Charles,â you whispered, barely able to speak, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasnât just desire in your voiceâit was need. His name came out like a prayer, or maybe a plea, heavy with everything you were feeling and couldnât put into words.
âJâai besoin de toi chĂŠrie, de toi tout entier (I need you darling, all of you),â Charles whispered into the curve of your neck, his voice low, velvet-soft, and full of quiet need. The words wrapped around you like silk, and a shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.
You closed your eyes, overwhelmedânot just by the sound of his voice or the way his hands knew exactly where to rest, but by the simple, impossible truth of it all. This moment. This man. You had never imagined anything like it, not even in your most daring, secret dreams. Yet here you were, wrapped in the arms of a man older than you, powerful, undeniably attractive, and utterly, disarmingly real.
âââ SIX MONTHS LATER
The sun hung high over Bologna, casting golden light over the terracotta rooftops, warming the historic streets and filling the air with the scent of espresso and freshly baked bread. The city was alive, bustling with movementâlocals chatting outside cafĂŠs, tourists wandering with cameras slung over their shoulders, the distant hum of a violin playing somewhere in the maze of alleyways.
You hadnât planned to stay long. It was just a stopâan indulgence before heading to Neapoli to see your friend. A chance to walk these streets youâd always dreamed of visiting, to taste, to experience, to collect fragments of a place you had admired from afar for years.
But thenâsomething made you pause.
A car.
Sleek, polished to perfection, black with a striking red and white stripe cutting through the front. It sat at the curb, motionless yet demanding attention, gleaming under the afternoon light like an invitation you werenât sure you should take.
Your steps faltered.
You knew this car.
You had seen it beforeâmaybe in Monaco, maybe somewhere else, maybe in a moment that had slipped from your grasp but never really left you.
Nothing seemed more fitting in the moment than pulling out your phone, filming the scene for your friend. You had vlogged your entire trip through Italyâevery stunning view, every hidden cafĂŠ, every little unexpected moment. So why not this?
You held up the camera, steadying your grip as you zoomed in slightly, capturing the sleek black Ferrari resting against the curb. The sunlight gleamed off its polished surface, accentuating the striking red and white stripe that cut across the front.
âQuesto è cosĂŹ familiare⌠giuro che ho giĂ visto questa macchina da qualche parte (This is so familiar⌠I swear I've seen this car somewhere before),âyou murmured into the phone, your voice lined with curiosity and amusement.
A fleeting thought pressed at the back of your mind, an eerie sense of recognition tightening in your chest. This carâthis exact carâyou had seen it before.
You hit record, adjusting your grip on the phone as you zoomed in on the Ferrari parked near the curb. Its glossy black finish gleamed under the Bologna sun, the sharp red and white stripe cutting across the front like a signatureâbold, impossible to overlook. There was something undeniably familiar about it, something that made your heart pick up its pace, something that pulled at your memory in a way that you couldnât quite shake.
âRagazza, giuro che sembra una follia, ma io conosco questa macchina! (girl, I think I sound completely crazy, but I know this car!)â you exclaimed, your voice carrying a mix of excitement and disbelief as you pointed directly at the car, ensuring it was fully in the frame. The words felt almost surreal as they left your lips, but deep down, you knew it wasnât just some passing coincidence. You had seen this car before. You had been near it.
Without hesitation, you sent the video to your best friend, watching as the message processed before disappearing into the chat.
Your phone remained in your grip, screen still bright, messages from your friend continuing to flood in one after another. Each notification made the situation feel even more surreal, like reality was still catching up, like fate had decided to drop something unexpected right into the middle of your plans.
You could already imagine her reactionâher shock, her excitement, probably yelling at her screen, demanding answers you werenât even sure you had.
But before you could even type out a reply, before you could take a single breath to process the moment, a voice slipped effortlessly through the space behind you.
Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.
âNon mi hai detto che parli italiano. (You didn't tell me you speak Italian.)â
The words sent a jolt straight through you, freezing you in place.
Your fingers tightened around the phone instinctively, your heartbeat picking up its pace, the world around you suddenly feeling differentâlike the sounds of the city had softened, like the warmth of the sun wasnât the only thing settling against your skin.
Slowly, carefully, you turned.
And thenâ
Charles.
Standing just a few steps away, effortlessly composed, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity, the faintest smirk playing at the edge of his lips. The sight of him pulled something deep from your memory, something tied to warm nights and whispered challenges, something you hadnât expected to feel again.
Charles watched you carefully, his gaze steady, holding onto that slight smirk as if he already knew how this was going to unfold. His posture was relaxed, effortless, yet there was something undeniably focused in the way he looked at youâsomething quietly deliberate, like he was taking in every detail, like he was committing this moment to memory.
You felt the weight of itâthe unexpectedness of his presence, the quiet charge lingering in the space between you, the way time seemed to hesitate just long enough to make you wonder if fate really had orchestrated all of this.
It had been six months since Monaco, since nights stretched out on a yacht, since whispered conversations and stolen moments, since something shifted in a way that neither of you had fully defined. You had left knowing there was no clear path forward, no promises, no expectationsâand yet, standing here, looking at him now, it was impossible to pretend that nothing had changed.
âYou surprise me, chĂŠrie," Charles said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the teasing edge to his voice not quite masking something deeper beneath it.
You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of your lips despite the rush of thoughts tumbling through your mind. "Seems like Iâm not the only one full of surprises."
His chuckle was soft, amused, but his eyes held something moreâsomething familiar yet entirely new.
âIt appears fate enjoys playing with us," he mused, his voice lower now, more measured, more certain.
Charles hesitated, his gaze locked onto you with a quiet intensity, like he was studying you, searching for something he wasnât sure heâd find. The sunlight slipped across his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the ease in his posture, the familiar warmth in his expressionâsoft, careful, holding something unspoken.
It had been six months.
Time had passedâfast, slow, uncertainâand yet, standing here, in a city neither of you had planned to meet in, it felt impossibly like none of it had passed at all.
His gaze didnât waver. It lingered, taking you in, as if he was looking for the parts of you that had changed, the parts that had stayed the sameâthe parts he had memorized without meaning to.
âWill you stay this time, amore?"
The words left his lips slowly, carefully, carrying something heavier than just curiosity. There was no teasing, no playfulnessâjust quiet truth. Just a question that felt more like an invitation, more like a possibility, more like hope.
You felt the weight of it press against your chest, the way the words settled into the space between you, waitingâpatient, deliberate, meant to be answered.
Stay.
Six months ago, the idea hadn't even been on the table. Monaco had been fleeting, temporaryâa moment suspended in time, something that existed separately from reality. And yet, now, standing here in Bologna with Charles watching you, waiting for an answer, it felt like an entirely different choice.
âI will.â
Š norristrii 2025
babsie radio ! My first longer Charles fic!! If youâre italian/french and spot any mistakes in the translation, let me know!!
#formula 1#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc#cl16 x y/n#cl16 x reader#cl16 imagine#cl16 x you#cl16 fic#f1 x female reader#scuderia ferrari#f1 writing#f1 imagine#formula one fic#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#forza ferrari
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Sorry I donât make the rules, we need more ex x baby daddy!Jack!
Especially their wedding, breeding kink Jack, more babies, the whole thing.
Hehe pls & thanks
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 3.6k notes: part 4 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack way hornier than the rest of writing but tbh like .5 chili peppers haha and thank you for this req in my inbox!!!! i love these two and i'm working my way through some ideas that have been shared with me but i just started a new job so they will probably be over the next few weeks!
Something unlocks after you get engaged.
Itâs not dramatic, not fireworks. Just this quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you. This is it. This is real. Thereâs a ring on your finger, a boy in the other room who looks like both of you, and JackâJack, who once felt like an impossible choice, now feels like home.
And you continue to see a side of him youâre not entirely used to.
He's still Jackâstill grumbles about budget cuts and leaves coffee mugs in strange placesâbut heâs also⌠attentive. Almost absurdly so. Sweet in a way that feels like heâs been saving it all up. And maybe a little unhinged in the best, horniest way. He touches you constantly. Always finds a way to press a kiss to your temple, your shoulder, your stomach. Like he still canât believe he gets to.
âI locked you down,â he mutters one morning, arms snug around your waist as you brush your teeth. âYou, Beau, and a damn ring. The trifecta.â
âYou make it sound like a hostage situation,â you laugh, spitting into the sink.
Jack grins against your neck. âMaybe I should squirrel you away to the courthouse before you change your mind.â
âOh, we were dangerously close to that, donât kid yourself,â you say, rinsing. âBut I wanted the view.â
And the view was worth it.
Lake Como in late May. A small villa perched on a hillside, all warm stone and blooming vines. The ceremony was intimateâfriends, family, a very small and slightly chaotic PTMC contingent somehow made the trip. Robby cried, and Dana pretended not to. Your sister wrangled Beau through the flower-petal aisle like sheâd been training for it her whole life.
You danced under string lights. Said âI doâ to a man who still sometimes forgets to fold towels correctly but looks at you like you hung the stars.
And somehowâshockinglyâyou agreed to let your sister take Beau back with her, so you and Jack could have a true honeymoon.
Just you. Just him.
The first night, youâre on the balcony in a linen robe and nothing else, wine glass in hand, the lake glowing below you.
Jack comes up behind youâbarefoot, shirtless, lazy smile on his faceâand wraps his arms around your waist like he canât help himself.
âI love this,â you murmur. âI love you. I want to stay here forever.â
âI know,â he says, kissing that spot just beneath your ear. Then, after a beat, âBut⌠is it just me, or does it feel like missing a limb without Beau? âŚno pun intended.â
You laugh and spin in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck. âGod, I love you. This is why I married you. Youâre in my brain.â
âIâm just saying,â he grins, brushing your hair back. âMaybe we wouldnât miss him so much if you were already carrying another little Abbot with you.â
You raise a brow. âWow. Wasting no time, huh?â
âIâve been waiting six years Mrs. Abbot. You canât be surprised.â
âCareful,â you say, teasing, âyou sound like you get off to me being barefoot and pregnant.â
Jack hums, low and amused. âI mean⌠if the shoe fits.â
You groan, half-exasperated, half turned on. âGod, youâre such a menace.â
âAn insatiable menace,â he says, sliding his hands beneath your robe. âWho happens to be very good at making you come. Efficient, even. Fill you so good weâd get twins. Two for one.â
âOkay, Doctor Abbot,â you laugh, swatting at his chest. âDid you hit your head or is this just post-wedding delirium?â
He grumbles into your neck.
You swat his chest. âYou know, for a doctor, you know nothing about conception.â
âI know the basics,â he says, hand smoothing over your hip, âand that Iâm pretty damn good at it.â
âGod, you are so full of yourself. Shouldâve never married a jock.â
He smirks. âDid someone say cock?â His hips roll against yours, slow and deliberate, pressing a point.
You groan, laughing into his mouth as he kisses you. âYouâre ridiculous. And I thought youâd go for the âand youâll be so full of meâ routeâ
âWhat can I say, Iâm maturing,â he mumbles, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming now. âYouâre lucky you married me. Any other man wouldâve passed out from post-wedding exhaustion.â
âInstead I got the energizer bunny in scrubs.â
He scoops you up with easeâone arm under your thighs, the other around your backâand carries you inside like itâs your first night all over again. He drops you onto the bed gently, then follows, kissing a path down your stomach.
âJack,â you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.
âIâm just doing a thorough exam,â he says into your skin. âYouâve under my care, it would be negligent not to check on you after such a major life event like getting married.â
âYouâre annoying,â you say, breath hitching.
âYou love it.â
You do.
You love all of it. The warmth, the ease, the hunger in him that never faded, just changed shape over time. You let him take his timeârelearn your body like itâs the first time all over again. You lose yourself in him, in the soft press of lips to skin, the whispered confessions that slip out only when his guard is down.
Laughing, gasping, kissing like itâs the only language you know. After, you lay tangled together, sweat-damp and boneless.
He traces circles on your back, eyes half-lidded. âSeriously. Twins.â
âYouâre out of your mind.â
âIâm just saying, itâs efficient.â
âBeau is six and Iâm still tired.â
Jack chuckles. âFine. No pressure. Just practice. Lots of practice.â
You roll over, facing him. âYou happy?â
He doesnât hesitate. âMore than I knew I could be.â
The room is quiet. Outside, the lake glimmers in moonlight.
âI was scared, you know,â you whisper.
Jack glances down at you. âWhen?â
âAll of it. Letting you back in. Saying yes. I kept thinking, what if we just mess it up again?â
He brushes a hand along your jaw. âWe probably will. Sometimes. But Iâm not going anywhere. And I wonât let you carry the weight alone.â
Your eyes sting. âThatâs what scared me before. Feeling like I was alone in it.â
âI know,â he says softly. âI felt it too. But I didnât know how to fix it then. I was still trying to outrun things.â
âAnd now?â
âNow Iâm tired of running.â
You press a kiss to his chest. âSo no running. No hiding.â
âNo hiding,â he repeats.
Thereâs a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of the night and your breathing slowing in sync.
Then Jack says, so quietly you almost miss it: âI want a big life with you.â
You look up. âYou already have one.â
He smiles. âI know. But I want more of it. All the messy, beautiful pieces. Soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Slow Sundays. Another baby. or two. or ten. Justâmore.â
Your throat tightens. âGod, youâre such a sap now.â
âShut up,â he mutters, pulling you in closer.
You grin into his skin. âDonât worry. Iâm into it.â
And heâs into youâclearlyâbecause within minutes, heâs proving again just how committed he is to âpractice.â
That night, you fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the quiet certainty that this time, you didnât choose wrong.
His arm is slung heavy around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. His hand is resting possessively on your hip, thumb tucked just under the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. You donât move. You just lay there, soaking in the stillness.
The lake outside is calm. Thereâs birdsong, a faint breeze, and nothing else.
You sigh into the silence.
âMmm,â Jack mumbles, tightening his grip. âAlive?â
âBarely.â
âYou wore me out,â he says, voice hoarse and self-satisfied.
âYou begged for it.â
âI did,â he agrees. Then, after a beat: âIâd do it again.â
You smile, pressing your nose to his chest. âWeâve officially entered the honeymoon stage.â
âWe skipped it the first time. Iâm cashing in.â
You shift slightly, pressing your cold toes to his shin. He flinches.
âJesus.â
âSorry,â you murmur. âPoor circulation. Still your wife though.â
âUnfortunately.â
You laugh, then kiss his shoulder. âWhat time is it?â
âNo idea. But I think Iâve achieved full body paralysis.â
âSame.â
Thereâs a long, quiet pause. Then Jack says, âWe should go swimming.â
You blink. âRight now?â
âYeah. Why not? Lakeâs right there. Weâre in Italy. No Beau to referee. Might be our last chance before life crashes back in.â
âVery romantic. Also, I donât even know where I packed my swimsuit.â
âWho said anything about swimsuits?â
You arch a brow. âYou want to skinny-dip? In the daytime?â
He shrugs, rolling onto his back. âIâm just saying, weâre legally married. What are they gonna do, arrest us for being in love?â
âJack.â
âLive a little, Mrs. Abbot.â
You stare at him. âYouâre serious.â
âIâm proposing an impulsive memory. Donât make me swim alone like some pervert.â
You groan dramatically, grabbing a sheet as you roll out of bed. âFine. But if I get arrested in a foreign country for public indecency, you better bail me out.â
He grins. âKnew you couldnât resist me.â
You wrap yourself in the linen sheet toga-style and pad barefoot out onto the balcony. The stairs down to the private dock are warm beneath your feet, sun already high and bright.
Jack follows behind, also barely dressed, with two towels slung over his shoulder and that cocky post-wedding glow.
The water is cool but not cold. Crisp. Clean. You wade in first, shrieking at the initial shock until Jack yanks you forward and pulls you under with him.
When you surface, sputtering, hair slicked back and gasping from laughter, heâs looking at you like he canât believe this is his life.
âYouâre unreal,â he says, reverent.
You splash water in his face. âI married you, didnât I?â
âBest scam Iâve ever pulled.â
You drift closer, legs brushing. His hand cups the back of your neck. You kiss, slow and deep and lazy, and when he pulls back, you can see the smile in his eyes.
The lake stretches out behind him. A postcard come to life.
You stay in the lake until your fingers are pruned and your stomachâs growling. Breakfast is pastries you picked up from a little corner bakery, still flakey and warm. Jack makes espresso in the tiny kitchen, whistling off-key. Itâs stupidly domestic. And perfect.
You sit on the floor of the villa, legs tangled, plates on your laps. He steals a bite of your sfogliatella without asking.
âDo you think we should call Beau today?â you ask, chewing.
Jack nods, swallowing his own bite. âYeah. Just to check in. Not now though. Heâll be with your sister at the zoo or the pool or learning how to disassemble small electronics, depending on her mood.â
You laugh. âShe does run a very strange babysitting operation.â
âSheâs a miracle worker. Honestly, Iâm still shocked she agreed to take him.â
âShe told me every married couple deserves three uninterrupted days after the âI do.â Then handed me a jumbo box of condoms and said not to come home pregnant unless it was intentional.â
Jack chokes on his coffee. âJesus Christ.â
You shrug, smug. âJust sayingâher words, not mine.â
He leans back against the couch, eyeing you. âAnd is it?â
You glance at him.
âIntentional.â
The air shifts.
You donât answer right away. Just push your plate aside and crawl into his lap. He adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around you, palms dragging up your thighs.
âI think⌠Iâm not not open to it,â you say slowly. âBefore, it felt impossible. Everything felt so fragile. But now? I look at you and Beau, and itâs likeâyeah. I want more of this. More of us.â
He swallows, throat bobbing. âYouâre sure?â
You smile. âYouâre the only thing Iâve ever been sure about.â
His mouth finds yours, urgent now, full of promise. You kiss like itâs a decision, a vow, a whole damn future.
And when he finally pulls back, heâs flushed and breathless.
âI love you so much itâs physically uncomfortable.â
You laugh against his jaw. âSucks to be you, I guess.â
He grins. âYeah. Tragic.â
That afternoon, you nap in the sun. The villa has a hammock strung between two cypress trees and Jack insists on sharing it, even though heâs too long and your legs keep tangling and one of you always ends up with an elbow in the ribs.
âI hope Beauâs having a good day,â you murmur, eyes closed, head on his chest.
Jackâs hand is tracing idle circles on your bare arm. âIâm sure he is. You think heâll remember the wedding?â
âSome pieces,â you say. âThe dancing. The cake. Robby giving him ten euros to yell âjust kiss already!â before we even got to the vows.â
âGod,â he sigh. âWhat a circus.â
You hum in agreement.
Then, âDo you think weâre doing okay? With him? With this?â
Jack shifts beneath you. âHonestly? I think weâre doing great. Not perfect. But real. Heâs kind. Confident. Feels safe. Thatâs what matters.â
You nod slowly. âI used to worry so much about what we were showing him, you know? The split. The mess.â
âHe saw love,â Jack says simply. âEven when it was hard. Especially then.â
You press your face to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of himâsun, sweat, skin.
âIâm glad we waited to do this right,â you whisper. âI donât think I couldâve survived a version of us where we never figured it out.â
Jackâs voice is thick. âMe either.â
That night, you dress up.
No real reason. Just a silky dress youâve been saving, heels a little higher than you usually wear. Jack puts on real pantsâwell, linen slacksâand a button-down thatâs already half undone by the time he finishes wrestling with the cuffs.
He sees you and stops short.
âJesus.â
âToo much?â
âNot enough.â
Dinner is just a short walk into the villageâtwinkly lights and hand-pulled pasta and a carafe of wine that disappears too quickly. You talk about everything and nothing. The neighbors at home. Future holidays. How much more you can fit in your suitcase without paying extra baggage fees.
âYouâre going to check my carry-on and judge me, arenât you?â you accuse.
âOnly because you brought six pairs of shoes and wore the same ones every day.â
âTheyâre options, Jack.â
He leans over the table, resting his chin on his hand. âGod, I love you.â
You stop. Just for a second. Let it wash over you.
âI love you too.â
Later, you walk back slow. His hand finds yours. Your shoulders brush.
Back at the villa, Jack peels the dress off you like heâs unwrapping a gift. Kisses every inch of bare skin he uncovers. You let him take his time.
You make love slow. No rush. No hunger. Just reverence. It feels different this timeâheavier, softer, but still electric.
You donât remember falling asleepâjust the weight of Jackâs body against yours, the slow press of his kisses, the steady rhythm of your breath returning to normal in the quiet afterglow.
What wakes you is the light. It spills through the shutters, golden and soft, casting lazy stripes across the sheets.
Jackâs already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you like youâre some kind of sunrise. His hairâs a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and he has the nerve to look smug about it.
âMorning, Mrs. Abbot,â he says, voice rough with sleep.
âGod,â you groan, burying your face in the pillow. âYouâre going to say that all the time, arenât you?â
âYup,â he grins. âUntil itâs on your driverâs license.â
You roll onto your back, stretch slowly. His eyes follow the movement like heâs hungry again.
âYouâre staring,â you say.
âYouâre glowing.â
âIâm sweating.â
âStill counts.â
You nudge him with your foot. He catches it, presses a kiss to your ankle, and suddenly you feel a whole lot warmer.
âYou hungry?â he asks.
âStarving.â
âIâll make breakfast.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou brought me to Italy just to feed me scrambled eggs?â
Jack swings his legs off the bed and standsânaked, unabashed. âIâm a man of many talents. But fine. Pancakes?â
âIn Italy?â
He shrugs. âInternational pancakes.â
You laugh as he heads toward the kitchen, grabbing a pair of boxers on the way. He whistles while he moves, some Sinatra song you vaguely recognize, and your heart tugs in your chest like it still canât quite believe this is real.Â
You pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot after him. The villa is quiet, the lake just barely visible through the open patio doors, glittering in the morning sun.
Jackâs already got flour out. Thereâs a pan warming on the stove. You wrap your arms around him from behind, rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.
âDonât burn them.â
âYou wound me.â
âIâve seen you try to flip a pancake. You get too cocky.â
âThatâs because you heckle me,â he says, flipping the first one with unnecessary flair. âWatch and learn, Mrs. Abbot.â
You roll your eyes but sit at the table, watching him with something dangerously close to adoration. Thereâs something ridiculous about how seriously he takes thisâlike heâs proving something. Like if he makes these pancakes just right, heâll have earned it all over again.
He sets a plate in front of you with a flourish. âBon appĂŠtit.â
You take a bite, eyes widening. âOkay. Okay, maybe you have improved.â
Jack smirks, sitting across from you, fork already in hand. âIâve been practicing.â
âFor this moment?â
âFor this life.â
The words hit you low and deep, like a drum. You look at himâreally lookâand see it there: the steadiness. The certainty. Heâs still Jack, but heâs⌠more. Softer around the edges. Not smaller, just less armored.
You reach for his hand across the table.
âI still canât believe weâre here.â
âMe neither.â
âI donât think I let myself imagine it,â you admit. âNot after everything.â
Jackâs expression sobers. He sets his fork down. âCan I tell you something?â
You nod.
âThat night. The one when you said you needed space. I thought⌠I thought that was it. I thought Iâd ruined my life beyond fixing.â
You squeeze his fingers.
âI let it happen,â he continues quietly. âI was so afraid of screwing it up that I stood back and watched it fall apart. Itâs likeâif I didnât fight for it, I couldnât be blamed for losing it.â
Your throat tightens. âJackâŚâ
He shakes his head. âBut I realized it wasnât fair. To you. Or to Beau. Or to myself, honestly. But I didnât know how to be better then. I didnât even know what better looked like.â
âYou do now,â you whisper.
âYeah,â he says. âBecause of you.â
Thereâs a silence that stretches, heavy but full. Then you stand, walk around the table, and sink into his lap. He holds you like heâs anchoring himself.
âYou did all the hard work, I just pushed you to do it. Weâre allowed to be happy now,â you murmur into his neck.
Jackâs arms tighten. âYeah. I donât think I ever thanked youâ
âI can think of a few ways to start showing your gratefulnessâ
The rest of the day unfolds like a dream.
You spend the afternoon wandering through the nearby villageâstone streets, small shops, gelato for lunch. Jack insists on carrying your bag. You make fun of his touristy camera strap, and he makes fun of your obsession with ceramic bowls.
You take a million photos together, and he looks so happyâso openâthat you save one immediately as your phone background.
When you get back, you read on the balcony while he naps on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a romance novel hero. You donât even wake him when he starts to snore.
By evening, youâre tangled again in bed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jack is tracing his name on your thigh with his fingertip.
âYou know what I was thinking?â he says, voice low.
âMm?â
âThat I want to take you everywhere. That we should do a honeymoon part two, with Beau. Paris. Or Morocco. Or Tokyo. Somewhere Beau can try weird candy and yell at me in public without getting in trouble.â
You laugh. âHe already does that.â
âTrue. But we could do it under the guise of cultural education.â
You turn to face him. âYou really want to travel?â
âI want to do anything that keeps us feeling like this,â he says. âLike weâre not just surviving.â
You study him. The honesty. The hope.
âThen letâs make it a plan,â you say. âOnce a year. Somewhere new.â
Jackâs smile softens. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
âAlright. Deal. Annual Abbot Adventures.â
âTrademark pending.â
âYou, me, a six-year-old with a suitcase full of Legos. What could go wrong?â
You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. âEverything.â
âExactly,â he grins. âPerfect family vacation.â
Later, after youâve both showered, after heâs poured you a glass of wine and rubbed your feet and claimed it was âmedically necessary to assess swelling from travel,â youâre curled together in bed with the windows open to the night air.
Jack��s arm is around you, fingers resting on your stomach again. Always that same spot. Like heâs waiting. Or willing.
You place your hand over his.
âYou really want another?â you ask, voice soft.
âI want whatever you want,â he says.
You donât respond right away, âYouâd be a great girl dad.â
He snorts. âGod help me if sheâs anything like you.â
âSmart, stubborn, charming?â
âDangerous,â he says. âtoo smart, perfect.â
You smile. âYouâre already soft. Youâd fold the second she looked at you.â
âDonât tell Beau.â
You laugh, and the sound is easy. Real. Everything feels easy tonight.
And it hits you againâlike itâs the first time.
Youâre married. To him.
#jack abbot#jack abbott#jack abbot x reader#jack abbott x reader#the pitt drabble#the pitt imagine#dr. abbot#dr. abbot x reader#dr. abbott#dr. jack abbot#dr. jack abbott#dr. jack abbot x reader#dr. jack abbot x you#p attempts to start writing#ex!reader and babydaddy!jack
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Unfortunately, I took this prompt and ran off with it. Not really sure, but uh, a prompt is a prompt!
FYI, it's DCMK. Pre-slash.
It isn't a disease, if you really want to get technical. Sherry is certain that what that person wants is actually a cure, not poison nor bio-terrorism. She's pretty sure that terrorism bit is already taken care of, after all, no one knows what sort of pastime Gin has when he doesn't have names to cross off of a list. Not that Sherry has a hobby of imagining her fellow (what a word) code-named members' downtime. She would like that, downtime. Away from the stifling cold that is her laboratory.
However, she has a slew of things to do. One of which happens to be perfecting the poison that bastard has taken a liking for. APTX-4869. Tested so thoroughly, yet, there's a note (orders) on Sherry's desk to investigate (how can she??) the mortality rate again. Is it not enough, all of this she research she has done for them?! Why must she be-
It's Vermouth's fault. It's Gin's fault.
---
"They're the ones who didn't check for a dead body," Haibara tells him over a cup of coffee. "Utterly careless. I'm the one who has to clean up after them! Isn't it insane, putting a researcher to that task? They're fucking insane, I tell you."
"Whoa, there." Conan is sitting on the safe side, lest Haibara hurls that cup on him. He leans in closer, whispering so that the kids won't hear them. The matter of APTX-4869, their entire situation is not for the public, after all. "More details on that, and you're going to write a formal complaint. Do they even have an HR department?"
Haibara's stare tells him a very colourful picture. You think? "Depends," she sighs, putting down her cup on the table. "If they're recruiting, Vermouth. If they're firing, Gin." The flat way she delivers that piece of information is enough for Conan's enthusiasm to die down. "You are the one who wants to file a complaint," she harrumphs.
"Sorry about that," he mumbles into his mug.
"But it's a good thing, you know," she grins suddenly, "that they complained to me. Now we have a pattern."
"Of what??" Conan doesn't like that expression on the scientist's face.
"Men and women died from that pill," she starts with a smile that keeps widening by the second. "Certain people, below sixty," oh, Conan really, really doesn't like this, "struggled until their death. In recent findings, they survived the poison and-"
"Wait, wait!"
Haibara is absolutely not stopping just because Conan backs away from her in fear. "-they shrank!" She slowly approached the shivering not-first-grader. "All of them are women."
Whispering close to his ear, Haibara descends upon her target like a hungry bird of prey. "Kudo-kun," she smiles sweetly, grinning ear to ear, "are you sure you're not a teenage girl?"
"WAAAAAAH!" Conan yells loudly enough to startle himself, and he'll come up short with the excuse when he realises the kids are playing with the Professor's VR game. Only Agasa-hakase jumps in shock, and Conan will be sorry if the old man suffers a heart condition from that, right now, however!
"Haibara, you!" What is she so gleeful for?!
Cackling in laughter, Conan can somehow visualise her in blacks, Haibara scoffs. "What, you haven't thought about it? Only Mary, me, and you have shrunk. What does that say, Kudo-kun? Hm??"
"But, that's circumstantial at best, and-!"
"And you have a dick," Haibara huffs, hands on her hips with a look that still doesn't bode well for Conan. "How about now?"
"What do you mean, now?? I still have-" He resists the urge to check, and shows her he is a man.
She bulldozes through his pathetic attempt at reasoning, "Mooning over older people. Crushing on dependable adults," she counts on one hand, "sweetly, ugh, talking with dangerous men? My, a classic high school girl. Wouldn't you say so?"
"WHO IS CRUSHING ON-"
"Oh, come on. You know who I'm talking about."
Then, she sighs like a mother. "Well, I guess it's their fault, too."
"THEIR?! I'M SAYING THAT I AM NOT CRUSHING ON-"
"Amuro Tooru feeds you, sneaking in iced coffee between lemon pies. Hey, don't look at me like that. Ran-neechan told me everything," Conan is beyond mortified. "There's also that annoying neighbour, who always has leftovers when you're in danger."
"HAIBARA!!" She is not stopping, Conan's misery is simply too delectable. Especially when he's this embarrassed.
Laughing, she cheekily adds another. "You get postcards from a foreign man, routinely?" She rolls her eyes amusedly, overly joyous that Ran has shared everything about Conan and his rendezvous. Ha! "It doesn't help your case that you're chasing a man with silver hair. Or is that your type, silver foxes? Very niche, Kudo-kun."
Conan can only crumble on himself, trying his best to tune out the mad woman in front of him. In his best efforts, he doesn't realise Agasa Hakase is letting a guest inside as quietly as possible. "-made too much. If you don't mind..."
"Oh, speak of the devil."
Conan snaps his attention to the front door. He whips his head back to Haibara. Don't you dare. That mad woman only smirks in response.
"Not my cup of tea. Also, I'm not suicidal." She takes her cup away and off to the kitchen, throwing a finishing line over her shoulder. "Come on, Hakase. We shouldn't bother them."
She gestures to Okiya Subaru, shoo, "The one you're here for is that way."
"HAIBARA, YOU!"
"I'm not giving you the newest version, by the way!" There are no more words to explain Conan's desire to dig himself a grave. He settles to look anywhere else than that confused expression on the annoying neighbour's face. It's not even his real face! "He can wait for six years."
"Conan-kun," Okiya Subaru is about to take a step closer but Conan holds up a hand.
"Don't say anything." Will it help Shinichi if he knows Shuuichi has been eavesdropping? Probably not. Right now, Conan has his face in his hands, groaning his grievances. "Not a word."
A supervillain unleashes a disease on the world in order to weaken his enemies and monopolize the cure. But his team of goons didn't test it on women. The unaffected female hero(es) confront him and the fight devolves into a conversation about lack of female representation in medical testing.
#dcmk#writeblr#writers on tumblr#writing prompts#kudo shinichi#miyano shiho#akai shuuichi#amuro tooru#gin detective conan#riishi ramanathan#drabble
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Yandere murderer x reader
Liking the idea of a 6'6 man holding an axe who is obsessed with you chasing you down the forest
You barely have no memory of meeting him. You just remembered him dropping something and being the nice person you are, you helped him. You could make out the image of the huge man blushing like a tomato as he stuttered the word 'thank you'. You smiled and continued on walking.
Then it all began, the killings. Strange things start happening around you. You lived a pretty normal life in your 19 years of living. So the sequence of events clearly startled you. Your college classmate who insulted you, died. Your aunt who said mean things about you, dead, and many many more people who did you dirty was strangely murdered in some gruesome ways. The police who investigated things told everyone that it was done by the same person.
The rumor about the murders quickly spread like wildfire. Everyone was afraid. Some people don't even want to go out anymore. Everyone...except your friends who probably have nine lives suggested that you all camp in the middle of nowhere.
"What ! Are you crazy!! Boy didn't you all hear about the murders going around?" your friend Sam pointed out
"Pfff... Come on , we're gonna be fine.... It will be a fun experience i promise " Fin said as he dropped an arm around her shoulder as she blushed, clearly flustered
"yeah I'll come too" Alex said nonchalantly clearly unbotherd as he played with his phone
"O-ok fine... Only if Y/n will come" she said and removed Fin's arm around her. Those two clearly liked each other,,, everyone can see with their eyes closed except themselves.
I mentally slapped myself. "Fine" i sigh "But if we felt like something was wrong we'll immediately get the hell out "
"Good... It's settled " Fin again declared as he clapped.
+++++++++-----------+++++++++++-+
It's now evening... You all gathered around the fireplace as you talked about random stuff. It's pretty fun, you admitted.
" Having a great time?" Alex asked as he sat besides you
You nodded and gave him a small smile
"There's only two tents... Two people will obviously have to share " he explained
"It's getting late... Maybe we should all call it a night?" You stood up
"Sam let's share the ten-"
You cut Fin off "Hey... Sam will share it with me, were both girls "
She glared at you "I'll share a tent with Fin , Y/n go share yours with alex ... It's not like it's anything new"
"What does that supposed to mean?"
"Oh come on you're a slut...... It's not like it's a secret" she casually said and took Fin's hand.
You gasped at her words... How dare she? You're a freaking virgin for gods sake. You never even held a guys hand romantically before.
You were about to throw those words out when a man appeared behind them. A very tall man standing about 6'6 raised an axe hitting her neck.
You all froze as her head rolled to the ground. Blood spurted out spraying Fin. Her headless body dropped. He didn't stop. He began to hit her body multiple times .
"HOW .....hit .....DARE... hit ....YOU! " He shouted angrily.
Fin suddenly lunged at him with a metal chair. "YOU ASSHOLE" he hit him but he didn't even budge.
His attention turned to him. He raised the bloody axe he was holding and hit him.
You finally let out a scream . You felt Alex's hands pulling you away as you both ran for your lives.
"W-what was that" you shakingly mumbled, branches hitting you as you ran fast.
"Y/n it is exactly what we saw. Now we need to go to the place where we parked the car and get the hell out of here. "
"Y/n ! Baby come here ! Come back !" You felt shivers as you both turned around and saw him chasing you both.
"Run fast !" Alex said panicking
"No ! Don't touch the hands of my Y/n ! She's mine ! " he growled and you screamed .
"I'll kill you! You bastard! I'll fucking murder you just like your useless friends! "
He suddenly disappeared and you sigh in relief thinking you had lost him.
You both hid under a large tree catching your breath. "Fuck" Alex cursed, you looked at his hands still holding yours, shaking.
"Is it still far? The car? "
"Unfortunately Y/n I don't know anymore... It's too dark . I think we're lost" he said as he pants
You suddenly shrieked as the same axe that had killed your friends flew at Alex hitting him at his chest.
You got up and began running again crying. You're feeling very scared, tired and out of breath. But you don't stop , if you did he'll catch you.
It's too dark and quiet. You suddenly bumped into something. Please let it be a tree. Please. You prayed quietly. Don't let it be him please.
His arms wrapped tightly around you like a snake. You felt him sniff your neck and proceeded to lick you. You can't see his face but you can feel him smiling.
"My Darling Y/n. You're finally mine, Let's live together and forever now....Hmm?" He cooed and licked your face.
He picks you up and begins telling you how much he loves you and adores every little thing about you.
You're tired and you're feeling dizzy. You felt yourself slowly passing out because of exhaustion and at the touch of this monster holding you.
"I love you so much Y/n . You're only mine"
#my wriitng#male yandere#male yandere x reader#my writing#tw yandere#yandere bf#yandere boy#yandere boyfriend#yandere fanfiction#yandere imagines#yandere male#yandere#clingy yandere#desperate yandere#gore yandere#insane yandere#yandere oc x reader#yandere x you#yandere x y/n#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#yandere writing#yandere scenarios#yandere oc#yan boy#yandere killer#he is one bad day away from grabbing you and moving into a cabin in the woods where no one can ever bother you ever again
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¤đđđâââyouâre really a sight for sore eyes.
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¤business man ! jongseong x fem ! readeră
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¤MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ・â age gap ( jay is in his late thirties & reader is in her twenties ) fingering, unprotected sex, he is a little mean ( calls reader a slut one time )ă
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¤goodness gracious whatever this is .. enjoy i guess i forgot what was even happening at some point
crisp suits, slicked back hair, money talks and elite dealsâ jay was all about business, and youâ his business partnerâs pretty daughter doing her internship at her dadâs own company.
he needs to stop, youâre way younger, even though it never stopped him from fantasising about fucking you in secrecy, jerking off at the mere thought of pretty moans rolling off your tongue like melodies.
and youâve been so good, incredibly smart and kind, always eager to learnâ doe eyed and curious smiles laced with a silver of pure innocence that makes him want to ruin you.
your father would lose his mind if he knew the things that plague his mind when it comes to you, and jay would lose his life if your dad ever found out how he fucks his pretty little daughter on his own work desk.
âspread your legs, angel,â jay whispers close to your ears, one hand on your hips while the other deep between your legs. thereâs a smug grin on his face when you oblige with a whimper, arching off the desk when he slides two fingers inside you. âfuck, ease up, princess. youâre going to snap my fingers,â
your face is burning, not sure if itâs from the pure filth heâs whispering in your ears or the way his fingers pump in and out of your cunt. his other hand ghosts up your hips and wraps around your tit, finger flicking over your hardened peak.
your eyes squeeze shut, fingers sinking and curling exactly where youâre the most sensitiveâ he has your sweet spots memorized like clauses of a contract.
his finger teases at the nipple, pinching and rubbing over it with his thumb while the other presses against the sensitive spot in the back of your walls, drawing pretty little whines from you.
it has always been a blessing to have you around. he had his eyes on you ever since you joined in on the internship.
âj-jay, iâm closeââ
âalready?â he gasps mockingly, leaning down to press open mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, taking your earlobe between his teeth and tugging slightly. âweâve barely gotten started,â
youâre lucky you both clocked in earlier than most of the staff or else, they might hear every mewl and whimper you let out as his fingers pump into you faster, at an unforgiving pace.
âiâmâ fuckââ
he increases his pace, groaning in the crook of your neck at how you clench around his digits as they brush against your walls.
you feel the ache building up between your legs, almost there, until he pulls out completely. âyeah, baby, you were saying something?â
heâs mean and cocky about itâ fucking his associateâs daughter on his own work desk to the point youâre nothing but a wanton mess, babbling air pleas at the loss of contact.
âplease,â you mutter, lips quivering, pressing your thighs togetherâ anything to relieve the ache between your legs.
and heâs absolutely cruel, chucking and pushing your thighs open with his knees just enough to brush above your wet cunt, and nothing more. âdidnât quite get that,â
you might just die even before getting dicked down.
âfeels so goodâ need more, jay, please,â
he feels himself getting harder at how you sound, incredibly sweet with those doe eyes glistening with need.
he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back just enough to see your pretty face. âyeah? want me to fuck you? fill you up right here? on your fatherâs desk?â he clicks his tongue. âpretty shameful, donât you think?â
no one can know about you and jay, you donât think you can sit in this room with your father without thinking about this moment.
itâs disgustingâ shameful, even, heâs far too old for you. however, it feels perfect, every thrust, every moan, every kiss, every drag of his finger over your clitâ itâs heaven and hell at the same time.
it might need to stop, hell, no might, this must stop. but for today, you are down to commit yet another sin.
ây-yes, here,â you whisper, almost choking on your own words. âright here, please. need you so bad,â
that, evidently, is all it takesâ one second youâre begging for him and the next, he has you bent all the way over the desk, hands fumbling with his belt quickly before he tugs his pants down.
âshitâ if thatâs what you want, sweetheart,â he grins sickeningly, cock pressing up against your thigh. âwho am i to refuse?â
your dad would lose his fucking mind if he knows about this and as sick as it sounds, the sheer thought of him knowing makes jay want to fuck you dumb and senseless.
you feel him bumb against your clit, making you gasp as he drags his cock between your folds, making your knees buckle at the mere sensation.
âyouâre so wet,â he coos, grinning wide as he pushes into you, nice and slow, deep, stretching you out completely. âbet youâre gonna take me like a good girl as always, hm?â
no response.
you canât speak, barely think if he wasnât pounding his length into you like a man deprived of pleasure for weeks. the wet sound of his cock fucking into you rings in your ears mingled with deep groans that mix with yours in the office.
âis this what you wanted, hm? for me to fuck you on your fatherâs desk?â he mumbles low and hoarse with hips slamming into you at a relentless pace. his lips curve into a grin when he feels you clench at his words, a sharp slap falling against your ass. âwhat aâ fuckâ slut,â
the sting only makes your insides coil more, pushing you closer to the edge. he grabs both your hands, holding them tight behind your back.
âjayâ ohâ iâm close!â
his hips roll at a sloppy rhythm now, still just hard and deep, almost teetering on the edge at the way your walls clench around his cock.
âshitââm close too,â he breathes, pulling almost all the way out before sliding in again. âgonna fill you up, baby. want that, donât you?â
and god, you might just lose your sanity at his words. itâs trouble, heâs trouble, and if only he wasnât fucking you so good and making your internship worth attending every single day, youâd be making rational decisions.
but not right now, not when you have his cock buried deep into you, making you see stars. ây-yeah, want you to fill me up, jayâ gonna cum, âm so closeââ
he pushes into you deeper into your cunt if it was even possible and you feel your walls flutter around him as you cum, hard, spasming and squeezing around him that has him whispering profanities in the air.
his hand rests on your back, a deep groan leaving his throat as he cock twitches, filling you up and painting your walls white. he continues to slam into you with choked chants of your name.
itâs quiet after you both finish, except for the laboured pants and heavy breaths. a blazing horn and his head whips towards the window, registering the sight of your father stepping out of the car when his chauffeur opens the door.
he can see the panic settle on your face as you stand upâ he almost stifles a laugh at your wobbly legs, helping you find balance and pulling up your panties. âfix yourself, doll, or heâll know.â
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¤#enhypen#enhypen smut#enhypen x reader#enhypen ecenarios#enhypen imagines#enhypen headcanons#jay#jay x reader#jay smut#jay scenarios#jay imagines#jay headcanons#enhypen hard thoughts#enhypen hard hours#enhypen drabbles#jay drabbles
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[Image descriptions in order: a Reddit post on r/whatsthatbook by u/clownthrowawayhelp, titled "help solve a fight with my girlfriend - book with monster clown that can turn into fears but NOT king's IT???" The post is tagged "solved", and says:
i say it's not king's IT she says it is. we've been disagreeing about this on and off for a year because she keeps bringing up scenes and going on about how good they were in the book but i've read IT and those scenes aren't in it. she says i read IT too long ago to remember. fair. it was a while. but she read it over five years ago too!
scenes she remembers that i don't remember in the og book: it was set at a school camp during the kid bits and there were adult scenes too 20-something years later but she doesn't remember them because they "weren't as good". the kids are different ages ranging from 5 to 20. there's a demon clown thing hunting them and it keeps turning into the things they're scared of to try eat them.
she remembers a scene where there was a rabid bear and one of the teenagers set it on fire using hairspray. at the end the clown is a female and there's eggs, and every kid in the camp ends up ganging up to try beat the clown to death with rocks. there's also a bit with some weird rapey werewolves but she's less certain about that.
she remembers some scenes that are definitely from IT too like the fridge and bill's bike and the bullies lost in the sewers so im pretty sure she's mixing up IT and some other book. i need to find the other book or we're both going to die mad about this. we need closure
sorry if this isn't the right place i don't use reddit but i'm desperate to solve this i need to be validated
she asked me to add this edit of things she also remembers even though she said she wants nothing to do with my search since she knows shes right - these are all quotes:
"the little guys died first and it was dreadful"
"there were so many horrible scenes in the camp bathroom king (she says)/the author as of yet unknown (i say) must have something against public bathrooms and by the time i was done reading i did too"
"someone died so enthusiastically they painted the wall with their insides"
"at least one person maybe more was described as 'unzipped' by the time the clown was done"
"there were at least two horny scenes" <-- look how can she say this and still think its king the man is like 80% horny scenes 70% scary scenes and theyre usually overlapping]
[Screenshots of the comments of the post.
There is a comment thread which says
u/Deejaymil: Hey OP, does your gf read fanfiction by any chance?
u/clownthrowawayhelp: she says no but she didn't say no fast if you get what i mean, very suspicious stuff. and now she's giving me guilty looks. if she's been telling me how good some random fanfiction is for the last 12 months while thinking it was the og i'm taking my pajamas and going home
u/Deejaymil: Haha hey this is awkward
Hate to break it to you both but I think she's mixing up IT with a couple of fanfics. I can't link them because they're locked behind a privacy wall but one is an IT/Criminal Minds crossover (most of what you've described, though the details aren't quite right), and the werewolf thing is a different Criminal Minds fic from the same author. Ask her if the camp they were at was called Camp Moribund, if you need evidence for your validation.
u/clownthrowawayhelp: i cant believe gabby has done this to me
she left the room when i told her it's a fanfiction and then she came back to ask how you could possibly know that and now she's left again. i think you got it. she wouldn't be so mad otherwise
u/Deejaymil: I know because I wrote them Imao]
[u/clownthrowawayhelp: you are the best thing to ever happen to my relationship god bless your socks i will die telling this story to my children's children. i'm so happy i could cry
sorry if my post sounded like it was dragging your horny scenes i'm sure they're tasteful horny
thank you for devastating my girl's emotional wellbeing she needed this]
[u/Deejaymil: I feel like I've walked into a crowded room and everyone has stopped talking and turned to stare at me, this is the worst whatsthatbook solve I've managed yet haha. Usually I just saunter into the obscure animal book threads because I was cat-obsessed as a child...]
[u/Deejaymil: I'm never going to emotionally recover from this.]
[u/Deejaymil: Haha well, in honour of OP's poor girlfriend here's the IT one. I turned off the privacy setting so it should be accessible without a log-in. She faced her demons today so I can face mine.
u/clownthrowawayhelp: she says "thanks this is exactly it. if i can't have my dignity, at least i have something to read"
cheers. guess ill have to read it too now just to find out why she loves the bear versus hairspray scene so much
u/justmyrealname: "If I can't have my dignity, at least I have something to read" is such a good line]
help
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Can you please write a fic for qz!Joel where him and reader are smuggling partners and are in a situationship (fwb but with something more?). One day reader is going over to Joel's apartment and she gets jumped by a few guys (a few cuts and bruises). Joel is POSSESSED to say the least and decides that he has to make things official with reader so everybody knows she's his and not to mess with. He beats the shit out of one of the guys but doesn't kill him, makes sure he stays alive and that his battered body serves as a warning of what happens when you mess with Joel miller's girl.
Claim what's mine

Pairing: qz!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: After you're attacked, Joel makes it officialâyouâre hisâand leaves a brutal warning behind for anyone who might forget it. Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of blood, Joel being very protective and beating the shit out of everyone, confessions
You're still bleeding by the time you get to his door.
Your right knuckle is ripped open and pounding like it's got a heartbeat of its own, and you can feel the slow trickle of blood seeping from a gash just below your eyebrow. There's a bruise swelling beneath your ribs that takes your breath every few steps, and your coat is torn, some of the material hanging on threads where they tried to grab you and pull you down behind the heap of rusted-out cars at the old ration center. You didn't scream. Not once. Because you knew it wouldn't do any goodânot here. Boston's QZ doesn't listen. But you fought. You got away.
And here you are now.
You don't even knock. Your hand trembles on the knob when you shove the door open, shoulder easing in with a grunt, swallowing the thick, hot iron taste of pain that's been brewing at the back of your throat. Joel's sitting at the table carefully cleaning a pistolâhe always cleans his guns like it's therapy, like if the barrel gleams and snaps into place clean enough he won't turn into the man he swears he doesn't want to be. You don't even say anything. You just kick the door shut behind you and let it slam. It takes him by enough surprise that he looks up abruptly, frowning, already on edgeâ
And then he sees you.
You can feel the change in him, the way his body stills all at once, not like heâs frozen, but like something just snapped tight and locked into place. His gaze drags over every inch of you, calculating damage. The blood on your lip. The shaky grip youâve got on the doorframe. The way youâre holding your ribs. And Joel⌠Joel fucking stands.
"Who," he snarls, in a voice so low it might be underground, "did this to you."
You almost laugh. You don't, because it would hurt too much, but the sound draws back from your teeth. "Couple of guys off the south wall. They tried to pull me behind the fence by the old checkpoint. One of them had a pipe, I think." You shake your head as if you can brush it all away. "It's not that bad."
He's already going. The same rag he's been using to clean his gun is still balled in his fist when he brushes past you, but he doesn't make contactânot yet. He paces once, like he needs motion to keep from exploding, and then goes still as stone in the middle of the room, back to you, chest heaving like a storm's about to erupt there. You watch the veins in his neck twitch, jaw clamp shut tight. It's a beautiful, terrible thing-how Joel Miller uses his anger like a sword, like he could slice the world open wide with it and never blink.
You go first. You sit down next to your bag by the couch, hoisting up your shirt to examine the damage, gritting your teeth. The bruise is already discoloring, purpling like ink. "You don't have to do anything, Joel. I got away."
He turns.
"You think they care that you got away?" he says, his voice low and biting. "They think they could've had you. That's all they need. That's all every other bastard in this sector needs who thinks they can look at you, touch you, take you, because they don't see you walking around with someone who makes it clearâ" He cuts himself off like he's just realized what he was going to say.
Your heart beats once. You can barely breathe. "Makes it clear what?"
He doesn't answer. Not really. Instead, Joel is across the room in two steps and is kneeling in front of you, his hands finally on your legsâtentatively, reverently, fingertips tracing up your thighs as though searching you for hurt. "Who were they?" he whispers.
You hesitate. Just for a moment, however. "The tall one's named Ray. He's always hanging around that garage on the corner near the north patrol gate. The others didn't say much. One of them had a snake tattooed around a skull on his hand."
Joel's already standing again.
"What are you doing?" you ask, though you're aware. You've seen that spark in his eye before. Never for you, never for you. You've seen it in alleyways, in the dark moments between smuggling runs when things go bad and someone tries to cheat him. You've seen Joel press a man into a wall for skimming a quarter of a ration card. You've never seen him like this.
"I'm making sure that everybody in this damn neighborhood knows not to lay a hand on you."
You rise, wincing at the soreness in your side, taking his arm. "And then what? You think this makes it better? You go down there and beat them bloody, you think it won't draw more heat? You think they won't come back?"
He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up into your eyes. Something liquid in him nowâdark, hot, and ancient.
"No," he says, "I don't think they'll be back. Because I'm not gonna kill 'em."
That surprises you. He says it like he's doing you a favor.
"I'm gonna let 'em live. Barely. Enough so every motherfucker they know gets the message: you don't touch what's mine."
Your mouth goes dry. "I don't belong to you."
Joel's hand comes up to your jaw, slow, his thumb hardly grazing the dried blood at the corner of your lip. "Don't you?" he asks.
You gaze at him, chest constricting, pulse pounding so hard it's even more painful against your bruised ribs. The truth between you like a question you've never been brave enough to ask. It's always been like thisâafter runs, in other people's rooms, in the dark still when you both needed something warm. You've fucked him more times than you can recall, against mildewed mattresses and wet brick walls, whispered things that you both pretended didn't mean anything. You let him touch you like he meant it, and he did. You let yourself feel it, even when you told yourself that you wouldn't.
You could lie now.
You don't.
Joel sees it in your face before you've said a word, and his jaw tenses again, not in anger now, but in something more like hunger. Possession. He moves in slow, like he's giving you the opportunity to make him stopâbut you don't. You let his mouth brush against yours, slow and claiming, and when he kisses you it's different from beforeâthere's no urgency, no chase of release. This kiss is telling you you're his, and he's making sure you know.
When he pulls back, he whispers, "Stay here. I'll be back in a few hours."
You almost argue. But there is no point. Not the way he says it. Not the way his eyes are.
And when he comes back, it's nearly daylight.
You're half asleep on the couch, painkillers helping to ease the throbbing of your ribs, when you hear the door open. Joel enters covered in blood that isn't hisâdark spots on his shirt, knuckles raw. He reeks of sweat and anger and old rust, and there's a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth that looks just a little wolfish.
"You left him alive,"Â you say, sitting up.
"Course I did." He shrugs off his jacket, moving toward you. "He'll be front of that garage for the next two days, rolled up like a dead dog. Anybody comes by will recognize his face and know why."
You swallow. Joel stands before you, a man who's stepped across a line and isn't returning.
He bends down and touches your cheek, the pad of his thumb tender where the skin's bruised purple.
"You're mine," he whispers.
You want to interrupt. You want to deliver some diatribe about choice, about autonomy, about not belonging to anyone.
But you also remember the sensation of itâfighting for your life alone behind those cars. How no one helped. How no one cared.
And you remember how Joel looked at you tonight, like there was nothing else in the world but the sight of you hurt.
So you nod once, slowly. "Okay."
His mouth shatters yours in the next heartbeat, all heat and claim and promise of something finally real. And when he takes you to bed, he's careful with the bruises. His hands are rough but respectful. His mouth whispers your name like a prayer.
It's not just a casual fuck anymore.
It hasn't been in a long time.
#pedro pascal#pedropascal#joel miller#joelmiller#joel miller x reader#joel miller x f!reader#pedro pascal x reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fanfic#joel miller fic#qz!joel#pedro pascal fandom
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Killin' It Boy | JHS x f.Reader

âJung Hoseok is many a thing in your life: Best friend. Part time lover. Eyecandy. And subject of your horniest desires. One night you stay over at his place, but fall asleep before anything can happen. You wake up the next morning needing him like you need air and he just so happens to need you too.â
Pairing: Hoseok x f.Reader (can be read without prior lore knowledge)
Genre: best friends with benefits!AU, Smut, Fluff if you squint really hard
Warnings: Hobi in a tanktop & grey sweats <3, Rougher Dom!Hoseok, needy sub!Reader, she just "casually" wears a thong around him, which obviously earns her what she deserves (a good dickening), making out & groping in his kitchen, which then continues in his bedroom, body worship for both, nipple play & licking for both, strength & muscle kink, now hear me out about the main thing!! she massages lube on his abs and then grinds on them :), yes this an ab humping fic :), multiple orgasms (f.receiving), afterwards he dicks her down HARD, clit play, breast play, choking & spanking (f.receiving), messy orgasms, creampie, cumming all over her chest, which he licks off <3, he calls her babygirl & good girl, the praisiest praise ever, this man can DIRTY TALK LORDD, i need a respirator fr, loving & soft aftercare
Wordcount: 6.9k
a/n: i don't want to talk about it. this is not how i wanted to return from my break but here we are đś i want to formally apologise for the damage this will do to you besties' pussies but i also want to say you're welcum. i put my entire sibussy into this story and it didn't help because hobi is still fucking haunting me omfg oh lord i need to run against a wall and forget all my memories fr đŠ have fun my whores i'm happy to be back đ¤
You are at Hoseokâs today.
Well, technically you are still at Hoseokâs after staying the night. Nothing happened. It was quite simple. The others arenât currently at the estate and you grew tired of being alone. Taehyung and Jimin are on a best friend bonding trip to Hawaii, Jungkook is staying with Seokjin in Gordes because he really missed him and Yoongi had to spontaneously leave for Geneva to help his long term friend Fredrick with sorting out some issues.
And you? You honestly didnât feel like going on a trip. So you stayed behind. You cleaned, did some gardening, you read, you took walks and enjoyed time alone. But then you got bored and so you took one very long walk to Hoseokâs.
That was yesterday and he welcomed you with homemade iced tea and pasta for dinner.
âSomehow I always end up eating pasta at your placeâ, you told him, enjoying it wholeheartedly.
âSorry, itâs not my intention.â
âItâs totally fine. You make one hell of a pesto.â
Later you watched a movie where you fell asleep on his chest. Nothing happened.
Hoseok must have been awake for a while. His side is empty and cold. Which is a fucking shame because the second you woke up, you craved him. In more ways than one. You wanted his cuddles, desired his kisses and needed his touch. You huff air in frustration, staring at the empty bed longingly. It would have been so awesome if he was still here. He is always so warm in the morning and said warmth really brings out how amazing he smells.
You sit up and roll out of bed to leave for the bathroom so you can freshen up a little.
Hoseok is a very clean person. Quite frankly, he is the tidiest person you know. Each thing has his designated spot and things like dust or flyaway hairs were nonexistent in his bathroom. He left the door open and the scent of his shower gel still lingers in the air. You enjoy it as you wash your face and brush your teeth, eyes travelling over the tidy set up. He left his cologne outside today, which is totally shocking but also very tempting. You finish cleaning up and pick up the cologne to steal a sniff. Woody cedar meets warm grapefruit with a hint of shiso. It is masculine and sensual. If you could, you would bathe in it. It smells so good and knowing that he probably put it on after his shower makes you just a little droopy.
Now, you must be excused. Being close to Hoseok is very difficult because he is just so attractive. Yesterday, he opened the door in a tank top and some baggy grey sweats and you almost barked at him. It also doesnât help that he is starting to get serious with you. Granted, you always knew that he wasnât the funny perverted jokester he most of the times likes to give himself as, but seeing his more serious side become the norm around you just kind of hits different. He is so attractive when he simply exists without trying to put on a show. Itâs in the little things. The way he closes a cabinet with his hip, the way he offers you something to drink and always makes sure that you are taken care of or when he tells you about his day while you rest on his chest and he traces your arm. He is so him these days. So completely and attractively mundane and normal and because of that, incredibly sexy.
Point being, you are just a little upset that last night didnât lead to anything more and so you leave for downstairs with a plan. You are wearing nothing more than your lacy bra and a matching thong. You rarely wear thongs, because letâs be honest, they are fucking uncomfortable. You only wear them when you want to seduce someone and this is your plan. Seduce Hoseok.
Your heart races. This is something you never did before with him. You have no idea how he will react or if he will even like it. You might actually dissolve into dust of embarrassment if he ends up being weirded out. After all, you and he arenât an official thing and stuff like surprising each other in your underwear isnât just something that happens. But if you donât try, you will always regret it.
Hoseok is eating his world-famous breakfast croffles (he always has to make them when you stay for breakfast) and sips on coffee when you enter the kitchen. He is engrossed in a video on his phone, judging by the sounds it is a dancing competition video.
âGood morning.â
âGood morning, one second I canât look away. My favouriteâs dancing.â
Just as you had figured.
âYeah? Are they any good?â
âSheâs fucking sick. Iâve never seen such footwork before. How the hell is she even doing that?â he says and moves the phone closer to see better.
You run your eyes over him. Baggy grey sweats and a white tanktop, dark hair styled messily on purpose and fingers adorned by rings. He is so attractive without even trying.
This is killing you. Your heart might give up before anything else. Hoseok keeps murmuring and mumbling to himself while you prepare a cup of tea. You know your way around the kitchen, so it is easy to do.
âAre you hungry? Iâll make you crofflesâ, he offers without looking up.
âSure, I could go for a bite.â
âAlright, Iâll make them soon.â
âYeah, take your time.â
He hums and continues watching. The water finishes boiling in the time being. You fill your designated mug, watching the tea bag tint the water caramel slowly.
âDamn, that was sickâ, Hoseok lets out behind you.
The dance must have finished because you can hear the distinct sound of a phone being set down. It is now or never. Â
You keep your back turned to him, acting busy and hoping that he looks.
âSo sorry, I would have been so upset if I missed that, but now you have me all to-â
One second.
âWhat the fuck?â a very quiet whisper.
Two seconds.
â-yourself.â Loud again. âDamn, whatâs going on with your clothes?â
âWhy? What do you mean?â
âYou didnât wear that to sleep. Whereâs your pjs gone?â
You turn and shrug your shoulders.
âDidnât feel like it.â
His eyes are all over you, trying to undress what little clothing still covers you.
âWell fuckâ, he says and drops into his chair, running his hand over his mouth. He meets your eyes. âNot gonna lie, ___, this is making the morning a lot sweeter.â
âIt is?â
âYouâre like a dream, Seriously, the sweetest dream. Damn, just, sorry Iâm inappropriate. Itâs just underwear and Iâm acting like Iâve never seen a woman in a thong before. Sorry.â
âYouâre alrightâ, you say and chuckle, âI like it.â
You turn again so you can get some milk. You like your morning tea with milk. Anyone who hates this combination doesnât know true culinary luxury.
âFucking hell ___, youâre⌠Nah, thatâs too much.â
He stands up and closes the distance. His hand brushes your waist.
âPlease look at meâ, he says, using his sexy voice for it.
You turn. His gaze is darkened in desire, making sinful love to you as he looks you deep into the eyes.
âTell me that Iâm not reading into this too much and youâre not just wearing this for the sake of wearing it.â
âI wanna tell you something about me.â
âTell me.â
âI actually hate wearing thongs. Theyâre things of evil.â
He chuckles, sliding his fingers under the very thin string which sits on your hip.
âSo why are you?â
âBecauseâŚâ you begin to whisper, closing the distance so he can taste the words.
Hoseokâs purrs softly, parting his lips. Your breath taste minty and like temptation. He craves to fill his lungs with you.
â...I had hoped that you would like themâ, you finish your sentence, raking your fingers up his sculpted chest.
âI do. I like them.â
Closer. Your lips almost touch.
âGood.â
âKiss me.â He cups your cheek, chasing your lips.
âYou first.â
Hoseok smiles in amusement, eyes flickering darkly. He slides his hand to the back of your head and pulls you in. You moan, knees buckling and body chasing him instinctively. He tastes sweet like the maple syrup he likes on his croffles. His lips are so soft, drawing you in. He is definitely the one to decide the rhythm. You just have to take it, keep up with it and you do. You take it with a racing heart, moaning every time he runs his tongue over your lips. You keep up with it, touching his body because you need to have all of him. His arms are so defined without being too overly bulky. His waist is so tiny and firm and his chest is strong with the perkiest of nipples. You rub them over his tanktop. He moans softly, following it with a chuckle. He sways your bodies from side to side, wrapping his strong arms around you so he can press you against him. He purrs deeply, letting you taste his desire in a slow tongue kiss.
You moan into his mouth. It feels so good to be held that tight just because you played with his nipples. Hoseok is so good in communicating with his body and he just doesnât stop talking. As you continue to rub and explore his chest, he continues to purr and allows his hands to travel over your back. He uses his entire palms for it, making sure that you can feel every touch he places.
You switch your touch to his neck, ruffling up his hair and meeting his tongue with your own. He sucks on your tongue with a moan, squeezing your ass. He does it so desperately that you kind of wobble from side to side, getting on your tiptoes because he lifts you just a little.
âJumpâ, he orders and you follow.
He catches you, bouncing you in his arms so he gets a better grip of you and kissing you as he does. You moan, grinding against his stomach and twisting his hair. His hands are under your ass, his arms flex as he carries you with ease. His kiss tastes like heaven, but you take it away when he sits you down on the kitchen counter and you have to gasp.
âColdâ, you whine.
âHm, sorryâ, he purrs, making it up to you by kissing your neck and shoulders. He is breathing heavily, constantly purring and moaning because the mere existence of you seems to drive him wild.
You donât even care about the cold stone under your butt anymore. Not when he raises the fire in your veins. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter and keeping him close with your legs. He feels them up, kissing a hungry path down to your breasts.
âSo sexy, youâre so sexyâ, he lulls, grinding into you with a shaky moan.
Thud.
âOuch.â
He shoots up.
âWhat was that?â
You are pouting, rubbing your head, âI hit my head on the cabinet.â
Hoseok laughs, âare you okay?â he asks, petting the aching spot.
âNo. You made me roll my head back with your stupid grinding and I hit it.â
He chuckles, âokay Miss Clumsy, letâs remove you from dangerâ, he says and lifts you off the counter.
You giggle, ruffling his hair and gazing down at him.
âWhere are you taking me?â
âBedroomâ, he says, ânow fucking kiss me.â
You donât need to be told twice. Kissing him is like a drug and you are its addict. You kiss him as he leaves the kitchen, you kiss him as he walks up the stairs and you kiss him as he lies you down in his soft bed. He is the one to break the kiss, but the pleasure continues. Your neck gets kissed and sucked and because itâs Hoseok and his entire deal is being sexy, he bites you as well.
You mewl, rolling your hips up in desperate search for friction. He helps you find it on his hand. He hooks his pinkie in your thongs and pulls it to the side, connecting his thumb with your pussy so you can grind down on it.
âHobi, oh god.â
âI love how fucking wet you already are, youâre just so good for meâ, he praises. He hooks his other hand in your bra, tugging the right cup to the side so he has access to your nipple. He wraps his wet, warm and soft mouth around it, sucking on it gently and flicking his tongue over it.
If he didnât have you wrapped all around his fingers, he definitely would now.
âStopâ, you gasp, pulling his hand away, âstop, please stop.â
âWhatâs the matter?â he asks, retreating his hand.
âYouâre too good, Iâm excited.â You fluster. âI almost came.â
He chuckles, eyes sparkling mischievously.
âDonât laugh. This is really exciting for me.â
âWhy? Iâm just getting you ready.â
âI wanted you the moment I woke up.â
He widens his eyes, âreally?â
âYeah.â
âWell damn. I donât know what to say.â Â
You touch his chest, âI want something.â
âTell me.â
âI want you to be rough today, okay? No more of that careful shit.â
He chuckles, âalright, I can do that. Anything else?â
âIf you want to, you can choke me or spank me.â
âHot. Thatâs hot.â
âSo?â
âYes, baby. Yesâ, he says and kisses you again.
You moan in happiness, dragging your hands down his torso until you reach his pants. You slip your hands inside. Hoseok follows your hands just to take his pants off. The kiss has to break when he has to step out of them. A pair of tight boxers keeps his hard cock pressed to his thigh. He is soaking the grey fabric. The view is so hot but nothing beats the view of his abs as he takes off his tanktop. He throws it to the side and steps out of his boxers, wanting to reclaim his spot between your legs afterwards but you are faster.
You sit up, surprising him by pushing him down into the sheets by his chest.
âAlright, is this what weâre doing?â he laughs, dropping down willingly.
You climb his lap, sitting down right under his hard cock. He smiles in amusement, caressing your thighs.
âYouâre so sweetâ, he purrs, feeling up your waist.
âMhmâ, you hum absentmindedly, lowering your mouth to his neck to worship it needily. He smells like his cologne. You quite frankly lick and suck it off of him while Hoseok gasps for air and moans in pleasure.
You only leave his neck once you consumed all of his scent, having come to the conclusion that the rest of his body smells just as good.
âOh shitâ, he lets out under his breath, chest heaving up and down quickly as you lick his nipples.
But again, you donât stay for too long. This isnât what you crave the most. This isnât what you have been thinking about ever since you saw him in this stupidly tight tanktop.
âYour abs are insane. Actually insaneâ, you say, dragging your tongue down the middle of them. Your hands follow it along his waist, thumbs running over his obliques. Hoseok chases your mouth, abs rippling under your tongue. He sighs, skin tingling.
You are so greedy. Your mind is going wild.
âI wanna grind on themâ, you murmur to yourself.
âThen do.â
âHm?â
Hoseok props himself up on his elbows. You look at him with widened eyes.
âYou heard that?â
âYou werenât really quiet, were you?â He smirks. âDo it. I donât have them for nothing you know? I bet I can make you cum on them.â
âHoly moly, Hoseok.â
His smirk grows. He cups your cheek and traces your lips.
âDeal?â
âYeah. Dealâ, you sigh and kiss him.
Hoseok drops into the sheets and grabs your ass, moaning deeply. His grip is gentle but also, for a lack of a better word, possessive. He makes sure that you can feel it â feel him â but not in a way which would hurt. This is supposed to be good for you and it is. Hoseok is so fucking good for you.
He makes you laugh, he lets you cry, he protects you, he listens to you and remembers mundane stuff like your favourite croffle toppings. And he feels like ecstasy when you touch. He is so fucking good for you.
âHobiâŚâ you sigh into the kiss.
âHm?â he purrs, rubbing your buttocks.
âYouâre so addictive.â
He laughs, âwhat are you saying?â
âJustâŚfucking want you.â
He moans as you kiss him, giving you a gentle push to make you finally scoot up his body. He is needy too. He canât deny it anymore.
The kiss has to break for the thing to work. His head is supported by two pillows, laying higher this way so he has good view of his abs.
You crawl off his lap. Hoseok watches with heavy eyes as you take off your thong. Then you walk off.
âHey, where are you going?â he asks, furrowing his brows.
âDrawer was it?â you ask, walking to his bedside table.
âFor what? Come back here.â
You open the drawer. Bingo.
âLubeâ, you say and show him the bottle of water based lube he keeps close by.
Hoseok tuts, smirking in amusement.
âWhat do you need that for, mhm?â
âYouâll see.â
You climb back on his lap and sit down. Hoseok instantly touches you, running his hands up and down your thighs and waist. He looks at you as if he wanted to devour you whole.
âSo sexy. My babygirlâs so fucking sexyâ, he purrs, spurring you on.
With confidence, you open the bottle of lube and squirt a sinful amount of it onto his abs. They twitch and flex as a reaction to the cold.
âShit.â He laughs, squeezing your hips. âThatâs cold, gotta warn me.â
âWhereâs the fun in that? I could watch your abs twitch like thatâ, you say and put the bottle aside. You connect your hands with his stomach to massage the lube all over his skin.
âThatâs hotâŚfuck, I like thatâ, he purrs, tensing and relaxing his abs wherever you touch him. âYeah, just like that, babygirlâŚâ
âHow do you even get these abs? Theyâre insane.â
âWorkouts, dancing, Iâm just sexy, what can I sayâ, he says, following it with a rather cutesy giggle.
You agree, âyou are. Youâre so sexy.â
You spread the excess lube on your pussy and finally do what you need. You position yourself above his abs.
âThatâs so hot. Use me, babygirl, you got itâ, he encourages you, offering you his hands if you needed support. He has his arms propped on his elbows so you can really lean your weight on them.
You take them, of course you do. Those are Hoseokâs hands. You would be dumb if you didnât take them. The lube smears between your palms, forcing him to grip you so much tighter than he normally needs to. Itâs so sexy.
Your pussy touches his stomach. You exhale shakily, heart beginning to race. This is new to you and itâs already amazing.
âThatâs good, babygirl. You like that?â
âYeah, I doâ, you say and begin moving. You roll your hips up and down on his abs, finding out soon enough that you can feel the definition. âOkay, woah yeah I do.â
He chuckles, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. He canât decide whether to look at your pretty pussy on his abs or your cute face scrunched up in concentration. Maybe both because he is fucking into you. So into you.
âTake it at your pace, yeah? Iâm right here, just enjoy.â
âHoseokâŚâ
Your pussy is mesmerising. The angle naturally hides a lot from his eyes, but what Hoseok can see is enough to drive him insane. You fit right around his abs, moving so perfectly on him. He feels you getting wetter and wetter. Itâs so warm, really bringing out how fucking soft you are.
âHobi, you feel so goodâ, you get out, squeezing his hands.
âI do?â He flexes his abs.
âA-ahâ, you moan with your voice pitched, scrunching your nose.
âSo sexyâ, Hoseok whispers, doing it again just to hear you moan and feel you clench.
You didnât think that you could feel it so well. You could fucking count them just by rubbing your pussy over them.
One, two, three.
âHoseok, ah, Hoseok.â
Four, five.
âYouâre such a pretty woman, riding my abs so well. Good girl, make yourself feel good.â
Six, seven.
âHobi please.â
Eight. Heâs got an eight pack. This sexy motherfucker actually has an eight pack and its currently getting marked by you. He is the canvas and you are the artist, creating impure art.
âPlease what, babygirl? Want me to help you?â
You open your bra and take it off.
âTouch meâ, you beg, guiding his lube covered hands to your tits.
His abs tense under you because of the position. He purrs deeply, watching with widened pupils as he covers your breasts in a sinful layer of lube. He rubs his palms all over your chest, drags them down your sides and up over your stomach, repaying the favour this way. Now you are both covered in lube, skin glistening in the morning light and bodies heated up.
âMy sexy woman. Fuck, lubeâs your best lookâ, he rasps, cupping your breasts to knead them in his messy fingers.
You twitch and tremble on him, leaking more of you on his hard abs. Praise paired with his touches is a difficult combination to handle. It turns you on so much to be messy and he is calling you sexy for it.
You press yourself tighter to his abs, speeding up your movements because he has you desperate. It squelches in wet sin, only adding to the pleasure. The fact that you can hear the texture of themâŚ
âFuck, this feels so goodâŚâ
âYeah? Like it?â
âSo much, ahmâŚâ
âThatâs it. Ride my abs, good girl. Youâre such a good girlâ, he praises, rewarding you with his thumbs on your nipples. Itâs like he knows how a woman works. Itâs insane how good his touch feels. Just one second of it and you already find yourself addicted to it.
âHoseok, fuck please.â
âTell me, babygirl.â
âDonât stop.â
âWonât.â
âThank youâ, you moan and throw your head back, arching your back. You grab his strong arms, chasing the feeling of him. His hands on you, his thumbs on your nipples and his abs under your leaking cunt. You chase it, chase it, chase it and itâs getting better and better.
By now you have his abs so messy that creamy strings of your slick stick to his skin, webbing themselves from muscle to muscle. It looks so good against his honey skin.
You donât get to see it. Your eyes are rolled back by now.
But Hoseok sees it and he is hooked up on the view, leaking on his lowest abs and wishing for you to just take him in. But he canât rush you. He promised you an orgasm on his abs and he isnât one to break promises. Especially not when it comes to you. Youâre fucking precious to him and the promises he makes you, sacred.
So he keeps his fantasy a little fantasy while he tenses and flexes his abs under your puffy cunt and plays with your pretty nipples. He switches between massages of your chest and attention to your nipples with little flicks and rubs. The pleasure courses through you in waves.
âI think Iâm close.â
âThatâs so good. Youâre doing so wellâ, he praises, sitting up more just so his abs ripple for you.
You shake, digging your fingers into his arms.
âOh fuck.â
âYou feel me?â
âYeah, I feel youâŚâ
âMhhm I feel you too. Youâre so sexy on my abs. My sexy babygirlâ, he rasps and takes your nipples between his fingers to tug gently and rub them. At the same time he rolls his hips up, letting you feel how his abs work when he fucks.
âHoseok holy fuck, ah!â you croak and break. Your entire body just freezes. Hoseok moans loudly at the feeling of your throbbing pussy and takes your hips between his hands just to move them over his abs for you.
You sob, gripping his wrists as you tremble. You thought it couldnât get any better, but he proves you wrong as he guides you.
âHo-hobi. Hobi please. Please.â
âI know babygirl, I know. Youâre cumming so good for me. Donât worry, Iâve got you.â
âHobiâŚâ
âIâve got you. Iâm hereâ, he talks you through it because thatâs what he does. He talks you through it, helps you ride it out and enjoys the sensations with a dizzy head.
He can feel when it stops for you. He is so fucking greedy for more but knows not to be. You always get a little vulnerable after your first orgasm. Itâs as if your mind finally catches up with the fact that you were horny and it is figuring out whether to be embarrassed or want more.
You sit on him with your entire weight, eyes widened and glassy.
âIâŚâ
âHush, youâre okayâ, Hoseok assures you, lifting you just to sit up and put you down on his lap instead. The creamy mess you left on his abs smears all over your stomach now that are you so close. He has his hands on your back, holding you safely as he kisses your neck.
âWhat are you doing to me?â you choke out, dropping into him.
He moves his head so it wouldnât get squished. His chin now rests against your shoulder while you have your face pressed into the crook of his neck. Your arms are hooked behind his head and your hands are in his hair.
âI promised you an orgasm on my abs, didnât I?â he speaks in a soft voice, scratching your back soothingly.
âYeah, but.â
âBut what?â
âIt felt so good.â
He chuckles, squeezing your buttocks.
âSo? Whereâs the problem?â
You lift your head, meeting his eyes. You cup his face.
âI want more.â
âWhat was that?â
âI want moreâ, you say and slide your hand to his cock.
Hoseok tenses his stomach, showing you with a slight squint of his eyes that he feels your touch and he likes it.
âTell meâ, he rasps.
âI want more, please.â
âNo. Tell me that you canât get enough.â
âI canât get enough.â
He smiles darkly, lowering his eyes seductively. He moves his head closer, letting you taste his words.
âBeg for it.â
âI canât get enough, please Hobi.â
âYou can do better than thatâ, he rasps, looking at your lips.
âFuck. Please fuck me, I want more of you, pleaseâ, you beg, heart racing like crazy and head dizzy. Itâs so hot to have to beg. Especially when he makes you work for it. And you work for it. You grind your hips down on his thigh, twisting your hand around his cock in hopes of convincing him.
âI like that, babygirl. Say it again. One more timeâ, he whispers, craving to kiss you. Your hand on his cock is making it so difficult to hold back.
âYouâre a teaseâ, you whine.
âFucking say it again, babygirlâ, he orders, giving your ass a warning squeeze.Â
âPlease fuck me, please donât tease me anymore pleaseâ, you whimper and try to warm his heart by dancing your tongue over his lips.
Hoseok growls and moves quickly. He picks you up only to pin you into the sheets and give you what you ask for.
You squeak, tensing up in surprise.
He knows how to do it so it fills you with electrical shocks of pleasure. He soaks up the view of your surprised eyes widening only to go out of focus and roll back all within a second.
âGo on say it. Say what youâre thinkingâ, he challenges you, pumping his aching cock into you in a desperate rhythm.
âFeels so good. Hobi, you feel so good.â
âYeah? And what do well mannered women do, mhm?â
âMoan for you,â you moan, arching your back.
He chuckles, sliding his hand under your back and rewarding you with his entire length.
âGood guess, but no.â
You squeeze down on him so hard that he knows it was intentional. He growls, twisting the sheets beside your head.
âNo, thatâs not either. Go on, use your brain. What do we say after getting something?â
âThank youâ, you moan, twisting the sheets as well. There are no words on this earth to describe how good his cock makes you feel. First his abs get you sensitive and now you have his girthy cock splitting you open. This is actual heaven.
âGood girl. Thatâs it. Thank me. Go on.â
âThank you. Thank you. Thank youâ, you chant, getting louder and needier because your moans earn you more and more of what he has to offer.
He moves his hips as if he was on stage, performing and dancing just for your pleasure. Your second thank you earns you his skilled fingers on your clit and your third thank you earns you his other hand around your throat.
âHoseok!â you wail, grasping his lower arm just to squeeze him closer to your throat.
He purrs deeply, tightening his fingers. Your pulse races like crazy, fluttering and faltering as he slowly and gently cuts off the blood flow to your brain. He towers over you, kneeling on the sheets as he makes dirty love to you. But you donât get to see how sexy he looks. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mind is completely lost in the pleasure.
âIâm going insane, you feel so fucking good. Fucking wanted you like crazyâ, he says and moans loudly.
You match his freak with an even louder moan, clenching down on his cock because vocal men are such a turn on. Especially when itâs Hoseok. His voice is fucking made to make sex noises.
âShit, woahâŚthat feels good. Do it againâ, he moans.
You clench, toes curling because it makes it a lot better for you as well. You can feel every vein on his cock this way, can feel his tip fuck against your g-spot and feel his base stretch you out. So you clench and clench and clench, whimpering and mewling for him.
âYesâ, he growls, chasing the tight heaven you offer him, âyes, yes, fucking yes. Babygirl, yes.â
He fucks you right where it feels the best. Over and over again he hits The Spot while his fingers flick your clit quickly and his hand reminds your throat that you are hisâ.
âYes, babgirl, yes. You-â
âHoseokâ, you interrupt him.
âYes?â
âYouâre making me- oh god, Hoseok please. I have to- ah!â
âItâs okay, you can cum. Donât hold backâ, he encourages you, helping you with a soft rub on your clit and by letting go of your neck.
âThank you!â You climax on his cock with a sob, writhing in ecstasy because this is so much more intense than the first one. Your head pounds from the blood rushing back. You feel your orgasm everywhere between your legs, thanking him over and over again.
âThatâs it, donât hold back. Good girl, I canât get enough of youâ, he talks you through it just as he fucks you through it. He doesnât slow down. Why should he? When it makes you feel so good.
âMore. More please. Please, oh. Please.â
âWasnât gonna stop anywayâ, he says and easily fixes you to how he wants you. He rolls you to your side and bends your leg around his hips. He faces your pussy and just like this, he enters you. He gives you all of him, watching in delight how you tense up and writhe in pleasure because the position allows him to hit your g-spot more precisely.
âThank you. Hobi please. Thank you.â
âI fucking love when you beg like this. Makes me wanna fuck you so much harderâ, he purrs, using his abs and back muscles to give you the fuck of your lifetime.
Hoseok is many a thing. Best friend. Occasional lover. Artist. Pornstar, dancer and man obsessed. One thing is for sure however, he will use his mesmerising ability to move his hips to give you cock in ways you havenât experienced yet. This is a passion project for him and he treats his passion projects with utmost and precise care. Because he likes them to be perfect.
If that means that he has to rearrange your guts and permanently carve himself into your walls, then so be it. Hoseok is down for the ride.
âPlease, Hobi. Itâs too muchâ, you sob and bury your face in the mattress. He watches how you bite into the sheets, how you grasp them with shaky fingers and how your toes curl.
âJust say it if you want me to stop. Hm?â He stops his hips. âWanna say it?â
âNo!â you practically yell at him. âDonât stop please!â
Hoseok chuckles and picks his rhythm back up. He spanks your ass.
âBad girl. Yelling is rude.â
You whimper, spilling tears. This is all part of his plan isnât it? He listened to your wishes, memorised them and then planned the sexiest way of including them. First the hand around your throat and then he works you up to be yelling just so he can spank you. Holy fuck, this is all just part of his plan.
âAgain pleaseâ, you beg desperately, leaking on his cock just as you leak tears into the sheets.
Spank! In sync with a rough thrust of his skilled hips.
âThank you!â
âYouâre so polite. Keep it up, babygirl. So goodâ, he rasps, rewarding you with two consecutive spanks and rough thrusts.
âThank youâ, you sob, clenching down on is cock every time he lands his bejeweled hand on your ass.
âSo good.â
Spank!
âHobiâ, you sob and go back to biting the sheets.
Hoseok continues. He is panting by now, growling each time he exhales. He spanks you not because you need to be punished, but as an act of infatuation. He does it because it gives you pleasure, because it makes your cunt so tight on his cock and because it makes such a pretty sound.
âGood girl, youâre taking me so well. My good fucking woman. So goodâ, he praises, rubbing your clit with his other hand because you deserve only the best.
âO-i im uingâ, you murmur into the sheets.
âWhat was that?â
You show him. Hoseok yelps, tensing up.
â___ babyâŚholy fuck, so tightâ, he moans, throwing his head back and burying his cock in you to the very base just so he can feel every second of your orgasm. He didnât plan on making you cum already so this one comes as a surprise.
You sob and wail, convulsing in paradisal pleasure before it gets too much and you squirt all over him.
âFucking hell, you gonna make me cum. This is so hotâ, Hoseok growls, suddenly moving like a messy, clumsy teenage boy. Coordinating spanks and clit rubs is impossible and his hips stutter whenever he pushes back in. So he holds onto a good chunk of your ass, bruising it between his strong fingers as he claims your weeping cunt. You are so tight and now so fucking wet. Your orgasm sticks to his abs as well, soaking his cock and balls. The view is so sexy to him, making it hard to keep moving. âFuck, Iâm close.â
You fight yourself to your elbow and reach for him.
âPlease Hobi.â you beg, dragging your nails down his abs so hard that it leaves marks.
Hoseok looks into your puppy eyes and knows that he is done for.
â___ babyâ, he moans, eyes going cross before rolling back and closing. His hips stop when his cock is deepest. He grunts, scrunches his face and you can finally feel it. His hot, creamy orgasm. It fills you up, sticks to you, makes you hisâ.
âThank you, ah Hoseok, thank youâ, you whimper, feeling up his abs as they ripple and tense rhythmically.
âBaby, this feels so good. Holy fuck, can I cum on your chest?â
âYeah. Please.â
âUrgh fuckâ, he growls through gritted teeth and pulls out of you. He flips you to your back and spanks your clit with his cock just once to get the message across before he angles it differently and jerks off over your chest to get that last wave of pleasure all over it.
âHobiâ, you whimper, watching the sinful show with hungry eyes. Look at his abs tenseâŚ
âThatâs my woman. Fucking wear me around your neck, thatâs my woman. So fucking good, urgh.â
You cry for him, gazing up at him with devoted, droopy eyes. You canât decide whether to look at his heavy cock spurting white cum all over you and his long fingers or his glistening abs or his scrunched face. Maybe you look at all of it while you touch and scratch his abs and arch your tits closer to him.
Hoseok finishes in five sloppy strokes.
âFuck ___â, he drops his cock into the mess he just made, playing with it by swirling his hips.
âDid you like that?â you ask him in a sweet voice.
He nods his head with closed eyes, catching his breath.
âYouâre so sexy, babygirl. Canât believe you let me do thatâ, he says and opens his eyes.
He drags his heavy cock down to your pussy, rubbing it through your well-loved folds and over your sensitive clit.
You squeak, closing your legs.
âSensitive.â
He chuckles, kissing your knee.
âSorryâ, he says, pushing your legs open, âlet me kiss it better.â
âHoseok, godâ, you gasp and sigh, melting into the sheets as he runs his mouth over your ruined body. This is so sinful and sensual but also soothing and relaxing.
He licks the cum from your chest, kisses the sore spots on your thighs and loves your neck with his lips. The mess between your legs he leaves. Personal preference maybe. You wonât complain. Itâs so nice to leak him. You feel so fulfilled.
âHow are you doing?â he whispers against your ear.
âIâm in shock.â
He chuckles, âis that a good thing?â
You nod your head vigorously, giggling.
He smiles, kissing your ear before he lifts his head. He is propped up on his elbow, resting against your side which makes it easy to caress your torso. His eyes are filled with soft adoration. He is glowing when he smiles.
âSo how did I do? You liked what I did?â
âI get it nowâ, you whisper.
âGet what now?â
âWhy youâre so cocky about your skills.â
He lowers his eyes shyly.
âDonât say that.â
âYouâre so good.â
âAh, youâ, he lets out and smooches you with a giggle. âThanks. Wah, now Iâm embarrassed.â
You snicker, âdonât be. I liked it so much. Oh god, I need a minute.â
âMhm, take your time. Iâll be here to take care of youâ, he says and uses the moments of relaxation to kiss you all over your body. âI hope you donât mind.â
âNoâ, you sigh, writhing in relaxing pleasure. You donât mind at all. You could never mind him. He is permanently settled in your brain, permanently living into your heart and permanently carved into your walls.
âYouâre so fucking beautifulâ, he whispers, kissing your inner thighs. They smell like sex. Hoseok soaks up the scent like an addict, leaving marks of devotion next to the spots his rough handling left. He leaves out your pussy again.
âWhy do you do that?â you ask, playing with his hair.
âDo what?â he asks, looking up from your lower stomach.
âLeave it outâ, you say, rolling your hips up.
âBecause I can and I want toâ, he purrs, kissing a quick path up to your face. He lies down next to you, cradling your face. âAnd because you should feel me a little longer.â
âBut how will I get up and eat my croffles?â
He smiles against your lips and kisses you.
âBreakfast in bed, duh.â
âReally?â you ask, eyes widened in surprise. Such romance is new from him. He makes your heart race.
âMhm, really. You should relax, let me treat my woman.â
His woman. He kept saying it as he fucked you. You donât correct him. You smile and nod your head.
âYeah, okay. But I canât guarantee that I can keep my hands to myself when you do.â
âDo you have to be somewhere today?â
âNo. But I donât see how-â
âThen I donât see the problemâ, he flirts and pecks your lips.
You get it now. And it makes you giggle. He smiles, pecking your cheek.
âRelax. Iâll be back with breakfastâ, he says and before he rolls out of bed, you stop him.
You steal a kiss, ending it by biting his lower lip. He smiles at you, eyes sparkly and infatuated by you.
âDonât take too long, please.â
âPromiseâ, he seals it with a peck then finally gets out of bed to leave the bedroom naked.
âArenât you forgetting your clothes?â
âI cook best naked.â He gives you a cocky grin and a wink then closes the door.
âFuckâ, you drop into the sheets and blow raspberries. It is official, you wonât ever get him out of your head.
#hoseok smut#hoseok fanfic#hoseok fanfiction#hoseok scenario#hoseok oneshot#hoseok x reader#hoseok x you#dom!hoseok#bts smut#bts fanfic#bts fanfiction#bts scenario#bts oneshot#bts x reader#bts x you#dom!bts#bangtan smut#bangtan fanfic#bangtan fanfiction#bangtan oneshot#bangtan scenario#bangtan x reader#bangtan x you#dom!bangtan#fanfic: sanguis duology
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Out of tune [pt2} || cbg
Hehe, and ive made it to part 2. I have yapped enough at the beginning of part 1 so Im just getting straight into my thoughtsÂ
Love that we instantly start from Beomgyuâs POV and from that night, im so excited
It wasnât that he didnât want to talk to her. It was just that⌠sometimes, it was easier to pretend things were fine when he didnât hear how tired she sounded. Still, after a few moments, he forced himself to dial.
Yeah I get this. Its so much more painful when you hear the exhaustion especially when its from a parent and you cant do anything about it
The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.
I love seeing her from his perspectiveÂ
Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. âDo you want his approval?â she asked. âOr do you want him?â
We love Yunjin, asking the right question
And he was looking at you. Even in the dim lighting, even from across the room, you could feel the weight of itâheavy, unwavering, pressing against your skin like static before a thunderstorm. There was something sharp in his gaze, something unsettled. Irritated. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing slightly against his bicep, like he was holding something back. But from what? From you?
I love how frustrated Beomgyu actually is, I feel like it heightens the tension so much more.
Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "NothingâjustâŚ" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."
I literally said what out loud I was so shocked??
Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."
Part 2 is full of surprises what the fuck??? Why????
WAIT. WHAT???/ HE REALLY IS THE REASON WHAT?? NO FREAKING WAY
"Ever since we started this fucking project," he continued, voice rough, "I havenât been able to think straight. I go home, and I still hear your voice in my head. I wake up, and Iâm already wondering what kind of mood youâll be in, if weâre gonna fight, if weâre gonna work, ifâ" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Itâs you. Itâs always fucking you."
Oh my god Im going to go insane.
OH MY GOD THE KISS HELLO????/
Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.
This is so insane, im going insane.
Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.
I will pass out.
Ronnie. You cannot leave me like this oh my godđ§ââď¸how can he just up and leave hello? This really is the most intense slow burn and angst. I feel so bad for her :( the way shes crying, poor baby.
Yeonjun hummed like he didnât believe you for a second. He didnât push, though. Instead, his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into your knee. "Look, Y/N⌠I donât think Beomgyu ran because he didnât care. I think he ran because he does."
I love this. I love that Yeonjun understands Gyuâs perspective and doesnt immediately take sides but just helps her try to realize Gyu really didint want to do what he did.
This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesnât know how to handle.
Love the effect women have on men
Not you making him right the moonstruck lyrics oh my godÂ
Also mc also writing the most gut-wrenching lyrics about Beomgyu (thats such a good song btw) is heartbreaking
Man Cheol why must you be the kind of evil guy here :( The way hes making Gyu seem like a problem no <//3
Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputationâhe doesnât always separate work from⌠other things."
Oh this made me cringe oh ew why must men
He might not even listen to it. He might throw it away. He might ignore it completely. But still, you left it there. And as you walked away, your chest felt lighter. Because for once, you werenât running. You were giving him a chance.
Oh my god these words :((Â
Your breath hitched. "Twice?"
His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"
I love them so much, amidst all the tension and slow burn i love them so very much
Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didnât want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didnât want my feelings to get in the way."
Oh my god.
OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK SEUNGCHEOL. I am so angry get awayyyy shooooo
You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."
Fucking ew (i love cheol but not rn no ewww)
Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheolâs been waiting for his turn. âDying to get a piece,â is what he said."
This makes me so sick ew nonono
Beomgyu exhaled sharply, chest heaving, his eyes dark and so fucking serious it made your stomach flip. "I canâtâ" He dragged a hand over his face, voice lower now, wrecked. "I canât pretend that this thing between us doesnât fucking kill me every time I try to ignore it."
Oh i love it when men yearn so badly
Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I donât want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.
Oh sweet heavens
"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, weâreâ Weâre at work. Itâs not even noon."
I laughed, so if it was the afternoon would it be okay?
You pulled the door open, and then, just as you were about to step out, his hand caught your wrist. Before you could even process it, he tugged lightly, just enough to make you turn back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. It was barely a second. Barely anything. But it hit you like a fucking meteor. He pulled away just as quickly, his eyes flickering over your face, watching your reaction. You didnât move. Couldnât move.
His goal is to make her pass out I swear
You sighed, watching as he expertly cooked the meat, barely thinking before reaching for the lettuce wraps, stacking up the perfect bite, then placing it in front of you. Your eyebrows lifted. "Are you seriously making me food right now?"
Thats so sweet ugh
Also My Bloody Valentine mention?? Ive been transported back to the early 2000s
Not Yeonjun interrupting their kissđ
Oh my god, I cant believe I reached the end of part 2! This was so good. Immediately making my way to part 3
OUT OF TUNE Ë đââ (part 2)



pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3
summary: you and beomgyu have been at each otherâs throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether itâs competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same projectâproducing ENHYPENâs next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isnât just about work.
genre:Â enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 26k // warnings: not proofread, MDNI!! smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, making out, petnames, dry humping
author's note: you guys loved part 1 so much that i decided to drop part 2!! i wasnât originally planning on posting this so soon, but all the love and reactions made me wanna share it with you asap. hope you enjoy <3 READ PART 1 HERE //
out of tune's playlist <3
The night was quiet, but Beomgyuâs mind wasnât.
It had started with a question. A simple, stupid question that he never should have asked.
Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?
You had blinked at him, caught off guard, before letting out a soft laughâso casual, so oblivious to what you had just done to him. "Yeonjun? No. God, no. Heâs justâ" You shook your head, still smiling. "Heâs not my boyfriend."
Beomgyu had scoffed, looking away before you could see how tightly his jaw had clenched.
It didnât matter. It didnât matter that you werenât with Yeonjun. It didnât matter that you had laughed, like the thought had never even crossed your mind.
And yet, by the time he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment that night, exhaustion was settling deep into his body, but he knew he wouldnât be able to sleep. He rarely did these days, not properly, anyway.
The hallway to his apartment was quiet, dimly lit, the familiar flickering of the overhead lights casting long shadows against the walls. It wasnât a bad place. Spacious, modern enough. But it felt empty.
As soon as he stepped inside, he tossed his bag onto the couch and went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. His shoulders ached from hunching over his desk all day, his head heavy from staring at screens for too long.
Still, instead of going to bed, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his call log. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled Mom, but for some reason, hesitation rooted him in place.
It wasnât that he didnât want to talk to her. It was just that⌠sometimes, it was easier to pretend things were fine when he didnât hear how tired she sounded. Still, after a few moments, he forced himself to dial.
When she picked up, her voice was soft, laced with the kind of exhaustion that came from being sick for too long. "Gyu-yah."
His chest tightened. "Hey, Mom."
"Youâre calling late," she murmured, a small smile in her tone.
"Youâre awake late," he echoed his earlier words to his brother.
She chuckled lightly. "Guess it runs in the family." Another beat of silence. "Youâve been working a lot, havenât you?"
Beomgyu leaned against the counter, closing his eyes briefly. She always saw right through him. "Yeah. Big project."
"Hm. And howâs that going?"
He exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his temple. "Itâsâ" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Harder than I thought."
"Isnât it always?"
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah."
His motherâs voice softened. "Whatâs making it difficult?"
Beomgyu rolled his shoulders, shifting against the counter. He could lie, say it was just the usual stress of production, deadlines piling up, expectations weighing on him. That was part of it, sure. But there was something else. "Sheâs⌠challenging," he admitted before he could think better of it.
A pause. Then, amusement slipped into his motherâs voice. "She?"
Beomgyu regretted his wording immediately. "I meant the project is challenging." His mother hummed knowingly, and somehow that was worse than if she had outright called him out. He sighed, tipping his head back. "Itâs justâI donât know. Iâm used to working on my own. Or at least, if I do work with other people, I donât have to think about them all the time."
"All the time?"
He gritted his teeth. "Not like that."
His mother just laughed softly, as if she had already heard this story before. "That means theyâre good, doesnât it?"
Beomgyu scoffed. "More like they piss me off."
"Thatâs the same thing sometimes." He rolled his eyes, but a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Does she make your job harder?" his mom asked after a moment, more thoughtful now.
Beomgyu exhaled slowly. "She makes my job better."
It was the truth. And he hated that. Because you did. Even when you were annoying, even when you were frustrating, even when you made him want to slam his head against the mixing console, you still made the music better.
And that should be the only thing that mattered. Should be.
His mother hummed softly, as if she could hear everything he wasnât saying. "Some people just have a way of getting under your skin," she murmured. "And sometimes, thatâs not a bad thing."
Beomgyu didnât respond to that. Because he wasnât sure he liked where his thoughts were heading. After a while, he let her rest, hanging up the call and tossing his phone onto the couch. He should go to bed. But instead, he found himself standing in his kitchen, staring at the dark city skyline through the window, mind circling back to the same damn thing. To you.
To the way you had looked at him earlier, confused by his mood. To the way your voice had softened when you told him you werenât having a good day. To the way you had laughed at the idea of being with Yeonjun, so casually, like it wasnât even a possibility.
He didnât know why that last part stuck with him the most. And he really didnât like that he cared enough to wonder.
And now, standing in the middle of a crowded party, staring at you across the room, he realized: You had never really left. You were looking at him. Even with the haze of alcohol buzzing in his system, even through the blur of shifting bodies and flashing lights, Beomgyu felt itâsharp and unmistakable. The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.
And for the first time that night, he wasnât sure if he wanted to smirk or swear. Because he liked it. He liked that you were looking. He liked knowing that, no matter how much you fought him, no matter how much you denied itâthere was something there. But then, you looked away. Like it hadnât meant anything. Like he didnât mean anything. And something twisted deep in his chest, hot and sour. So, naturally, he did what he always did. He let his mouth run before his brain could catch up. "But donât worry," he said, voice light, almost lazy, but aimed with precision. "I donât care either way. After all, like you said⌠Iâm just your coworker." The words landed exactly how he intended. He saw itâthe way your shoulders tensed, the way your lips pressed together. The way something flickered in your eyes, so fast that if he blinked, he mightâve missed it. Then he smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. And before he could second-guess himself, before he could let the alcohol-fueled honesty catch up to him, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him andâ No. You werenât even gonna finish that thought.
You let out a slow, frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. You needed to get out of your own head. You needed a drink. And after that, you needed Yunjin.
The party was still buzzing when you stepped back inside, the room warm and crowded, laughter spilling over the music. You spotted her near the bar, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, mid-conversation with some guy you didnât recognize. You marched straight up to her, grabbing her wrist.
âI need to talk to you.â Yunjin barely had time to react before you were pulling her away from the noise, past groups of people, through the doorway leading to one of the quieter lounge areas.
Once inside, she gave you a look, raising an eyebrow as she took a slow sip of her drink. âDamn. No âhey, how are you?â Not even a âyou look great tonight, Yunjinâ?â
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. âNot now.â
She studied you, then smirked knowingly. âThis is about Beomgyu, isnât it?â
You stiffened. âNo.â
âUh-huh,â she said, completely unconvinced. âGo onâŚâ
You exhaled sharply, slumping onto the couch, rubbing your temples. âI donât know what the fuck is wrong with me.â
Yunjin sat beside you, kicking off her heels, posture casual. âAlright, letâs hear it.â
You hesitated, staring at the floor, feeling strangely vulnerable all of a sudden. It took a few seconds before you found your voice. âIââ You stopped, frowning. âI donât even know what I feel right now. Iâm just⌠frustrated.â
She hummed. âAt him?â
âAt everything,â you admitted. âAt this whole fucking project. At the way he gets under my skin so easily. At the fact thatââ You cut yourself off, clenching your jaw.
Yunjin, sharp as ever, caught it immediately. âAt the fact that what?â
You hesitated, gripping the edge of your seat. âI want his approval.â The words came out quiet. Frustrated. âI donât know why. I justâI hate how much I care about what he thinks. Every time we work on something, I catch myself waiting to see how he reacts. Like, I tell myself it doesnât matter, that I donât need him to validate me, but thenââ You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. âBut then he does. And it fucks with me.â
Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. âDo you want his approval?â she asked. âOr do you want him?â
Your head snapped toward her. âWhat?â
She shrugged, completely unfazed. âI mean, youâre so worked up over him, and yeah, some of it is because of work, butâŚâ She tilted her head, giving you a look. âIs that all it is?â
Your stomach twisted. âYes,â you said immediately. Yunjin just stared at you, unimpressed. You crossed your arms. âIt is.â
Silence. Then she smirked, slow and knowing. âLiar.â
You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. âOh my god, shut up.â
She laughed, nudging your foot with hers. âI mean, come on. This whole thing screams unresolved tension. You two have been circling each other for months, pretending youâre just rivals when clearly thereâs more to it.â
You lifted your head, glaring. âThere isnât.â
âOkay,â she said, amused. âSo if he kissed you tomorrow, you wouldnât think about it for the rest of your life?â
Your brain short-circuited so violently that you actually choked on air. âWhatââ
Yunjin grinned. âExactly.â
You scowled, but the damage was done. The thought was already planted in your head, unshakable. Beomgyu, close. Beomgyu, leaning in. Beomgyu, looking at you with that stupid, unreadable expression of his beforeâ
Nope. You refused to entertain this. You grabbed her drink, downing the rest of it in one go, ignoring the way she laughed at you. âI hate you,â you muttered.
âNo, you donât,â she teased. âBut you do have a thing for Beomgyu.â
âI donât.â
âYou do.â
âShut up.â
âDenial isnât a good look on you, babe.â
You groaned, sinking further into the couch, your mind an absolute mess. Because no matter how much you wanted to deny it, Yunjin wasnât completely wrong.
The music pulsed through the party, deep bass reverberating in your chest as you let yourself sink into the moment. The weight of the conversation with Yunjin still lingered in the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside, focusing on your friends insteadâon the warmth of Yeonjunâs arm slung over your shoulder as he dramatically belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing, on the way Taehyun shook his head at him, on Hueningkai laughing so hard at something that he nearly dropped his drink. You let yourself get lost in it.
And then, eventually, the night began to wind down. People started leaving in waves, slipping out the doors in pairs or groups, laughter and goodbyes trailing after them. Your own friends were still lingering, but you were exhausted, drained from the long week, from the constant push and pull inside your head.
You needed sleep. You told them as much, earning dramatic protests from Yeonjun that didn't want to leave with you, a teasing âboringâ from Yunjin, and an understanding nod from Taehyun. Hueningkai just patted your shoulder. "Get home safe," he said, voice warm.
Near the entrance, just a few feet away, Beomgyu stood against the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed over his chest. He wasnât talking to anyone, wasnât laughing, wasnât even pretending to enjoy himself. He was just there, like he had been standing in that same spot for too long, stewing in whatever storm was brewing behind his unreadable expression.
And he was looking at you. Even in the dim lighting, even from across the room, you could feel the weight of itâheavy, unwavering, pressing against your skin like static before a thunderstorm. There was something sharp in his gaze, something unsettled. Irritated. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing slightly against his bicep, like he was holding something back. But from what? From you?
The noise of the party faded into the background, drowned out by the heavy thrum of your own heartbeat. You didnât know why you were still standing there. You didnât know why the sight of him like this made something twist sharply in your stomach, something restless, something uneasy.
You exhaled sharply, breaking the moment before it could turn into something you werenât ready to name. Without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked out of the party.
You didnât know what you felt.
But whatever it was, you hated it.
Just like you thought you hated Beomgyu.
You woke up feeling like absolute shit.
The kind of headache that pounded behind your eyes, the kind of dryness in your throat that made you regret every decision from the night before. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, willing the pain to go away.
It didnât. Of course it didnât.
Memories from last night filtered into your mind slowly, fragmented, like puzzle pieces that didnât quite fit together at first. You remembered the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, the steady bass of the music vibrating through your chest, the feeling of actually having fun for onceâuntil you saw him.
Beomgyu.
You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make the memory disappear.
Beomgyu, drunk and loose-limbed, flashing you that easy, lazy grin that made your stomach flip before you could even process why. Beomgyu being nice, too nice, his words softer than usual, his teasing edged with something warmer.
And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. The shift. The way his smile dimmed when he saw you talking to Yunho. The way his fingers curled slightly around his drink, his jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. The way his gaze darkened, cold and distant again.
And right before he walked away, he had turned to you with that unreadable look in his eyes, that frustrating mix of amusement and distance, and had saidâ "After all, like you said⌠Iâm just your coworker."
Your stomach twisted. You threw the blanket off you, forcing yourself to sit up, because if you laid here any longer, you were going to start throwing things.
The apartment was dead silent, except for the faint sound of someone snoring in the living room. You got up carefully, wincing at the headache that pulsed through your skull, and padded out of your room. Yeonjun was passed out on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, his face smushed into a pillow. You sighed, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him.
Then, as you turned toward the kitchen, you nearly tripped over two bodies sprawled out on the floor. Hueningkai and Taehyun. Both dead asleep, Kai using a hoodie as a pillow, Taehyun curled up in the most uncomfortable-looking position you had ever seen.
You stared at them for a long moment, then sighed again, rubbing at your temples. You needed coffee. You needed out of this apartment. That's why you decided to grab coffee somewhere else.
It was still too early for the world to feel real. The streets were quiet, the sky dull with that soft, overcast light that only came on hungover Sundays. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself as you pushed through the doors of the coffeeshop, craving caffeine more than you had ever craved anything in your life.
You were so focused on getting to the counter that you didnât even notice him at first.
"So we really had the same idea, huh?" You blinked, turning toward the voice. Soobin was sitting at a corner table, hoodie pulled up over his messy hair, looking just as wrecked as you felt. His iced coffee sat half-finished in front of him, condensation dripping down the sides.
You stared. "Holy shit. You look like hell."
He scoffed. "Thanks. Youâre glowing this morning."
You snorted, finally ordering your drink before sliding into the seat across from him. "Didnât expect to see you here."
Soobin hummed. "Didnât expect to be here. But I woke up with a headache from hell and figured coffee might bring me back to life."
"Same." You took a slow sip of your drink, wincing as the cold hit your stomach. "Last night was⌠a lot."
Soobin huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Some more than others."
You narrowed your eyes. "Whatâs that supposed to mean?"
He just smirked, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just⌠Beomgyu was in rare form last night."
You stiffened slightly. If Soobin noticed, he didnât mention it. "That drunk?" you asked, voice carefully neutral.
"Drunk enough to be nice," Soobin mused. "Which, you know, is when you should be really concerned." You huffed a laugh, but it didnât quite reach your eyes. Soobin watched you for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression. "You know," he said eventually, stirring his drink with the straw, "heâs not as much of an asshole as he tries to be."
You raised an eyebrow. "Couldâve fooled me."
Soobin chuckled. "Yeah, heâs good at that. Butâ" He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "âhe respects you."
You hesitated. It wasnât that you didnât believe that. You knew Beomgyu took you seriously, he wouldnât compete so hard with you if he didnât. But respect wasnât the word that had been echoing in your head since last night.
Soobin leaned back in his chair. "And maybe he likes your work a little too much."
Your heart skipped, just once, just enough for you to feel stupid. You forced out a scoff, shaking your head. "Right. Sure. Thatâs why he spent half of the night treating me like shit."
Soobinâs smirk barely twitched. "I never said he handles it well."
You stared at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with you. But there was nothing teasing in his gaze, just knowing amusement, like he had already seen how this story played out before you even knew what page you were on.
You hated that. You hated that something about it made your stomach twist.
So, you stood up, grabbing your order. "I need to go before you start giving me life advice."
Soobin grinned, unfazed. "See you Monday, then?"
"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, already heading for the door.
But even as you stepped out into the cold air, the caffeine still not fully kicking in, Soobinâs words stuck with you. Maybe he likes your work a little too much. Whatever that meant, you werenât sure if you wanted to know.
The walk back to your apartment was slow, the cool morning air doing little to clear the fog still lingering in your head. The coffeeshop bag swung gently at your side, filled with coffee and a few pastries, not because you were feeling particularly generous, but because you knew the three idiots waiting for you would need it just as much as you did.
When you finally pushed the door open, the apartment was still a disaster.
Yeonjun was awake now, sprawled across the couch in the same position you had left him in, scrolling through his phone with half-lidded eyes. Taehyun and Hueningkai were still on the floor, looking like they had barely moved.
You let the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and all three of them flinched.
"Jesus," Yeonjun muttered, rubbing his face. "Not so loud."
You rolled your eyes, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. "Brought coffee. If any of you die, itâs not my fault."
Hueningkai groaned, blindly reaching for the bag without sitting up. "Youâre an angel. A mean one, but an angel."
Taehyun sat up with effort, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Whereâd you go?"
"Coffeeshop," you said simply, grabbing your own cup before sitting on the arm of the couch. "Needed air."
Yeonjun stretched his arms above his head, then let them drop dramatically. "Did we ever figure out what happened to Yunjin?"
"Yeah," Taehyun answered, taking a sip of his drink. "We got her home safe. She passed out halfway there."
"Typical," Yeonjun muttered, shaking his head.
Hueningkai yawned. "We were too drunk to go back to our own places, so we crashed here. Hope you donât mind."
You shrugged. "I figured. You were taking up half my floor." You shook your head before speaking again. "Ran into Soobin there, in the coffeeshop."
That got their attention. Hueningkai snorted. "Damn, everyone had the same idea."
"Yeah," you mused, stirring your straw through your drink. "He looked just as bad as me. Maybe worse."
Yeonjun hummed. "He drank a lot last night."
"Yeah," you agreed, then took a slow sip of coffee before adding casually, "But he said Beomgyu was worse." You expected some reaction. A laugh, a sarcastic remark, maybe even an exaggerated groan. What you didnât expect was the subtle way Yeonjun and Taehyun exchanged glances. You frowned. "What?"
Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "NothingâjustâŚ" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."
You blinked. "What?"
Hueningkai nodded, chewing slowly. "Yeah. Not, like, a full fight or anything. But they were arguing. And it wasnât friendly."
You sat up slightly. "Over what?"
Yeonjun shrugged. "No clue. Heeseung and I stepped in before it got worse, but they were both pissed."
Your mind raced, replaying the night. Yunho had been fine when you left, normal, flirty, acting like he always did. And Beomgyu? Beomgyu had been weird. The shift had been so sudden, one second he was being nice, playful, softer than usual. The next, cold, distant. And now, apparently, he had also picked a fight with Yunho. None of it made sense.
You drummed your fingers against your cup. "What did Yunho even say?"
Taehyun shook his head. "Dunno. But whatever it was, Beomgyu hated it."
You scoffed lightly. "So what? He was already pissed at me."
"Was he?" Yeonjun asked, raising an eyebrow.
You frowned, opening your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because, honestly? You didnât know. He had been acting off all week, distant and unreadable. And then last night, he was the opposite, warm, teasing, close. And then, again, the shift, cold. Your head hurt just thinking about it.
"I donât care," you muttered, standing up and stretching. "Iâm taking a shower. If you guys are still here when Iâm done, Iâm kicking you out."
Taehyun smirked. "Love you too."
You rolled your eyes, but as you walked toward your room, the weight of Yeonjunâs words lingered. Whatever it was, it clearly got under Beomgyuâs skin. But why did that matter? And why the hell did you care?
The car ride to work on Monday was quiet, but not in a peaceful way.
Yeonjun was dropping you off like usual, his music playing softly in the background, but you werenât really listening. Your thoughts were elsewhere, circling, looping, pulling you into an endless spiral of what the hell is going on with you and Beomgyu.
You had spent the entire Sunday trying not to think about him.
Trying not to think about the way he had been so warm, so teasing, so himself, until he wasnât. Trying not to think about Yunho, about their argument, about the way Beomgyu looked at you when you left.
And yet, here you were, staring out the car window, still thinking about it. Because now you had to see him again. And you had no idea which version of Beomgyu you were going to get. The smug, infuriating one who lived to push your buttons? The cold, distant one who had barely acknowledged you all week? Or the version from the party, the one who looked at you like he knew exactly what he was doing to your head?
Which was exactly why you didnât want to talk about this. Because if you said it out loud, then it would feel real. Instead, you just turned back toward the window, watching as the HYBE building came into view.
You made it to your studio without seeing Beomgyu. Thank god.
You hadnât even realized you had been holding your breath until you shut the door behind you, exhaling slowly. The last thing you wanted was to run into Beomgyu in some awkward hallway moment, trying to pretend like everything was fine when clearly nothing was.
So you did what you did best. You threw yourself into work.
The hours slipped by, your fingers moving almost mechanically over your keyboard, your mind hyper-focused on mixing, arranging, tweaking. It was easier this way, easier to pretend that nothing had changed, that your work was all that mattered.
You didnât see Beomgyu once. Not in the hallway, not in the break room, not even in the usual spaces where he always seemed to be. Maybe he was avoiding you too. You tried not to care. Tried not to think about it.
But then, just as the day was winding down, just as you were finally about to pack up and go home, there was a knock at your door.
You frowned, pushing your chair back. "Come in."
The door swung open, and standing there, looking as serious as ever, was Baekhyun. "Hey," he said, stepping inside. "Got a minute?"
You straightened slightly, your pulse kicking up for no reason at all. "Uh⌠yeah, of course."
Baekhyun shut the door behind him before turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, calm, neutral, but with a weight behind his eyes that made your stomach churn. You had a bad feeling about this.
"Listen," he started, crossing his arms. "I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else."
You swallowed. "OâŚkay?"
Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."
The words didnât register at first. You just blinked at him, waiting for him to say something else. But he didnât. Because that was it.
You sat up straighter, confusion flashing across your face. "What?"
"He asked to be reassigned," Baekhyun clarified. "Youâre the sole producer now."
Your stomach dropped. "He what?"
Baekhyun sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I donât know what happened, but it wasnât about work. His excuse was weak as hell. He just said he âwasnât the right fit for the projectâ and left it at that."
You stared at him, your brain struggling to process. Beomgyu, who never backed down from anything, had quit? Beomgyu, who had spent the last few weeks going head-to-head with you, challenging you, pushing you, had walked away?
Just like that? Your pulse roared in your ears. "Why?" you demanded.
Baekhyun shook his head. "I have no idea. And honestly, I donât have time to figure it out. The album still needs to get done, and now itâs all on you."
You barely heard him. Because all you could think about was him.
The way he had been acting all week. The way he had been acting at the party. The argument with Yunho. The distance. The sudden shift. And now this.
Beomgyu didnât just quit. Not unless there was a reason. But what the hell was it?
Baekhyun sighed, checking his watch. "Look, I have to run, but if you need anything, let me know."
You nodded stiffly, barely registering as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. And then you were alone. Alone with the news. Alone with the confusion. Alone with the sharp, twisting feeling in your chest that you refused to call anything other than frustration.
Your brain spiraled. Your hands clenched into fists against your desk, your pulse hammering in your ears. Beomgyu quit? Just like that? Without saying a word to you? Without even giving a proper reason?
It made no sense. None of it made sense. You sat there, staring blankly at your screen, but you werenât processing anything. All you could think about was him.
You exhaled sharply, pushing back from your desk. You werenât going to sit here and let your thoughts drive you insane. If he wasnât going to come to you, then fine. Youâd go to him.
The building was nearly empty. Most people had already gone home, leaving only a few scattered producers and trainees still working. The silence felt heavier somehow, like even the air itself knew something was wrong.
You walked straight to his studio first. Locked. No lights inside. Empty.
Your jaw tightened as you turned away, moving faster now. Fine. Maybe he was in the break room.
You checked there next, stepping inside and scanning the area. Nothing. Not even a half-finished cup of coffee or an abandoned snack, things that always seemed to be left behind whenever Beomgyu was around.
Your fingers twitched at your sides. You were already walking before you had fully decided to, heading down the hallway toward the smoking area outside. You shoved the door open, stepping onto the dimly lit balcony. The cold air bit at your skin, but you barely noticed. Because the space was completely empty. He wasnât here.
You let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. Where the hell was he?
After a few more seconds of standing there uselessly, you turned back around, forcing yourself to accept that you werenât going to find him tonight. Maybe he had already gone home. Maybe he had been home this whole time, avoiding everything and everyone. Maybe you were wasting your energy trying to chase after someone who clearly didnât want to be found.
Defeat sat heavy in your chest as you trudged back toward your studio, exhaustion sinking into your bones now that the adrenaline had faded. You should just let it go. Just let him go.
But when you stepped inside your studioâ
You froze. Because there he was.
Sitting in your chair, arms resting on the desk, staring at you like he had been waiting. Like he had known youâd come looking. He had that look on his face. That stupid, pathetic, guilty expressionâlike a kicked dog, like he knew exactly what he had done, like he was bracing himself for the storm he knew was coming.
You shut the door behind you harder than necessary, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. Beomgyu swallowed, his hands tightening slightly where they rested on the desk.
"Listenâ"
"Listen what?" Your voice snapped through the air, sharper than you even intended, but you didnât care. Because after everything, this was what you got? A half-hearted listen? No. Not happening. You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "Go on, Beomgyu. Iâd love to hear it."
The words hit the air like a match against gasoline. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms against his jeans before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze flickered up to meet yours, hesitant, cautious. "I justâ" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration leaking into his voice. "It wasnât working."
"What wasnât working?" you demanded. "Because from where Iâm standing, the only thing that wasnât working was you deciding to disappear without saying a damn word to meâ"
"Would you just let me talk?" Beomgyu snapped, his voice cutting through yours.
You froze. He never raised his voice at you. Not like this. Not with something heavy sitting behind it, something too close to something real. You set your jaw, arms tightening over your chest. "Fine. Talk."
He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "You think I wanted to leave the project?"
You blinked. "You literally did."
"Yeah," he snapped. "And maybe if you werenât so stuck in your own head all the time, youâd realize why."
Your stomach twisted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Beomgyu scoffed, pushing himself up from your chair. "It means," he said, voice low, controlled, "that I warned you about people you let in in your life, and you didnât listen."
And there it was. The shift. The argument that had started as one thingâthe project, his sudden absence, your frustration, suddenly becoming something else. Your hands clenched at your sides. "This is about Seungcheol?!"
He let out a sharp laugh, running his tongue over his teeth. "Wow. Look at that. You do listen sometimes."
You took a step closer. "And what exactly is your problem with him?"
Beomgyuâs jaw ticked. "My problem," he muttered, "is that youâre so damn naive sometimesâ"
"Excuse me?"
"You think everyone is exactly what they show you," he continued, voice rising slightly. "You think people donât have their own reasons for the things they do, for why they pay attention to youâ"
You felt something sharp crawl up your throat, something dangerously close to real anger. "And why the fuck does that matter to you?"
Beomgyuâs breath hitched, just for a second, just enough for you to see it. And then, just as quickly, his face hardened again. "It doesnât," he said flatly.
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Got it. So, you threw away an entire project, left me with all the fucking work, because you suddenly donât care?"
Beomgyuâs hands curled into fists. "I left because I knew this was going to get messy."
"Itâs already messy, Beomgyu!" you exploded. "You made it messy! I thought we were a teamâI thought, for once, that maybe you werenât just trying to be better than me, that maybe we actually worked well together, but noâof course not, because you had to fucking run the second it got complicatedâ"
"Are you even hearing yourself?" His voice was sharp, eyes blazing. "Do you really think I left because of the fucking project?"
You opened your mouthâthen shut it. Because, no. You didnât believe that. Not for a second. Because if this was just about work, then Beomgyu wouldâve fought harder. He always fought harder.
Your breath was shallow now, your heart racing against your ribs. There was only a foot of space between you.
You could hear his breathing, sharp, uneven. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to do something. And you could feel it, how the air between you had shifted, thickened into something neither of you knew how to name.
This wasnât just about work. This wasnât just about Yunho, or Seungcheol. This wasnât just about Saturday night. It was about everything. But neither of you were ready to say it. Neither of you knew how.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. "Then why did you?"
His jaw clenched. "I told youâ"
"No," you cut him off, stepping even closer, your anger outweighing your restraint now. "You didnât. You keep talking in circles, Beomgyu, but you havenât told me shit. You just keepâacting like Iâm supposed to read your fucking mind."
Beomgyu exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because you donât get it!"
"Then make me get it!" you snapped.
His eyes flashed, dark and burning. Then, suddenlyâ
"You drive me insane."
The words hit the air before he could stop them, before you could process them, and for a second, the room froze. Your breath caught.
Beomgyuâs lips parted slightly, like he couldnât believe he had actually said it out loud. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he had been holding onto those words for too long, like they had just ripped their way out of him.
You felt your stomach twist, your skin heat, your pulse roar in your ears. Because he wasnât looking at you with anger anymore. He was looking at you like you were something dangerous. Like you had the power to ruin him. Like you already had.
"Ever since we started this fucking project," he continued, voice rough, "I havenât been able to think straight. I go home, and I still hear your voice in my head. I wake up, and Iâm already wondering what kind of mood youâll be in, if weâre gonna fight, if weâre gonna work, ifâ" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Itâs you. Itâs always fucking you."
Your pulse slammed against your ribs. This, whatever this was, it had been bubbling under the surface for so long, hidden under sharp words and competition and a rivalry neither of you had ever actually needed.
"You fucking ran." Your voice was quieter now, but not softer.
Beomgyuâs brows pulled together. "I had to."
"No," you countered, stepping closer. "You wanted to. Because it was easier thanâthan whatever this is. Because you canât handle anything you canât control."
Beomgyu let out a sharp breath, tongue running over his teeth. "You think Iâm the only one running?" You hesitated. That second of hesitation was all it took.
Because then, suddenly, Beomgyuâs fingers curled around your wrist, not pulling, not forcing, just grounding, and you felt the warmth of his skin burn into yours. "You tell me to stop running," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Then tell me to stay."
Your heart nearly stopped. The challenge in his tone, the weight behind it, felt like stepping off a ledge. You stared at him, your throat tight, your head light, your pulse a fucking mess. Because this wasnât how things were supposed to go. This wasnât the plan.
And yet, your fingers tightened slightly around his. Barely, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for something inside him to snap.
You barely had time to process it before Beomgyu moved.
His hands found your face first, warm, calloused fingers cradling your jaw like he needed to hold you in place, like he was afraid youâd pull away before he could do what he had been holding back for too long.
The space between you disappeared, and then his lips were on yours.
The first press was firm, almost hesitant, like he wasnât sure if youâd kiss him back, if this was something he was allowed to take. But then you gave in. A sharp inhale, a slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers fisted into his hoodie, yanking him closer. That was all he needed. Because once Beomgyu realized you werenât stopping him, that you werenât pushing him away, he lost it.
The kiss got harder, deeper, his lips parting against yours as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, fingers gripping your sides like he was pissed offâat you, at himself, at the entire world for making him wait this long.
You made a sound against his mouth, but it wasnât protest. It was frustration, relief, disbelief that this was even happening. Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.
You felt his teeth graze your lower lip, just barely, just enough to make you gasp, and he took full advantage of it, deepening the kiss, pressing himself into you until your back hit the door behind you.
All you could process was him, his lips, his warmth, the way one of his hands slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, angling your head so he could kiss you even deeper, even dirtier. Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.
A soft, frustrated sound that sent a thrill through your body, because you had never heard him sound like that before, had never imagined that you could pull that sound from him. And then, just when the heat between you had grown unbearable, just when his hands started to wander, gripping at your waist like he wanted to pin you there foreverâ
You both realized what was happening. Realized that this was you and him. That this was real. That this wasnât something either of you could take back. So you pulled away first. Barely, just a few inches. Just enough to catch your breath. Beomgyu didnât move.
His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist like he couldnât let go. Your chest heaved, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you could. Because whatever line had been there before? You had just obliterated it.
His breath was uneven, and the silence between you both stretched longer than either of you had anticipated. The air in the studio felt thick now, charged with something neither of you quite knew how to handle.
Finally, you broke the silence. Your voice came out rough but firm as you looked at him. "You⌠you canât just walk away."
Beomgyuâs hand twitched at your waist, his grip still there, like he was trying to hold onto something real in the middle of all the chaos between you two. His lips parted, but he hesitated, like he wasnât sure what to say next.
"You want me to stay?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you expected. "You really want me to stay?"
You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your throat. It wasnât that simple. But then again, it was. "I do," you said, your words coming out with an honesty you couldnât take back.
The air seemed to crackle around you both, and Beomgyu finally let go of his tight grip around your waist, but not completely. He just let his hands fall to your sides, his touch lingering as though he was afraid of pushing too far.
And there it was. The line had been crossed. The weight of your words hung between you, settling like something inevitable. Neither of you moved, but there was something different now, something undeniable that shifted in the space you shared.
Beomgyuâs eyes softened for the first time, he leaned in again, his hand gently cupping your cheek this time, as though he was finally allowing himself to believe that this wasnât just another fleeting moment, another mistake. His touch lingered for a moment longer, his hand soft on your cheek as though he were afraid that if he moved too quickly, everything would fall apart. His eyes searched yours, the intensity of the moment hanging between you, thick with unspoken words. His lips parted slightly, as though he was going to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.
For a long moment, all that was heard was the sound of your breaths, his shaky, yours quick. But then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Beomgyu pulled back.
The change was immediate. His hand dropped from your cheek, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost⌠regretful. You could feel the tension in his body shift, a quiet storm brewing in him that you couldnât quite understand.
"BeomgyuâŚ" you started, but before you could get another word out, he turned away from you.
Without a word, he walked toward the door. Your chest tightened, confusion and frustration flooding your senses as you watched him move. You didnât know whether to call out, to beg him to stay, or to just let him go and pretend that this whole mess hadnât happened. But no matter what, you felt a pit in your stomach, a weight you couldnât shake off.
Beomgyu reached for the handle, his back still to you, and for a brief second, you thought maybe he would say somethingâanything. Maybe he would explain himself, finally tell you what was going through his head. But instead, he opened the door. The sound of the hinges creaking was like a cruel reminder of what was happening.
He stepped outside, and for a heartbeat, the door remained open, leaving you to watch him through the gap. His expression was unreadable, his body stiff. Then, without looking back, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the room like the finality of everything.
And just like that, you were left alone.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you sat down, staring at the door, still hearing the faint click of it locking in your mind. You couldnât move. You couldnât breathe. It felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, leaving you floating in the aftermath, unsure of what had just happened. What had changed? Why did it feel like you were left with nothing?
Everything was so⌠messy. You had never felt so raw, so exposed, and yet, Beomgyu had walked away without a single word. The silence that filled the room now was deafening. You wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers, but all you could do was sit there, trying to make sense of it all.
Had you been wrong to ask him to stay? Did you push him too far, too soon? Or was this all just another part of that complicated dance you two had been doing from the very start?
You didnât know. All you knew was that the studio felt emptier now, quieter. And Beomgyu⌠Beomgyu had walked away. The silence in the studio was suffocating.
You sat there, unmoving, eyes still locked on the door even though Beomgyu was long gone. Your hands were trembling in your lap. The lump in your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, a sharp, broken breath escaped you. Until the tears spilled over, hot and relentless, blurring your vision and burning your cheeks.
You sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You never cried over shit like this. Not over work. Not over him. You hated this. You hated feeling like this.
You blinked rapidly, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears wouldnât stop. Your breath came out in uneven gasps, the weight in your chest growing heavier by the second.
You needed to leave. Your fingers scrambled for your phone, your vision still blurred with tears as you unlocked it and pulled up your messages. You barely even thought before typing.
[you]: can you pick me up The response came within seconds.
[yeonjun]: on my way. stay there.
You let out a shaky breath, gripping your phone like it was the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling.
The second you slid into Yeonjunâs car, the dam broke.
The moment the door shut behind you, the sobs you had barely been holding in ripped out of you, raw and unfiltered, shaking your entire body.
Yeonjun didnât hesitate. Didnât ask any questions. Didnât push. He just reached across the console, one hand on your back, grounding you. "Hey, hey, hey," he murmured, his voice low and calm as he rubbed small circles. "I got you, okay? Just breathe."
You shook your head violently, pressing your palms into your eyes, trying, and failing, to stop crying. "IâI donâtâ" A sharp inhale, a choked-out sob. "I donât even know why Iâm crying."
Yeonjun let out a soft breath, like he already knew that was a lie. You sucked in another shaky breath, leaning your head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. Yeonjun just drove.
The car was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sound of your sniffles as you tried to get your breathing under control. Yeonjun didnât say anything right away. He didnât press, didnât demand answers. He just waited and held your hand while he drove. Slow, steady, like he had done this a hundred times before. Like he knew you needed the silence before you could find the words.
And when you finally did, your voice came out small. Tired. "He quit the project." Yeonjunâs grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. "I donâtâI donât get it," you said, shaking your head as you wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. "I was working all day, and then Baekhyun came in and just dropped it on me like it was nothing. Like it was some casual decision Beomgyu made, and now Iâm just supposed to deal with itâ"
Yeonjun exhaled sharply. "Wait. He just left? No warning? No explanation?"
You let out a shaky breath. "Nothing. IâI went looking for him, but he wasnât anywhere. Then when I finally gave up and went back to my studio, he was just there, like he had been waiting for me or something." Yeonjun frowned, but he didnât interrupt. "And I was so fucking mad," you admitted, voice thick with frustration. "I justâI donât understand him. He always has to push my buttons, always has to act like he doesnât care about anything, but then he turns around and does this. Like it means something, but then heâhe justâ"
Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest aching. "And then he kissed me," you whispered.
Silence. Yeonjun inhaled slowly. "What?"
Your hands clenched in your lap. "I donât even know how it happened. We were yelling at each other, and it justâit happened."
Yeonjun didnât respond right away. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, his brows furrowing as he processed what you just said. "And then what?" he asked, quieter now.
Your throat tightened. "And then⌠he left."
Yeonjun let out a slow, controlled breath. "What a dick." You let out a weak, wet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well, I mean it." He tightened his grip on the wheel before exhaling, forcing himself to soften.
Then, carefully, he reached over, his fingers curling around your knee, grounding you. "Hey." You sniffled, not looking at him. Yeonjunâs voice was softer this time. "Did it mean something to you?"
Your breath caught. Because, fuck. It did. It did, and you hated that. You let out a shaky exhale, running a hand over your face. "I donât know," you lied.
Yeonjun hummed like he didnât believe you for a second. He didnât push, though. Instead, his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into your knee. "Look, Y/N⌠I donât think Beomgyu ran because he didnât care. I think he ran because he does."
Your chest ached. "Then why not just fucking say that?"
Yeonjun sighed, turning onto your street. "Because people are dumb. Men are dumb. And Beomgyuâs spent years convincing himself that he doesnât care about anything. You think heâs just gonna wake up one day and admit that he cares about you?" Your breath stilled. Yeonjun just shook his head. "Heâs an idiot. Thatâs all it is."
You let out a weak laugh, leaning your head against the window. "Yeah," you murmured. "That makes two of us."
Yeonjun pulled into your apartment complex, shifting into park before turning to you. He didnât say anything for a second, just watched you carefully, his eyes warm and steady. Then, gently, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Youâre not an idiot," he murmured. "You just care too much, and youâre scared."
You scoffed. "No shit."
You swallowed hard, your throat tight. He let that sit for a second before shaking his head. "You know what I think?" Yeonjun hummed, thoughtful. "I think heâs scared, too."
You stiffened slightly. "He didnât seem scared when he left me standing there."
"Yeah?" Yeonjun mused. "Then why did he leave at all?"
You frowned, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"
Yeonjun sighed. "Think about it. If Beomgyu was just messing around, if this was just another game to himâhe wouldnât have left. He wouldâve stayed. Wouldâve laughed it off, made some cocky comment, pretended like it meant nothing." Your stomach twisted. Yeonjun turned toward you, his expression softer now. "But he didnât, Y/N. He ran."
You let that sink in. Because maybe Yeonjun had a point. Maybe Beomgyu leaving wasnât just some asshole move. Maybe he had been just as freaked out as you. The thought made your chest tighten all over again.
Yeonjun reached over, squeezing your hand once before letting go. "You donât have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. He gave you a small smile before reaching over, pulling you into a hug. "Youâre gonna be okay," he murmured against your hair. "I promise."
You let out a shaky breath, gripping onto him a little tighter. You werenât sure if you believed him. But for now, you needed to. You sighed, leaning back against the seat, exhausted. But even as Yeonjun turned off the car, even as you sat there, trying to steady yourself, one thought wouldnât leave your mind.
Beomgyu had run. But what the hell was he running from?
The question rattled in your mind, looping over and over as you stepped into your apartment, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.
You barely remembered saying goodnight to Yeonjun. You barely even registered the moment you locked yourself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the scalding water.
Steam filled the space around you, thick and hazy, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in your chest. You tilted your head back, letting the water soak through your hair, tracing down the curve of your spine. Your breathing was still uneven, your mind still too loud.
You were supposed to be fine. It wasnât a big deal. So what if he had kissed you? So what if he had left? You and Beomgyu had been dancing around each other for yearsâthis was just another part of the cycle.
Right?
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply through your nose. Then why does it feel different this time? Your fingers curled into fists.
You could still feel his hands on your waist, his breath against your lips. Could still see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes right before he pulled away. Could still hear the sound of the door clicking shut as he left.
You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to push the memory away. You werenât going to do this. You werenât going to sit here, overthinking every second, every glance, every fucking thing about Beomgyu.
So instead, you stayed under the water until your skin was raw, until the ache in your chest dulled into something you could ignore.
And despite everythingâdespite the storm in your chest, despite the weight in your headâyou managed to fall asleep. But you woke up feeling like your body was still stuck in yesterday.
Your limbs were sluggish, your mind groggy, and the second you remembered why, your stomach twisted unpleasantly. You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face, trying to will yourself back to sleep.
But outside your door, you could already hear Yeonjun moving around the kitchen. You forced yourself out of bed, padding into the living room to find him standing by the stove, frying eggs like he actually knew how to cook. You frowned. "What are you doing?"
Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder. "Making breakfast."
"You donât cook," you pointed out.
"Yeah, well, desperate times." He nodded toward the table. "Sit."
You sighed but obeyed, rubbing at your temples as you slumped into a chair. A minute later, Yeonjun set a plate in front of you, eggs, toast, and a coffee. You blinked. "Youâre really committing to this whole overbearing best friend thing, huh?"
Yeonjun smirked, plopping down across from you with his own plate. "You love it."
You rolled your eyes but took a bite of the eggs anyway. They were⌠passable. Yeonjun watched you carefully between bites, waiting. You sighed. "I will be fine, you know."
He hummed. "Yeah, I know." He took a sip of his coffee, then added, "But are you fine right now?" Your fingers tightened slightly around your fork. You didnât answer. Yeonjun just sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "You donât have to be fine yet, Y/N."
Your throat tightened. So instead of answering, you just nodded, pushing your food around your plate. Yeonjun didnât push. Just let you sit there, existing, until you finally managed to eat something.
When it was time to leave, he drove you to work again, filling the silence with easy conversation, talking about his projects, making fun of bad drivers, anything to keep your mind off of what was waiting for you at HYBE.
But the second you stepped out of the car, the weight returned. The anxiety crept back into your bones. Because today, you had to see Beomgyu. And you had no idea what was going to happen.
You made it to your studio without running into him. You didnât know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
But instead of sitting there, drowning in your own thoughts, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before you typed.
[you]: taehyun, i need to talk to you [taehyun]: About what? [you]: just⌠when you have a second. come by my studio [taehyun]: Be there soon.
You exhaled, setting your phone down. You didnât know why you needed to talk to him. But right now, Taehyun felt like the only person who could give you some kind of clarity. And clarity was exactly what you needed.
It didnât take long for Taehyun to show up. You barely had time to fully gather your thoughts before there was a soft knock at your door, and then he was stepping inside, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilting slightly as he studied you.
"Alright," he said, shutting the door behind him. "Whatâs up?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because now that he was actually here, you werenât sure where to start. Did you tell him about Beomgyu quitting? The fight? The kiss? Did you tell him about the way your heart had completely fallen apart when Beomgyu walked out of that room?
You exhaled, rubbing your temples. "This is stupid."
Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "Well, now I definitely wanna hear it."
You shot him a dry look, but he just crossed his arms, waiting. So you told him. Everything.
How you found out that Beomgyu had quit. How you had gone looking for him. How he was already waiting for you when you got back to your studio. The argument and then⌠And then the kiss.
Taehyun listened carefully, barely reacting at first. Just nodding, humming occasionally, letting you spill everything you had been holding in since last night. And when you finally finished, slumping back into your chair with a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You guys are exhausting."
You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tell me about it."
Taehyun was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "Heâs an idiot," he said. You blinked. "He is," Taehyun repeated, sitting on the edge of your desk. "Beomgyu is⌠complicated. Heâs impulsive, and reckless, and sometimes he doesnât think before he acts. But heâs not bad, Y/N."
You frowned, shifting in your seat. "I never said he was badâ"
"You didnât have to," Taehyun interrupted. "Youâre pissed, and you should be. He left you with an entire project and just disappeared. Thatâs a dick move."
You scoffed. "Glad we agree on that."
"But," Taehyun continued, leveling you with a look, "you also know that if this was just about work, he wouldnât have left."
You stiffened. Because, yeah. You did know that.
Taehyun sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look⌠Iâve known Beomgyu for a long time. And I can tell you one thing for sureâheâs confused as hell about you." Your stomach twisted. "Beomgyuâs not used to⌠feeling things like this. You know himâhe jokes, he messes around, he acts like nothing ever really matters to him. But this? You? This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesnât know how to handle."
You looked away, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your desk. "He looked at me likeâŚ" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like he regretted it."
Taehyun hummed. "Maybe he did." Your heart sank. Taehyun must have noticed your expression, because he shook his head quickly. "Noânot like that. Not in the I wish I never kissed her way. More like⌠Fuck, what did I just do?"
Your breath hitched. Taehyun leaned forward slightly, watching you carefully. "Y/N⌠if Beomgyu didnât care, he wouldnât have left. He wouldnât have pulled away. He wouldnât be acting like this at all."
You swallowed hard. "Then why didnât he just say something?"
Taehyun sighed. "Because heâs a coward."
You blinked. "Wow. Thatâs blunt."
"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Someone has to say it."
A short silence stretched between you, the weight of everything still settling in your chest. And then, Taehyunâs voice softened slightly. "I know you want to see him." You inhaled sharply, but before you could argue, he continued. "But you wonât," he said simply. "Not for a while, at least."
"What do you mean?"
Taehyun rubbed the back of his neck. "I overheard Baekhyun talking to some of the staff this morning. Beomgyu asked for a week off before getting reassigned to another project." Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Taehyun hesitated. "Heâs not ot gone. Just⌠off the grid for a bit."
You swallowed hard. A week. You had a week without him. A week to focus on work. A week to stop feeling like this. A week toâ
To what? Forget about him? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend that the past twenty-four hours hadnât completely flipped your world upside down?
You clenched your fists in your lap, nodding stiffly. "Okay."
Taehyun studied you for a moment. Then, finally, he sighed and reached out, squeezing your arm. "Youâll be okay," he murmured.
You let out a shaky breath, forcing a nod. "Yeah."
But as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, one thing was clear. You werenât sure if that was true.
The first day without Beomgyu was easier than you expected.
Maybe because you were still fueled by frustration. By anger. By the exhaustion of the past few days. It was easier to channel all of that into work, to drown out the silence with layers of sound, synths, drums, melodies, anything to keep your mind occupied.
You convinced yourself that you didnât need him here. Didnât need his input, his annoying commentary, his stupid smirk when he knew he was right about something. And for a little while, you almost believed it.
But then the second day came. And the third.
And by Wednesday, you realized just how much space Beomgyu used to take up, physically, mentally, emotionally. The studio felt different without him. Too quiet.
You had spent so long being annoyed by his presence, by the way he was always around, always making some offhand comment, always pushing your buttons just because he could. And now it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like the silence was mocking you. You tried to ignore it.
Tried to focus on the album, on the endless meetings with Baekhyun about tracklists, on your studio sessions with the Enhypen members.
Jake had mentioned that they were excited about the project. Jungwon had suggested a few ideas for the second track. Heeseung had even sat with you for over an hour, working through some of the melody transitions.
It was good. The work was getting done. Everything was moving forward. So why did it still feel like something was missing?
By Thursday, Yeonjun had stopped asking if you wanted to talk about it. At first, he had tried, little things, subtle attempts to get you to open up.
"You seem really focused on work this week," he had mused over dinner on Tuesday. "Trying to distract yourself?" You had rolled your eyes, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to avoid answering.
By Wednesday, he had simply given you a long, knowing look before sighing. "Okay. I get it. You donât want to talk about it."
And you didnât. Because what was there to say? That you missed him? That you had caught yourself glancing at his empty chair during meetings? That every time you pulled up a demo, you could still hear his suggestions in the back of your mind? That you had started a dozen text messages, only to delete them before even finishing the first word? No. You werenât going to do that.
You werenât going to let Beomgyu live rent-free in your head while he was off doing whatever the hell he was doing.
So by Friday, you had convinced yourself that you were fine. That you were moving on. That you had finally, finally stopped thinking about him. At least, until you walked into your studio that morning.
And saw the letter sitting on your desk.
At first, you thought it was just another memo from Baekhyun. Or maybe some notes from one of the Enhypen members. But then you got closer. And you saw his handwriting.
For a moment, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the folded piece of paper like it might disappear if you blinked. Then, cautiously, you stepped forward. Your fingers hesitated before reaching for it. The paper was slightly creased, as if he had folded and unfolded it multiple times before finally deciding to leave it here. No greeting. No explanation.
Just one simple sentence, scrawled in messy, familiar ink.
i think this fits for track 1
Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes flicked down to the lyrics below. And the second you started reading, your breath caught.
Just the two of us, getting deeply moonstruck Oh, you make me go crazy over you, you, baby Let me hold you close, I want to feel you until the end of the night Fly this night above the rising moon Crazy over you, you, baby We can take it slow Moonstruck in ecstasy
Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. This wasnât just a song suggestion. This wasnât just another track for the album. This was Beomgyu, talking to you the only way he knew how. Your pulse roared in your ears.
Because, fuck. You werenât stupid. You knew exactly what this meant. And now, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.
You sat at your desk, gripping the paper so tightly it was a wonder it hadnât torn yet. Your eyes kept flicking over the words, tracing the messy, slightly smudged ink of his handwriting. Moonstruck.
You read the lyrics again. And again. Each time, they felt heavier.
I'm so intoxicated, getting more and more into you, baby
What the fuck was he trying to say? You tried to rationalize it. Maybe he had written it before everything that happened. But that didnât make sense, did it?
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie as your mind looped back to that night. The way he had kissed you. The way he had run. And now, instead of an explanation, instead of a conversation, he left this? A song?
You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to push it aside. If Beomgyu wanted to talk in lyrics, fine. You would make sure they were heard.
The Enhypen members were already lounging around their practice room when you arrived. Sunghoon was sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone. Jungwon and Jay were flipping through notes on the albumâs concept. Jake was throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper at Sunoo, who swatted it away with an exaggerated groan.
The second you stepped in, Heeseung perked up. "Oh, hey, youâre here. Whatâs up?"
You inhaled deeply, clutching the paper in your hands. "We have a song."
That got their attention. Sunghoon sat up properly. Jay leaned forward, brows raising. Ni-ki, who had been half-asleep in the corner, immediately straightened, eyes flicking toward you.
You placed the lyrics down on the table. "Itâs called Moonstruck," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Beomgyu wrote it."
A beat of silence. Jungwon blinked. "Wait. Beomgyu?"
You nodded stiffly. "Yeah."
Jake leaned in, scanning the paper. "When the hell did he evenâ?"
"I donât know," you admitted, arms crossing over your chest. "But itâs good. And I think we should use it."
They didnât argue. Instead, they took the next few minutes carefully analyzing the lyrics, murmuring about which parts fit their vocal tones best.
"Pre-chorus has to be Ni-ki and Sunghoon," Jay noted, nodding to himself. "Their voices will carry this section perfectly."
Ni-ki grinned. "I do sound good under moonlight."
Sunoo groaned. "God, shut up."
Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "The first verse has a nice flow. Maybe Heeeseung and Jay can split it?"
You nodded. "Yeah, that works."
As they discussed vocal distribution, you quietly worked on the arrangement, playing with some of the melodies on your laptop. And as much as you hated to admit it, the song was beautiful.
The harmonies, the depth, the longing in the lyricsâit all weaved together into something intoxicating. Something that felt like Beomgyu. And, more terrifyingly, something that felt like you and Beomgyu.
You poured yourself into it. Every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering moment of that damn kiss, you put it all into the music. If Beomgyu wanted to communicate this way, then fine. You would answer him in the production.
By the time the first rough demo was put together, the entire room had shifted. The members listened intently, nodding along to the beat, already humming harmonies under their breath.
And when the final note played, Heeseung let out a low whistle. "Okay," he muttered. "That was⌠insane."
Jake leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. "This might be one of the strongest songs on the album."
Ni-ki grinned. "Itâs sexy."
Jungwon rolled his eyes. "Itâs romantic, you idiot."
Sunghoon smirked. "Both."
You stared at the screen, fingers still hovering over the controls, heart pounding in your chest. You had lost track of time, lost yourself in the production, in the process of turning Beomgyuâs words into something real.
Heeseung stretched his arms over his head, glancing over at you. "How the hell did this come together so fast?"
You hesitated. Then, before you could think too much about it, the words tumbled out. "Because Beomgyu wrote it."
The room fell quiet for a beat. You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed under their stares. You ignored the pointed looks, turning back toward the screen.
You had done what you needed to do. You had taken Beomgyuâs song and made it something real. And yet, as you sat there, staring at the lyrics again, one thought lingered.
This was his way of talking to you. But whenâifâyou finally saw him again⌠Would he have anything else to say?
The weekend arrived quietly, slipping in like a breeze through an open window. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to exist outside of work, outside of the chaos, outside of the constant hum of him in the back of your mind.
You spent Saturday sprawled across the living room floor, limbs tangled with Yunjinâs as she attempted (and failed) to beat Hueningkai in a Mario Kart tournament.
"HOW is this fair?!" she screeched, gripping the controller like it personally offended her. "This little shit has been in first place for the entire raceâ"
"Skill issue," Hueningkai mused, barely sparing her a glance as he executed yet another flawless turn.
Taehyun cackled from his spot on the couch. "Face it, Yunjin, youâre bad at this game."
"Youâre supposed to be on my side!"
"I would be," Taehyun said easily, taking a sip of his soda. "If you were winning."
Yunjin let out an exaggerated wail, flopping back onto the floor in defeat as Hueningkai crossed the finish line with ease. You laughed, stretching your legs out, your shoulders relaxing in a way they hadnât all week.
This was nice. No tension, no overthinking, no lyrics folded neatly onto your desk like an unanswered question. Just this. Just them.
Yeonjun, who had spent the afternoon attempting to make cocktails, only to get tipsy himself after "taste testing" every single one. Hueningkai, who had somehow convinced everyone to build a fort in the living room, resulting in a half-collapsed mess of blankets and fairy lights that no one had the energy to fix.
Taehyun, who had made it his personal mission to bother you at all time, poking your cheek, stealing your hair tie, purposefully messing up your playlists just to get a reaction out of you. And Yunjin, who was now lying dramatically across your lap, still mourning her loss. "I hate this game," she mumbled into your hoodie.
"You say that every time you lose," Yeonjun reminded her, nudging her foot with his own.
She groaned. "Because I do."
You chuckled, resting your head against the couch cushions. For the first time in days, your mind felt quiet.
Maybe Beomgyu was just a phase. A storm that had come and gone, leaving only a few stray raindrops behind. Maybe by Monday, you would go back to work and it wouldnât hurt anymore. Maybe.
It wasnât until Sunday night, when the apartment had finally settled into silence, that something shifted. Everyone had gone home. Yeonjun had retreated to his room, muttering something about a deadline he had been procrastinating. And you were alone.
The weight of it settled over you slowly, like an old sweater you hadnât worn in years but still fit perfectly. You werenât sure when you reached for your guitar. Hadnât even realized you were doing it until you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, fingers ghosting over the strings. It had been a while.
Too long since you had written something for yourself. Too long since you had let yourself sit in the mess of your own emotions, instead of tucking them neatly into productions meant for other peopleâs voices.
You plucked a few chords aimlessly, letting the melody come to you naturally. Something soft. Something slow. And thenâwithout meaning toâyou started to hum. A tune that wasnât meant for the album. A tune that wasnât meant for anyone.
The words slipped out like a confession, too quiet for anyone else to hear. You didnât even think about them. You just sang.
Your fingers stilled. The room felt too small. You closed your eyes, exhaling through your nose. And then, with trembling hands, you picked up a pen and started to write. Not because you wanted to. But because some things were too heavy to carry in silence.
The first chord rang out soft and hesitant, barely louder than the steady hum of the city outside your window. You pressed your lips together, fingertips finding the familiar weight of the strings, the slightly worn frets beneath them.
And then, you started to sing.
This is the first day of my life Swear I was born right in the doorway I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed They're spreading blankets on the beach
The words came slowly, carefully, like they had been waiting for you to let them out. Your voice was quiet, almost unsure at first. But as the melody settled into you, as the lyrics unfolded with each passing chord, something in your chest loosened.
Yours was the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you And I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been But I know where I want to go
Your breathing evened. Your fingers moved more fluidly. And suddenly, it wasnât just a song anymore. It was him.
The memories bled into the music, uninvited but unavoidable. The late nights in the studio, the sharp bickering that always gave way to something deeper. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he knew you, like he saw through every wall you had ever built and wasnât afraid to push past them.
So if you wanna be with me With these things there's no telling We just have to wait and see But I'd rather be working for a paycheck Than waiting to win the lottery Besides, maybe this time is different I mean, I really think you like me
The realization settled slowly, creeping in like the soft glow of headlights through your window. You missed him. Not just as a producer, not just as a coworker, not just as the person who had spent years getting under your skin.
You missed him. His presence, his voice, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable when he looked at you. The way you had always convinced yourself that the tension between you two was nothing but competition.
But now? Now, as you sat here with a guitar in your lap and a song that tasted like confession on your tongue, you werenât so sure anymore.
The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile. And for the first time in weeks, you stopped running from the truth. It wasnât just a rivalry. It wasnât just frustration. It wasnât even just a stupid, fleeting crush.
You liked him. And that was terrifying.
The car ride to work felt different today.
You werenât as anxious as last week, your chest wasnât as tight, your hands werenât as clammy, but there was still something unsettled in you, something quietly nagging at the back of your mind.
Because today, Beomgyu was coming back.
And you had no idea what that meant. No idea which version of him youâd be facing. No idea if heâd pretend like nothing had happened, if heâd be cold again, or if heâd acknowledge it, that stupid, reckless, earth-shattering kiss. Or, if you'd even seen him today.
The HYBE lobby was already buzzing with early-morning energy. You kept your head down as you made your way toward the cafĂŠ, deciding that you desperately needed caffeine before facing the rest of the day. When you stepped inside, the familiar scent of espresso and vanilla filled the air, the quiet hum of conversation washing over you like white noise.
You spotted Taehyun near the counter, casually scrolling through his phone as he waited for his order. "Morning," you greeted, sliding into line beside him.
Taehyun glanced up from his phone as you slid into line beside him. "Youâre here early," he remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.
You shrugged, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Figured Iâd try something new. Maybe if I start my day with caffeine instead of stress, Iâll live longer."
Taehyun smirked. "Doubt it. But I respect the effort."
You hummed, stepping forward as the line moved. "What about you? Thought you werenât a morning person."
"Iâm not," he admitted, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "But some of us have obligations."
You snorted. "Right." You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for your phone. And just as you unlocked it, a notification popped up at the top of your screen.
[baekhyun (HYBE)]: meeting on the 18th floor. 10 minutes.
Your stomach twisted slightly. Taehyun mustâve noticed the shift in your expression because he raised an eyebrow. "Everything good?"
You exhaled, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket. "Yeah. Just got called into a meeting."
He hummed, sipping his coffee. "Just you?" You nodded, grabbing your drink from the counter. Taehyun studied you for a beat before smirking. "Well. Thatâs suspicious."
You shot him a flat look. "Everything is suspicious to you."
"And yet, Iâm usually right." Taehyun smirked. "Good luck, warrior."
You shot him a dry look before turning to leave. But as you made your way toward the elevators, your chest tightened slightly. You werenât nervous. At least, thatâs what you kept telling yourself.
But the moment the elevator doors slid open, your breath caught in your throat. Beomgyu was already inside.
He stood toward the back, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times this morning.
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
You hesitated for half a second, debating whether you should just wait for the next elevator, but then Beomgyuâs eyes met yours. And you couldnât run. Not again. So, stiffly, you stepped inside.
The doors slid shut behind you, and the silence pressed in like a heavy weight. You swallowed. Beomgyu said nothing. You could feel him there, standing just a few feet away, but he didnât look at you. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the doors in front of him, his entire body wound tight.
The tension was unbearable. So, stupidly, you spoke first. "Youâre back."
His lips pressed together slightly. "Yeah."
You exhaled slowly, nodding. The elevator climbed higher, the numbers blinking above the doors, but the silence remained.
"I saw the tracklist update," Beomgyu said, voice even. "You kept Moonstruck."
Your breath hitched. For the first time since you stepped inside, he looked at you. And suddenly, you were back there. Back in the studio. Back in the moment he kissed you like it meant something. Back in the moment he ran.
You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee cup like it could anchor you. "Yeah," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Itâs a good song."
Beomgyuâs gaze flickered, just briefly, just enough for you to see something shift. But he didnât respond.
The elevator slowed. And before either of you could say anything else, the doors slid open. 18th floor. You stepped out first, pulse hammering against your ribs. But just before the doors shut behind him, you heard Beomgyu exhale a quietâ
"See you around."
And fuck. You were not ready for this.
Your legs carried you toward the meeting room, but your mind was still in that elevator. Moonstruck. He had noticed. You didnât know why that made your stomach turn. Why it sent a hot, prickling feeling down your spine.
You had convinced yourself that the song was just work, just another track, just another piece of the album puzzle. But hearing him say it? Knowing that he knew?
It made it real. And the way he had looked at you when he said it, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted an answer. But you didnât have an answer. Because what were you supposed to say?
You inhaled sharply, pushing open the door to the conference room. And the second you stepped inside, you regretted it. Because sitting at the table, next to Baekhyun, was Seungcheol.
His eyes flicked up to yours immediately, and his lips curled into that same knowing smile he had given you at the HYBE party. "Ah," he mused. "Finally, our star producer has arrived."
Your stomach twisted. You forced a polite smile, slipping into the seat across from them. You had no idea what this meeting was about. But suddenly, you had a feeling it was going to be a lot.
You sat down, adjusting your posture, trying to ignore the sudden unease creeping into your chest. It wasnât like you had anything against Seungcheol, he had always been perfectly pleasant whenever your paths crossed.
At the HYBE party, when Baekhyun introduced you, he was polite, curious, asked questions about your work that felt genuine. A few days later, in the hallway, he reinforced that same interest, saying he wanted to learn more about your creative process, that he admired what you were doing. It made sense, he was HYBEâs creative director, after all. It was his job to connect with the producers.
But then he happened. Beomgyu. With his endless stubbornness, his unwarranted judgment, his obvious disdain for Seungcheol.
He didnât trust the guy. And he made that very clear, not just at the party when he interrupted your conversation, but later, in the hallway, with the way he threw out casual, cutting remarks, as if it was obvious that Seungcheol had ulterior motives.
You had ignored him. Because Beomgyu was always like that, poking, provoking, saying things just to get under your skin. But now, sitting across from Seungcheol, watching the way he smiled at you, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long, something inside you hesitated. And that was when you realized, that voice in my head isnât mine. Itâs Beomgyuâs. The thought irritated you. You didnât need him planting ideas in your mind. Seungcheol had done nothing wrong.
He had never been inappropriate, never crossed any lines. If you were uncomfortable now, it was only because Beomgyu had convinced you that you should be.
Seungcheol leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "I was really pleased when I heard youâd be leading the production on your own," he said, his voice smooth, effortless. "I think you deserve itâthis is a great step forward in your career."
You blinked, keeping your expression neutral. Something about the way he said it bothered you. Because the truth was, you hadnât minded producing the album with Beomgyu. He was a good producer. One of the best, actually. And despite all your frustrations with him, you couldnât deny that the work had been better when he was there.
You licked your lips, choosing your words carefully. "I never had a problem sharing the workload," you replied smoothly. "Beomgyu is incredibly talented. The album was going really well with the two of us working together."
Seungcheol didnât react immediately. Instead, he just smiled a little, as if he had been expecting you to say that.
Next to him, Baekhyun, who had been flipping through some papers, glanced up. "Beomgyuâs decision to leave was personal," he noted, sensing the tension. "He requested to be removed. It had nothing to do with the quality of your work together."
You nodded, but Seungcheol simply let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "That sounds like something heâd do," he murmured, almost to himself.
You frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
Seungcheol met your gaze, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Heâs impulsive," he said simply. "Always has been. He doesnât handle things well when they donât go his way."
Your jaw clenched. Something about the way he said it bothered you. It wasnât what he saidâit was how he said it. His tone was too calculated, his words too deliberate, like he was trying to implant something in your mind without directly stating it. And maybe you were being paranoid, but it almost felt like he was waiting for a reaction from you.
You kept your face carefully blank, but you couldnât stop the words from slipping out. "Or maybe he just had a valid reason for leaving," you said, keeping your voice light but firm. "Whatever it was, heâs one of the best producers here. He always delivers, and he knows exactly how to handle pressure when it matters."
Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, like he was mildly surprised by your defense. But instead of pushing, he just smiled again. "If you say so."
Baekhyun cleared his throat, flipping to another page. "Anyway, now that youâre leading the project, we need to finalize some decisions about the album direction. We have to lock in arrangements before we move forward with recording."
You nodded, relieved that the conversation was shifting back to work. The meeting had gone on longer than expected. You had been so focused on the albumâs direction, discussing arrangements and potential changes to the tracklist with Baekhyun, that for a moment, you managed to forget about Seungcheol entirely.
Until you didnât. Because at some point during the discussion, as you were leaning over the table, flipping through some production notes, Seungcheolâs hand landed on your arm.
Not aggressive. Not too much. Just enough. Enough to make your shoulders stiffen, enough to make your fingers freeze mid-page, enough for that cold, uncomfortable feeling to creep down your spine.
It was subtle, an easy touch, light pressure on your forearm as he leaned in slightly. "I really admire how dedicated you are," he murmured, his voice smooth, casual. "Itâs rare to find someone so talented and hardworking."
Because now, you saw what Beomgyu saw. Maybe he had been dramatic. Maybe he had been exaggerating. But Seungcheol was flirting with you. And for the first time, you couldnât ignore it.
You swallowed, keeping your eyes on the papers in front of you, pretending not to notice the way his fingertips lingered a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.
This was work. This was a meeting. You werenât going to make a scene. You shifted slightly in your chair, tucking your arm out of reach, nodding stiffly. "Thanks," you said, your voice carefully neutral.
If Baekhyun noticed anything, he didnât react. He simply continued walking you through the album structure, his focus locked on the material in front of him. But your focus was gone. Because now, every single word out of Seungcheolâs mouth sounded different.
When he agreed with your ideas, it wasnât just professional, it was deliberate. When he smiled at you, it wasnât just friendly, it was calculated. And Beomgyuâs voice, the one you had sworn you wouldnât listen to, was ringing in the back of your head, loud and unshakable.
You should be careful with him.
By the time the meeting wrapped up, you were exhausted, not from the work, but from everything else. You had barely finished stacking your papers when Seungcheol stood up, stretching his arms with an easy smile. "Well," he said, buttoning his blazer, "this was productive."
You hummed noncommittally, hoping that was the end of it. But as he reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Oh, and by the wayâ" You looked up. "The invitation still stands," he said, that same smile playing on his lips. "You should drop by my office sometime. Iâd love to go over more of your work."
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. Before you could respond, he was already walking out, leaving you alone with Baekhyun. The second the door shut, you let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.
Baekhyun sighed, setting his notes down. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I know that look. Whatâs on your mind?"
You hesitated for half a second before decidingâfuck it. If you didnât say something now, you were going to explode. "Look," you exhaled, straightening. "Youâre my boss. I respect you. I like working with you. But I need to be honestâ"
Baekhyun raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
You licked your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "That whole meeting just made me really uncomfortable."
His expression shifted slightly, his features smoothing into something unreadable. "Because of Seungcheol?"
"Yes." You didnât hesitate. "Itâs not just today. Itâs been happening for a while. I didnât want to make assumptions, but now Iâ" You shook your head, exhaling sharply. "I donât know. The way he talks to me, the way he acts⌠It doesnât feel like itâs just about work."
Baekhyun didnât answer immediately. He watched you carefully, considering your words before finally sighing. "Yeah," he muttered. "I figured as much."
You blinked. "Wait, what?"
Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputationâhe doesnât always separate work from⌠other things."
Your stomach sank. "So itâs not just me," you muttered.
Baekhyun hesitated before shaking his head. "No. Itâs not just you."
You exhaled, leaning back in your chair, processing. Baekhyun watched you for a moment before continuing, his voice lower now. "Listen, you donât have to do anything you donât want to do. If he makes you uncomfortable, Iâll back you up. But I also know how these things can be tricky, so⌠what do you want to do?"
You stared at him. You hadnât expected that. You hadnât expected someone to actually ask. You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table. "I just⌠I just want to do my job."
Baekhyun nodded. "Then thatâs what youâll do."
And for the first time that day, you felt like someone was actually listening. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Honestly⌠I didnât want Beomgyu to leave the project."
Baekhyun leaned back in his chair, watching you closely. "Yeah, I figured."
You hesitated for a moment before continuing, choosing your words carefully. "It wasnât perfect, working with him. We fought a lot. We had different approaches. But the album was better when we were both on it. And now, I donât know⌠it just doesnât feel the same."
Baekhyun hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. "You know," he started, "when he asked to leave, I thought it was weird too."
Your brows furrowed. "Weird how?"
Baekhyun exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if trying to recall the exact conversation. "For starters, the excuse he gave me was bullshit. He said he just had âother priorities,â but it didnât add up. He didnât have anything urgent lined up. He wasnât being reassigned yet. If anything, he was in the perfect position to stay on the project."
Your stomach twisted. "Then why did he do it?"
Baekhyun studied you for a moment before answering. "Because of you."
Your breath hitched slightly. "What?"
"He told me you were the perfect person for this album," Baekhyun said simply. "He said that if anyone deserved to take full control of it, it was you. That you understood the vision, that you had the best instincts for the sound, that this was your project."
You blinked. Baekhyun smirked slightly. "He also said heâd still be available if you needed anythingâwhich was interesting, considering he was insisting on stepping away."
You swallowed, shifting in your seat. "So⌠he didnât leave because I was in the way."
Baekhyun raised a brow. "No. He left because he thought he was."
Your chest tightened, your fingers clenching slightly over your notebook. Beomgyu thought he was in the way? That didnât make sense. That wasnât how this worked.
You had spent years competing with him, matching his energy, pushing yourself to outdo him the way he pushed himself to outdo you. You thought he saw you as a rival, as someone to challenge, someone to beat.
This didnât sound like someone trying to win. This sounded like someone stepping aside. And suddenly, for the first time since that damn kiss, you wonderedâ Had you misunderstood everything?
The meeting wrapped up soon after, but your mind was far from settled. Baekhyun left first, offering you a knowing look as he walked out. Seungcheol was already gone, thankfully, leaving the room feeling a little lighter.
You stayed behind for a moment, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, thoughts still tangled in everything Baekhyun had just told you. Beomgyu thought he was in the way. He stepped back because of me?
The idea felt foreign, almost ridiculous. But the more you sat with it, the more you replayed every interaction, every lingering glance, every almost-argument that dissolved into something softer. Maybe it wasnât ridiculous at all.
You exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside as you gathered your things and made your way back to your studio. By the time you stepped inside, something had already shifted in you. Because for the first time in days, you wanted to write. Not because of deadlines. Not because of expectations.
But because something inside you was begging to be let out.
You locked the door behind you, took a deep breath, and crossed the room, fingers reaching for the guitar propped against the wall. It had been there for a while, untouched, gathering dust in the chaos of everything else. But the second your fingers curled around the neck, something inside you settled.
You didnât know why, but you wanted to record this song you wrote on Sunday night. First Day of My Life. You knew it wouldnât fit the album. It was too raw, too stripped-down, too honest. It wasnât meant for Enhypenâs projectâit wasnât meant for any project.
But still. You adjusted the mic, positioned the guitar properly, and pressed record. And then, you played.
Your fingers moved over the strings carefully at first, but then muscle memory took over, and suddenly, it was effortless. The chords flowed easily, filling the quiet studio, wrapping around you like something safe, something familiar.
And then your voice followed. The words came soft, steady.
âYours was the first face that I sawâŚâ
You thought about the way he looked at you when he didnât think youâd notice. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but never did.
âI think I was blind before I met you.â
Your breath hitched slightly, but you kept going, pouring yourself into every note, every word. The melody washed over you, unfiltered and vulnerable, and for the first time in a long time, you werenât thinking about what came next.
You were just feeling. And when the last chord faded into silence, you opened your eyes slowly, exhaling shakily. You sat there for a moment, staring at the blinking red light on the recorder. Then, without hesitating, you saved the file.
You stared at the tape sitting on your desk. And it stared back.
You had written a post-it, your handwriting slightly messier than usual, because your hands had been shaking when you wrote it.
wanted the opinion of the best songwriter i know.
Your stomach twisted. This was stupid. It was so stupid. And yet, you grabbed the tape before you could overthink it.
The hallways of HYBE were quieter now, most people already heading out for the evening. You didnât know where Beomgyu was, but you hoped, prayed, that he wasnât in his studio right now. Because you werenât ready to see him. Not yet.
Your footsteps were light as you reached his studio door. It was closed, the small light inside turned off. Empty. Good. You slipped inside quickly, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your ribs. You set the tape down gently on his desk, smoothing the post-it out with your fingers. And then you stepped back. You stared at it for a moment longer, your pulse hammering in your ears.
He might not even listen to it. He might throw it away. He might ignore it completely. But still, you left it there. And as you walked away, your chest felt lighter. Because for once, you werenât running. You were giving him a chance.
You were late.
Not catastrophically late, but late enough that you were definitely pushing it. Yeonjun had texted you when he woke up, asking why the apartment was unusually quiet, only for you to send back a half-panicked âI overslept, donât judge meâ before practically rolling out of bed.
You hadnât meant to stay up so late the night before. But lying there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single second of the last few days in your mind?
That was apparently more important than sleep.
By the time you rushed into HYBE, coffee was your only priority. You barely had time to breathe as you dodged people in the hallway, some of them calling your name, others trying to get your attention.
"Y/N, do you have a second?" "Hey, I sent you that file, did you get a chance to look at it?" "Oh, Y/Nâcan you check in with the Enhypen team later?"
The words blurred together, the weight of everything pressing against you as you nodded, mumbled vague acknowledgments, and kept walking. Because, in the end, none of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when the only thing on your mind was getting to your studio and catching your breath before the day swallowed you whole. You reached your door, exhaled sharply, and pushed it open.
And froze. Because there, sitting casually in your chair like he belonged there was Beomgyu. Holding the tape.
Your stomach dropped. The scene was so eerily familiar that for a split second, you thought you had hallucinated it. The way he was slouched slightly in the chair, the way his fingers turned the tape over slowly, like he was still processing it.
The way his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and how, in that exact moment, you saw it. You saw the feeling written across his face. Soft. Open. Maybe even a little wrecked. You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, shut the door behind you. A beat of silence passed.
"You wrote this," Beomgyu murmured, his voice quieter than you expected.
It wasnât a question. You swallowed hard. "Yeah."
His fingers tightened around the tape slightly. "Was it for the album?"
You shook your head. "No. It doesnât fit the concept. I just⌠wanted to record it."
Beomgyu exhaled, slow and measured. "Itâs beautiful."
The words hit you in a way you werenât prepared for. You blinked. He wasnât teasing. He wasnât throwing in a sarcastic remark, or a smug smile, or anything that would make this easier to brush off. He just meant it.
And it made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, gripping your coffee cup a little tighter. "You listened to it?"
Beomgyu nodded, still looking down at the tape. "Twice."
Your breath hitched. "Twice?"
His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"
Your fingers curled slightly over your cup, heat pressing into your skin. You could lie. You should lie. But you didnât. You licked your lips, shifting your gaze to the floor for a second before looking back at him. "I donât know. I guess I just⌠needed to."
Beomgyu studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze settling over you like something heavy. And then, so quietly you almost didnât catch it, he says: "It felt like something you needed to say."
Your heart stumbled. Because maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe you were hearing things that werenât there. But the way he said it, like he understood, like he knew.
Beomgyuâs fingers drummed lightly against the tape, his gaze flickering between you and the guitar leaning against the wall. The silence between you felt fragile, like if either of you moved too fast, it would shatter. Then, without a word, he reached for the guitar. You raised an eyebrow as he adjusted it on his lap, fingers testing the strings before looking up at you again. "Pass me the chords?"
You hesitated, but eventually nodded, grabbing a piece of scrap paper and jotting them down quickly. When you slid it across the desk toward him, his fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending something electric up your spine.
Beomgyu studied the chords for a moment, then started playing. Slow, tentative, like he was feeling out the song in his own way. And before you even realized what you were doing, your lips partedâ
"This is the first day of my lifeâŚ"
The words came out softer this time, more intimate. You werenât just singing anymore, you were sharing something. Beomgyu kept playing, his eyes locked onto you now, his expression unreadable.
"Swear I was born right in the doorwayâŚ"
You swallowed hard, voice faltering slightly when you saw the way he was looking at you. Like there was something he wanted to say. But he didnât. He just kept playing. And so you kept singing.
"Yours was the first face that I saw⌠I think I was blind before I met you."
Something shifted in the air. You werenât sure if it was you, or him, or just the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two for so long.
But for the first time, it felt like neither of you were trying to fight it.
When the song finally came to an end, the last note fading into silence, Beomgyu exhaled slowly, letting his fingers rest against the strings. And then, so quietly you almost didnât catch itâ
"Iâm sorry."
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. "For what?"
He looked down at the guitar, running his thumb absently over the wood. "For dropping the album."
Your chest tightened. "You didnât have to," you murmured. "I never wanted you to."
He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I thought⌠I thought youâd work better without me."
You frowned. "Thatâs not true."
Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didnât want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didnât want my feelings to get in the way."
Your breath hitched. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you askedâ "What feelings?"
Beomgyu tensed. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say it. Like he might say it. But then something closed inside him. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers gripping the guitar a little tighter. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. More distant. "Itâs hard for me."
You furrowed your brows, confused. "What is?"
Beomgyu swallowed, looking down. "This. Talking. Saying things out loud." His lips pressed together for a moment before he let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Itâs easy to write about it. To turn it into lyrics. To make it rhyme and feel poetic and beautiful."
He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "But when itâs real? When itâs not just a song?" He shaked his head. "In real life, itâs harder."
You stared at him, heart twisting. Because this was him. This was Beomgyu without the smirks, without the teasing, without the carefully crafted walls. And for the first time, you realized, maybe this wasnât just difficult for you.
Maybe he didnât run because he didnât care. Maybe he ran because he did.
Your heart pounded, your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to breathe, to steady your voice. "What did you mean by that?"
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
Beomgyu let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, Y/N."
There was something in his voice, frustration, exhaustion, something too tangled up in itself to pull apart. You frowned. "I donât want to assume."
"Right," he muttered. "Because assuming things with me has always worked out so well."
Your chest tightened. "Beomgyuâ"
"Iâ" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then finally, finally, looked up at you. And god, you hated the way it made your breath catch. The way his eyes, dark and searching, made you feel like you were standing at the edge of something.
Like if you took one more step, thereâd be no turning back. But before you could say anythingâbefore he could say anythingâthe door creaked open.
Both of you turned at the same time.
"Hey," a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Think I left my pen with you earlier."
Seungcheol. His voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unexpected. He stepped inside, eyes flickering between the two of you, taking in the sceneâthe guitar in Beomgyuâs lap, the tape on the desk, the way neither of you seemed to be breathing.
You turned toward the doorway, blinking as he leaned against the frame, his usual easy confidence settling into the room like he belonged there. Beomgyuâs entire posture shifted. It wasnât obvious, no clenched fists, no outright glare, but you saw it anyway. The slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled subtly against the guitar.
You exhaled, stepping toward your desk. "Yeah, I think you did."
Seungcheol grinned. "Knew it."
You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."
And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was worse than before. You turned back to Beomgyu, and immediately knew something was off. He put away the guitar, his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his jaw was tight. "You going along with him?" His voice was sharp, cutting.
You frowned. "What?"
"Seungcheol," Beomgyu said, eyes locking onto yours. "You going along with his shit?"
Your frown deepened. "No. What the hell are you talking about?"
He scoffed, shaking his head. "I told you not to trust that guy."
"And I didnât," you snapped, "I just gave him back his damn pen."
Beomgyuâs jaw clenched, his frustration spilling out in waves. "Yeah? Well, maybe you should know what your old friends are saying about you before you act like Iâm being dramatic."
You stared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, like he was trying to decide if he should even tell you. But then, his eyes darkened, and whatever hesitation he had burned away. "You remember Yunho?"
Your stomach twisted. Of course you remembered Yunho. Beomgyu didnât wait for your answer. "After you left the party, he came up to me," he said, voice tight. "Started making conversationâasking if I worked at HYBE, shit like that. And then, out of nowhere, he says he knows Seungcheol."
Beomgyu watched your reaction closely, but he didnât stop. "And then, Yunho tells me he used to fuck around with you," he continued, voice growing harsher, "but dropped you because, in his words, you were âtoo desirable.â"
You flinched. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing against your skin. "What?"
Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheolâs been waiting for his turn. âDying to get a piece,â is what he said."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your heart pounded. "Youâre lying."
Beomgyuâs gaze snapped to yours, sharp, furious. "I fucking wish."
You felt sick. But Beomgyu wasnât done. "And then," he continued, voice low, "this motherfuckerâthis piece of shitâstarts talking about how he doesnât go for âgirls who get aroundâ because he has standards." Your breath hitched. "Thatâs what he called you," Beomgyu said, voice flat. "A girl who gets around."
A sharp, ugly silence settled between you. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, rage and humiliation coiling together in your stomach like poison. "You fought him."
Beomgyu scoffed, shaking his head. "No. We talked."
You frowned. "Talked?"
"Yeah," he said, jaw tight. "He was acting like he had some kind of moral high ground," Beomgyu went on, voice sharpening. "Like he wouldnât go for a girl whoâs âtoo easyââbut oh, Seungcheol? Seungcheol was dying for a chance with you. And the way he talkedâ" Beomgyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It pissed me off."
You swallowed hard, something ugly and bitter crawling up your throat. "So what, you argued with him?"
Beomgyuâs eyes flickered with something unreadable. His expression darkened. "Donât do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like it doesnât bother you," he snapped. "Act like itâs nothing when people say shit like that about you. I know you, Y/N."
Your breath caught. Because he wasnât wrong. But you werenât about to admit that. The air between you crackled with tension. His expression flickered. You shouldâve let it go. Shouldâve walked away. But something about the way he was looking at you made something snap inside you.
You shook your head, frustration burning beneath your skin. "Youâre exhausting," you muttered, voice sharp. "One second youâre quiet, then youâre nice, then youâre picking fights, then you act like Iâm just some coworkerâ"
Beomgyuâs expression flickered, something dark flashing in his eyes. "You think I treat you like that?"
"You tell me, Beomgyu," you snapped. "Because I have no fucking clue what you want from me."
The words hung in the air like a threat. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Donât act like you donât know," he said, voice rough. "Act like this is just me playing gamesâlike Iâm trying to play with you just for fun."
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Arenât you?"
Beomgyuâs entire body tensed. "Are you serious right now?"
"Yes, Iâm fucking serious!" You took a step closer, rage bubbling up from every place you had been shoving it down. "You kissed me, Beomgyu. And then you disappeared for a fucking week. No texts, no calls, nothing. And then you show up at work like it never happenedâlike I should just be fine with that."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "It wasnât like that."
"Then what the fuck was it like?"
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the strands, like he was trying to pull himself together. "I needed time."
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Bullshit."
Beomgyu scoffed. "Oh, so now Iâm the bad guy?"
"Youâre not the fucking victim," you shot back. "You don't get to kiss me like that, make me thinkâ"
You cut yourself off, biting down hard on the words before they could spill out. But it was too late. Beomgyu was already looking at you like you had just punched the air out of his lungs. Like he knew exactly what you were about to say.
The air between you was too thick, too charged, suffocating and electric all at once. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "You think I donât fucking feel it too?" His voice cracked slightly, rough and raw. "You think this is easy for me?"
Your breath caught. "Then why do you keep running from it?"
Beomgyu exhaled sharply, something desperate in his gaze. "Because I donât know what to do with it!"
Silence. His confession settled between you like an exposed wire, dangerous and crackling with heat. His jaw clenched, like he hated admitting it, like he hated feeling this much. But then, his expression shifted, morphing into something sharper, something wrecked.
"Fuck, Y/N," he muttered, voice strained. "You donât get it. You donât fucking get it."
"Then make me get it!" you yelled, frustration boiling over. "For once in your goddamn life, just say it!"
Beomgyuâs breath hitched. For a second, he didnât say anything.
"Because I canât fucking want you this much and still pretend it doesnât matter!"
Your entire body locked up.
Beomgyu exhaled sharply, chest heaving, his eyes dark and so fucking serious it made your stomach flip. "I canâtâ" He dragged a hand over his face, voice lower now, wrecked. "I canât pretend that this thing between us doesnât fucking kill me every time I try to ignore it." Your heart was a wildfire in your chest. Beomgyu let out a sharp laugh, one that sounded more like frustration than amusement. "I donât know how to fucking want you without ruining everything else."
The words hit harder than they should have. The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was it, wasnât it? That was why he ran. Why he pushed, pulled, disappeared, came back. Why he kissed you and then left.
Because he wanted you. But he didnât trust himself with you. The realization sat heavy in your chest. And for the first time, you saw it, the fear beneath the anger, the hesitation beneath the frustration.
Beomgyu didnât just want you. He was terrified of wanting you. And you didnât know what scared you more. The fact that he was afraid. Or the fact that you werenât.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was stretched too thin, humming with something neither of you knew how to control. Then, Beomgyu exhaled, deep, uneven. His gaze flickered downward, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for something but couldnât bring himself to do it.
"Iâm sorry," he said.
The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of something long overdue. You swallowed. His lips parted, then closed. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, like he didnât even know where to start. "For kissing you," he murmured. "For leaving. For not talking to you for a week like a fucking coward." His jaw clenched. "For making you think that it didnât mean anything."
You stared at him, heart pounding. "And did it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Beomgyu lifted his gaze then, something wrecked behind his dark eyes. "You already know the answer to that."
Your breath caught. He was looking at you differently now. Not with frustration, not with hesitation, but with a kind of certainty that sent heat curling in your stomach.
Then, before you could even process it, he took a step back. "Come with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
Beomgyu turned, already heading toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, glancing back at you. "I wanna show you something to prove it."
Something in his voice made your pulse jump. Still, you hesitated. "Show me?"
He didnât answer. Just held the door open, waiting. And for some stupid, unexplainable reason, your feet started moving.
The walk to his studio was silent. Not tense, not uncomfortable, just charged. You could feel it, the way he was holding something back, something big. His pace was quick, purposeful, like if he didnât move fast enough, heâd lose his nerve.
When you reached his studio, he pulled out a keycard and swiped it, unlocking the door before stepping inside. You followed hesitantly, eyes flickering over the dimly lit space.
Beomgyu didnât say anything at first. Instead, he walked over to the soundboard, pressing a few buttons, adjusting the controls. A small red light flickered on in the recording booth.
Your stomach flipped. "What are we doing?" you asked, voice quieter now.
Beomgyu turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "I want you to hear something."
And then, he pressed play. A soft, melancholic guitar filled the room. Your breath caught immediately. You recognized it before he even started singing. Moonstruck.
But it wasnât the version you had heard before. It was him. Beomgyuâs voice. Low, warm, just slightly raspyâvulnerable.
Your mind had barely caught up to the fact that he had recorded this himself when he spoke again. "I think you know why I wrote this," he said, voice quiet, steady. Your head snapped toward him, but he wasnât looking at you.
He was looking at the recording booth. And then, he moved. Slowly, purposefully, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open, nodding his head for you to follow. "Come here."
Your pulse stuttered. You shouldâve stopped. Shouldâve said something, anything to break whatever the hell was happening right now. But you didnât. Instead, you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.
Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I donât want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.
Your breath caught. The air inside the booth was thick, the music still playing softly through the speakers. Beomgyu took another step forward, and this time, you didnât move away. "You know what this song is about," he said, voice lower now.
You swallowed hard. "Beomgyuâ"
"You know," he repeated, softer.
You couldnât breathe. Because he was right. You knew. You had known since the first time you read the demo, since the first lyric. This was about you. And now, standing here, locked inside a booth with him, his voice bleeding through the speakers, warm and raw and real, you had never been more aware of it.
Beomgyu reached up then, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not pulling, not pushing. Just there. A question. A hesitation. You didnât know who moved first.
Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly, there wasnât space between you anymore. His hand slid up, over your wrist, your forearm, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. Your lips parted slightly, breath uneven, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Beomgyuâs gaze flickered down to your mouth. And then, he kissed you.
It wasnât rushed, wasnât messy, just slow, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. His fingers curled tighter against your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to let himself drown in it.
And you let him. Because right now, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the fear, not the things left unsaid. Right now, there was only this. Only the music, still playing softly in the background. Only him.
The kiss deepened before you even realized it was happening. Beomgyu wasnât hesitant anymore. He wasnât uncertain, wasnât holding back, he was in it, pressing into you with a kind of desperation that made your head spin. His fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your face just the way he wanted, his lips parting against yours, taking.
Your back hit the wall of the recording booth, and he was on you in an instant, one hand braced against the panel behind you, the other sliding down, grazing the side of your neck, the bare skin of your arm, like he needed to feel you.
You barely had a second to breathe before he kissed you again, harder this time, almost rough, a low sound slipping from his throat as you pressed up onto your toes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, voice already wrecked. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
Your breath hitched. "Then why did you run?"
His teeth grazed your bottom lip, his fingers tightening around your waist. "Because Iâm a fucking idiot," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your jaw, then lower, dragging his lips along your neck. "Because I didnât know if youâ"
You cut him off, pulling him back to you, kissing him harder, more insistent. Beomgyu groaned against your lips, his body pressing flush against yours now, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, hiking it up against his hip. His touch burned, warm and firm, like he needed you closer, needed to close the space that still existed between you.
"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his mouth trailing down, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I will."
You swallowed hard, fingers digging into his back. "I'm not telling you to stop."
That was all it took. Beomgyu made a low, almost guttural noise, like something inside him had just snapped. The next kiss was different. Messier. Hungrier. His hands were everywhere, sliding up under the hem of your shirt, skimming over bare skin, gripping your waist tight enough to leave bruises. Your body arched into his touch, your breathing uneven, heat pooling deep in your stomach as his fingers dug into your hips.
"Say it," he muttered against your lips, voice rough with something you couldnât quite place. "Say you want me, too."
You let out a shaky breath, barely able to think. "I want you, Beomgyu."
He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours for a split second before kissing you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he wanted to drown in it. Then, suddenly, his grip tightened. He lifted you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the small ledge of the booth, your legs wrapping around his waist, his body slotting between your thighs like it was meant to be there.
Your pulse roared. He was so close now, every inch of him pressed against you, his breath uneven, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the skin just above the waistband of your jeans. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered, his lips brushing over yours between each word. "I canât think straight when Iâm around you."
You barely had time to process that before his mouth was on your throat again, biting, sucking, dragging his lips down and down and down. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his hips pressing forward on instinct. The friction made you gasp, your legs tightening around him. "Shit," Beomgyu swore, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breathing was uneven, your body burning, your skin thrumming with heat where he touched you. Then, slowly, Beomgyu lifted his head. His gaze met yours, dark, unreadable. His hands flexed against your waist, like he was trying to ground himself. "I donât want to fuck this up," he murmured, voice strained. "Not with you."
Your chest ached. Because he wasnât saying I donât want this. He was saying I donât want to ruin it. Your fingers traced lightly along the back of his neck, your breathing still shaky. "Then donât," you whispered.
Beomgyu swallowed hard. "Iâm trying." He was still close. His forehead was still resting against yours, his hands gripping your waist, his body pressed between your legs like he wasnât ready to pull away yet.
Your breathing was uneven. So was his. And then, like some invisible force snapped between you, his lips were on yours again. This time, there was no hesitation. He kissed you like he had been starving for this, like he was finally letting himself have what he had wanted for so long. His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you against him, his body heat swallowing you whole as his mouth moved against yours, deep and urgent.
You gasped slightly when he tilted your chin up, angling the kiss deeper, his tongue teasing against yours just enough to make your stomach tighten.
You felt like you were burning. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he pressed, lit up. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him let out a low, almost desperate sound against your lips. His hips pressed forward, instinctive. "Beomgyuâ" you breathed against his mouth, barely able to think.
"Mm?" He didnât stop. Just kissed along your jaw, down your neck, biting down lightly at the sensitive skin there before soothing it with his tongue.
A shiver ran down your spine. "We shouldâ"
He kissed you again, cutting off your words, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you steady against him. "Say it later," he muttered, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. "Say it after I kiss you again."
And then he did. Harder this time. Deeper. Your body arched into his without thinking, heat curling in your stomach, your hands gripping onto his shirt to keep yourself steady. You could feel everything. His heartbeat, heavy and uneven against your chest. The way his fingers flexed against your skin like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. The low, unsteady sounds he made every time you moved against him, every time you kissed him back just as desperately.
It was too much. You broke away first, chest rising and falling, trying to catch your breath. Beomgyu didnât move. He stayed close, lips still brushing against yours, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Your fingers were still curled in his hair. His hands were still gripping your waist.
"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, weâreâ Weâre at work. Itâs not even noon."
Beomgyu let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fuck." He still didnât move. You could see it, the way his jaw clenched, his eyes flickering over your lips like he was debating whether to listen to you or keep going anyway. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against your shoulder for half a second before stepping back. "Yeah." His voice was strained, rough. "Youâre right."
The air felt thin without him against you. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the racing of your pulse, trying to ignore the way your body still buzzed from his touch. His fingers brushed over your thigh before he pulled away completely, straightening his shirt, raking a hand through his hair.
You slid off the ledge, steadying yourself as you smoothed out your clothes. "I should get back to work," you muttered, voice still slightly breathless. "The albumâ"
Beomgyu gave a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Right. The album."
Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked at each other. Because you both knew, work was the last thing on your minds right now. But still, you turned toward the door, reaching for the handle. "Iâll see you later," you mumbled.
Beomgyu hummed in response, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah."
You pulled the door open, and then, just as you were about to step out, his hand caught your wrist. Before you could even process it, he tugged lightly, just enough to make you turn back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. It was barely a second. Barely anything. But it hit you like a fucking meteor. He pulled away just as quickly, his eyes flickering over your face, watching your reaction. You didnât move. Couldnât move.
Because what the fuck was that? Not the heat, not the urgency, not the kind of kiss that made your head spin and your knees weak, but something softer. Warmer. Something that made your stomach tighten in an entirely different way.
Beomgyuâs lips quirked upward slightly, like he could see the way your brain had short-circuited. "Go work," he murmured.
You blinked. "Right." And then, without another word, you turned and walked out, your heart still pounding.
You spent the rest of the afternoon in your studio. Hours passed. You barely noticed.
The only thing grounding you was the music, the way it pulsed through your headphones, the way it filled every inch of your studio. The way it made everything else, the tension, the heat, the weight of Beomgyuâs touch, fade just enough for you to breathe.
Your fingers moved instinctively, layering melodies, adjusting levels, smoothing over instrumentals. Every track you touched felt electric, the ideas spilling out of you faster than you could process them. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, you let it take over.
The hours blurred together, stretching into one long, unbroken moment of creation. A new beat took shape, fast, sharp, pulsing with urgency. You molded it into something heavier, something alive. You adjusted the bass, the synths, the vocal layers, adding a deeper texture, something that ached in all the right ways.
Then another track, smoother, melancholic, intimate in a way that made your chest tighten. You let the guitar linger in places it normally wouldnât, let the reverb stretch out just enough to make it feel like the song was breathing.
Another, this one bold, unrelenting, filled with heat and confidence. It demanded attention, crackled with something fierce. You didnât stop. You couldnât stop. Your eyes flickered to the screen as the tracklist took shape in front of you:
XO (Only If You Say Yes) Your Eyes Only Hundred Broken Hearts Brought The Heat Back Paranormal Royalty
A solid foundation. A damn good foundation. By the time you finally leaned back in your chair, exhaustion was creeping in, settling into your limbs, but there was a different kind of satisfaction sitting beside it. Because you had done it. Most of your work was done. And maybe, just maybe, you had needed this. The music. The escape. The chance to turn everything swimming in your head into something real.
With a deep breath, you saved the files, powered down your setup, and began gathering your things. Your jacket, your bag, your phone, shoving everything into place as you checked the time. Late.
The sun had already set by the time you stepped outside. The air was crisp, the streets quieter now, the city humming with the distant sounds of life. You exhaled, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you turned toward the metro station.
And thenâ
"You took your time."
Your steps faltered. Beomgyu was waiting. Leaning against the side of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched you.
Your brows furrowed. "What are you doing here?"
Beomgyu smirked. "Told you I had until the album dropped for you to change your mind."
You blinked. "Change my mind about what?"
His smirk widened. "About getting a drink with me."
You stared at him. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious," he said, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. "You spent the whole day in that studio. You need a break."
Your lips parted slightly, caught between irritation and something closer to amusement. "And you decided youâd be the one to provide it?"
Beomgyu shrugged. "Obviously."
You shook your head, exhaling. "I was planning to go home."
"Okay," he said easily. "You can still go home."
You frowned. "What?"
"After one drink," he clarified. "Then you can go home."
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head again. "Youâre impossible."
"And yet," he mused, rocking back on his heels, "youâre still standing here, considering it."
Your jaw clenched. Because he wasnât wrong. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else, something that made you hesitate, something that made you want to say yes. Beomgyu noticed.
And so he tilted his head, lowering his voice just slightly. "Come on, Y/N. Just one."
You stared at him for another long moment. Then, before you could stop yourself, "Fine."
Beomgyu smirked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he led the way. "You know," he mused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, "youâre a lot more fun when you donât overthink things."
You scoffed. "Iâm not overthinking anything."
He grinned. "Then why do you look like youâre already regretting this?"
You huffed, shoving your hands into your jacket. "Iâm not."
Beomgyu just hummed, like he didnât believe you, but didnât feel like arguing. Instead, he turned down a quieter street, leading you toward a bar tucked between two buildings, a cozy-looking place, warm light spilling from the windows, the scent of grilled meat drifting through the air.
You hesitated. "This is where weâre going?"
Beomgyu glanced at you, amused. "Why? You donât like barbecue?"
Your stomach growled at the thought. You sighed. "I do, a lot."
He just smirked, pushing open the door. Inside, the atmosphere was just as inviting as the smell. Low, warm lighting. Laughter. The quiet clinking of glasses. The faint crackle of meat sizzling on the built-in grills at the tables. It was comfortable. And you hated that it made you relax a little.
Beomgyu led you toward an open table near the back, sliding into the seat beside you instead of across from you, leaning back like he had done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably had. "You come here a lot," you muttered, glancing around.
He grinned. "I have good taste."
You rolled your eyes. A server appeared, and Beomgyu barely had to glance at the menu before ordering beef short ribs, pork belly, a few side dishes, and two cold beers.
You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for me now?"
Beomgyu shrugged, tapping his fingers against the table. "You like barbecue. You like beer. I connected the dots."
You leaned back, crossing your arms. "What if I suddenly decided I hate all those things?"
Beomgyu smirked, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at you. "Then youâd be lying." You narrowed your eyes at him.
The beers arrived first. Beomgyu picked up his glass, tilting it slightly toward you. "To finishing most of the album in one day."
You huffed, clinking your glass against his. "To having nothing better to do than drag me to a bar."
Beomgyu just grinned before taking a sip. The beer was cold, smooth, the kind that went down easily after a long day. And as much as you hated to admit it, this, the warmth of the place, the comfort of the food, the quiet hum of conversation around you, felt nice.
You set your glass down, glancing at him. "Alright," you muttered. "You win. This isnât terrible."
Beomgyu smirked, leaning in slightly. "High praise coming from you."
You scoffed, taking another sip. "Donât get used to it."
And then, the food arrived. Plates of sizzling meat, steaming side dishes, the aroma so good that your stomach twisted with hunger. Beomgyu grabbed a pair of tongs, flipping the short ribs on the grill, moving with too much ease.
You eyed him. "You really come here a lot."
He smirked. "Told you."
You sighed, watching as he expertly cooked the meat, barely thinking before reaching for the lettuce wraps, stacking up the perfect bite, then placing it in front of you. Your eyebrows lifted. "Are you seriously making me food right now?"
Beomgyu shrugged, sipping his beer. "What, you want me to feed it to you, too?"
You scoffed. "I can make my own wrap, Beomgyu."
"Yeah, but I already did it." He nodded toward the plate. "So eat."
You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, biting into the warm, flavorful wrap. You werenât sure if it was the exhaustion, the hunger, or the fact that Beomgyu was sitting so close, watching you eat with an amused expression, but something about this moment made your chest feel too full. You pushed the thought away.
"So?" he asked, watching you chew.
You swallowed, setting your chopsticks down. "Itâs fine."
He snorted. "You are so bad at compliments."
"No," you corrected, taking another sip of beer. "I just donât like boosting your ego."
Beomgyu grinned. "Too late for that."
The conversation flowed easier after that. The second beer turned into a third. The food disappeared, leaving just the sound of clinking glasses, the occasional glance that lingered too long, the way your shoulders brushed when you leaned forward to reach for something.
Somewhere between another drink and another teasing remark, you realized something: You were having fun. And Beomgyu knew it. His smirk never wavered, his eyes never left yours for too long, his voice never dropped that teasing lilt that made your pulse stutter more than it should. And maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was just him.
But as you sat there, half-listening to him ramble about some ridiculous story, you realized, you didnât really want the night to end. And by the time the last plate had been cleared and the third beer had been emptied, you were warm all over. Not drunk. Just loose.
The world felt a little softer around the edges, your limbs lighter, your thoughts slower but comfortable. Beomgyu, across from youâno, beside you, because he had sat next to you like it was the most natural thing in the worldâwas in the same state, his body relaxed, his usual sharp-edged energy dulled by alcohol and good food.
You tapped your fingers idly against the table, staring at the condensation on your glass. "So," you muttered, "you never told meâwhat do you think of the album name?"
Beomgyu blinked, then frowned slightly, turning his head to look at you properly. "What album name?"
You exhaled, stretching your arms over your head. "The one Baekhyunâs thinking about. âFiles of Romance.â"
His reaction was instant. Beomgyu made a face like you had just told him the worst news imaginable. "Nah, not my personal taste."
You raised an eyebrow. "You hate it that much?"
"Hate is a strong wordâ" he paused, reconsidering. "âbut yeah, I fucking hate it."
You laughed. "Why?"
Beomgyu turned in his seat, facing you fully now, one arm resting on the back of your chair. "Because it sounds like some 2010 Wattpad fanfiction. âFiles of Romanceââwhat is this, a collection of love letters? A secret diary? An unfinished manuscript?*"
You smirked, tilting your head. "Itâs poetic."
"Itâs cheesy," he corrected.
You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of beer. "Okay, then what would you call it?"
Beomgyu hummed, thinking for a moment. Then, he looked at you. And something in his gaze shifted. His smirk faded, not completely, but enough for you to notice the way his expression softened slightly. "Romance: Untold."
The words settled between you like something heavy. Your fingers stilled against your glass. "Untold?"
He nodded. "Because thatâs what this album is, isnât it? All these songs, all these storiesâ" he tapped his fingers against the table, voice dropping slightly. "Itâs about things people donât say out loud. Feelings left unsaid. The in-between moments, the things you canât admit, the things you only let yourself feel when no oneâs looking."
Suddenly, this wasnât about the album anymore. Beomgyu wasnât looking at you like a producer talking about work. He wasnât critiquing an idea, wasnât just throwing out another title. He was talking about you and him.
Your lips parted slightly, heart picking up speed. "ThatâsâŚ" you hesitated. "Thatâs actually not bad."
Beomgyu grinned. "Not bad? Come on, admit itâyou like it."
You exhaled, shaking your head. "Youâre impossible."
"And youâre predictable," he countered easily, taking another sip of his beer. "You act like you hate everything I say, but deep down, you know Iâm right most of the time."
You scoffed. "Most of the time?"
"Mm-hmm." He leaned in slightly, his smirk turning just a bit more smug. "Like right now."
Your eyes narrowed. "Beomgyuâ"
"Say it," he murmured, voice lower now, the playful edge still there but thicker, like something else was creeping beneath it. "Say you like the name."
You exhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. He was so annoying. But also, he was right. You sighed. "Fine. Itâs⌠a good name."
Beomgyu smirked, triumphant. "See? I always win."
You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. "You donât always win."
"Pretty close to always," he teased, nudging your leg under the table. "And anywayâ" his gaze flickered over you briefly before settling on your lips. "I get the feeling you like it when I win."
You swallowed, shifting in your seat, trying to ignore the way your skin felt hot under his gaze. "Youâre drunk."
Beomgyu smirked. "Tipsy."
"Same thing."
"Not even close." His fingers tapped against his glass, his smirk lingering. "You just donât wanna admit Iâm fun outside of work."
You snorted. "Fun is a strong word."
"And yet," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "youâre still here."
He wasnât wrong. You couldâve left at any time. You couldâve said no to this drink. You couldâve cut this conversation short the second it started feeling like more than just talking. But you didnât. And now, sitting here, so close to him, so aware of every movement he made, every glance, every shift in his voice, you couldnât pretend that it was just because of the album anymore.
You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away. "We should probably head out soon."
Beomgyu hummed, like he knew exactly what you were doing but didnât feel like calling you out on it. "Yeah, yeah."
Neither of you moved. Instead, he let his arm stretch across the back of your chair, fingers tapping against the wood in a slow, easy rhythm. "Romance: Untold," he repeated, more to himself now. "Yeah. I like it."
You exhaled. "Me too."
And somehow, you knew, this wasnât just about the album. This was about you and him. The story neither of you had told yet. But one that, deep down, you both knew was already being written.
The night air was cooler now, a crisp contrast to the warmth still buzzing under your skin from the drinks. The street outside the bar was quiet, only the occasional car passing by, headlights flickering against the pavement.
Beomgyu stretched his arms over his head, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Alright, letâs get you home."
You raised an eyebrow. "Youâre not driving."
"Obviously not," he said, rolling his eyes. "Iâm not a fucking idiot."
You let out a breathy laugh. "So whatâs your plan?"
Beomgyu tilted his head, smirking. "Gonna take the subway with you."
You blinked. "You donât have to do that."
"I know." He started walking. "Come on."
You hesitated, but ultimately followed, falling into step beside him. The subway station wasnât far. The streets were quieter here, the hum of neon signs flickering against the damp pavement. It felt⌠nice. Comfortable. Like the two of you had slipped into something easier than usual.
The train arrived just as you stepped onto the platform. You both boarded, sliding into a seat near the back of the car. "So," you mused, resting your head against the window. "Tell me something I donât know about you."
Beomgyu hummed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Something good or something stupid?"
"Good," you said. "And donât say something obvious."
Beomgyu smirked, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Iâve wanted to do music since I was ten."
You blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah." He leaned back, gaze flickering up toward the train ceiling like he was remembering something. "I used to listen to my older brotherâs CDs all the timeâNirvana, Radiohead, The Strokes, My Bloody Valentine. Iâd sit in my room with those shitty little wired headphones and just obsess over the sounds, the production, the way the lyrics hit different when you were alone in the dark."
You tilted your head, watching him. "I never took you for a rock band guy."
Beomgyu scoffed. "What, you think I only listen to industry shit?"
"I mean⌠kinda."
He clutched his chest dramatically. "Wow. The disrespect."
You laughed. "Okay, okay. Whatâs your favorite album of all time?"
Beomgyu exhaled, tapping his fingers against the seat. "Damn. Thatâs hard."
"Come on," you nudged his knee with yours. "Youâre a music guy. You have to have a number one."
He thought for a second. "âLovelessâ by My Bloody Valentine."
Your brows lifted. "Shoegaze?"
"Shoegaze," he confirmed. "That album changed me."
You smirked. "Oh, so itâs that serious?"
"Itâs life-changing serious," he said. "I mean, listen to âWhen You Sleepâ and tell me that shit doesnât make you wanna dissolve into the floor."
You chuckled. "Okay, fine. Iâll listen."
"You better."
The conversation flowed easily after that. Beomgyu rambled about different albums, breaking down the exact moment he fell in love with certain sounds, which producers he admired, which live performances made him feel something real.
And you listened. Really listened. Because even though he talked a lotâtoo much, sometimesâthis was different. This was Beomgyu talking about the thing he loved. And it made you want to know more.
By the time you reached your stop, the train car was nearly empty. The streets were quieter now, the air even cooler. Beomgyu walked beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his usual smirk still tugging at his lips. And then, without warning, his arm slung over your shoulders.
You stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"
Beomgyu grinned. "Relax. You looked cold."
You scoffed, but didnât pull away. "You just wanted an excuse to be annoying."
"And?" he teased. "Is it working?"
"Always."
Beomgyu chuckled, squeezing your shoulder lightly before letting his arm stay there, draped over you like it belonged there. And, for some reason, you let it. By the time you reached your apartment building, the air between you had shifted again, lighter, charged, something humming just beneath the surface.
Beomgyu turned to face you, his smirk softer now. "Well, that was fun."
You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You admit Iâm fun now?"
"I didnât say that." He grinned. "I said that was fun."
You rolled your eyes, stepping toward your door. "Whatever."
But before you could reach for the handle, Beomgyu caught your wrist. You turned. And suddenly, he was right there. Closer than he had been all night. The teasing was gone from his face. His eyes flickered between yours, his fingers still wrapped loosely around your wrist. And then, he leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was giving you time to stop him.
But just as his lips were inches from yours, the door swung open.
"Well," Yeonjunâs voice rang out, amusement laced through every word. "What do we have here?"
Your stomach dropped. Beomgyuâs entire body went rigid. Yeonjun grinned, stepping onto the porch, holding a tied-up trash bag in one hand. "I was just taking out the garbage, but this is much more interesting."
You groaned, pulling away from Beomgyu instantly. "Yeonjun."
"What?" Yeonjun feigned innocence, looking between the two of you. "I didnât know we were having late-night meetings outside the apartment."
Beomgyu exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Great timing, dude."
"I try my best." Yeonjun smirked. "So⌠are you gonna kiss, or should I give you some privacy?"
"Yeonjun, I swear to Godâ"
"Alright, alright, Iâm going!" He held up his hands, stepping off the porch with a laugh. "But we will be talking about this later, Y/N."
You shot him a glare as he disappeared down the walkway, humming to himself. The second he was out of earshot, you huffed. "Unbelievable."
A beat of silence passed. "SoâŚ" Beomgyu shifted, glancing at you. "Where were we?"
A slow smirk tugged at Beomgyuâs lips. His head tilted slightly, his eyes flickering down to your mouth, just for a second, just enough for your breath to catch. He was waiting. Waiting to see if youâd push him away, if youâd roll your eyes and disappear inside, if youâd cut this tension off before it turned into something real.
But you didnât. And that was all he needed. Beomgyu took a slow step forward, closing the space between you with the kind of confidence that sent your heart slamming against your ribs. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant for only a moment before he tilted his chin down, leaning in. And then, finally, he kissed you.
It wasnât rushed. It wasnât urgent or rough or anything close to what you had before. It was gentle. Soft in a way that made your stomach flip, slow in a way that made your knees feel weak, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the way you felt beneath his lips. Beomgyu wasnât pushing. He wasnât taking. He was giving. And you let yourself take it.
Your fingers curled against the front of his jacket, tugging slightly as you kissed him back, sinking into the warmth of it, the quiet rightness of it. Beomgyu let out a soft sound against your lips, half a sigh, half a laugh, before tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach tighten.
His hand came up, brushing against your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to remember this. Like he had wanted this for too long. You could feel his smile against your mouth, feel the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he wanted to pull you closer but was holding back.
And then, someone cleared their throat. Loud. Pointed. Beomgyu stilled for half a second, then pulled back, blinking like he had just been shaken out of something. Slowly, almost painfully, you turned toward the sound.
Yeonjun. Standing in the hallway. Arms crossed. Smirking. "Really?" he mused. "Right outside the door?"
Your stomach dropped. "Yeonjunâ"
"You guys didnât even wait five minutes after I left?" he continued, shaking his head. "Damn, Beomgyu. You work fast."
Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "For the love of Godâ"
Yeonjun just grinned as he stepped inside. "Donât let me stop you. I was just coming back."
You wanted to die. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before taking a small step back, running a hand through his hair.
You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way your skin burned. "I should go inside."
Beomgyu looked at you, his expression unreadable for half a second before he smirked. "Yeah. Probably."
You hesitated. "Goodnight, Beomgyu."
He tilted his head. "Goodnight, Y/N."
And then, because he couldnât help himself, he leaned in one last time. A quick, teasing peck against your lips. Barely a second. Barely anything. But it sent your stomach spiraling.
Then, before you could even react, he turned toward the stairs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "See you at work," he called over his shoulder. And with that, he disappeared.
The second the door shut behind you, your back met the wood, and you let out a sharp breath. What the fuck just happened? Your fingers hovered over your lips, the ghost of Beomgyuâs kiss still lingering, the warmth of his touch still burning on your skin. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning, andâ
"Oh, this is so good," Yeonjunâs voice cut through your spiral, full of glee.
You groaned. "Please. Shut up."
author's note: i hate to do this⌠but weâre getting a part 3. there was just too much to fit into this chapter, and things are about to get tense next time. if you want to be on the taglist for the next part, let me know in the comments!
ALSO i wrote this fic way before beomgyu even announced PANIC đđ so pls go give him all the love bc he looks AMAZING the song is perfect and i swear the beomgyu i wrote is the same beomgyu who wrote panic did i just win????? đđ
taglist: @czennieszn @iyoonjh @shycreationdreamland @beomsdoll @whatblop @cbgtopia @enhaloveeee @hyunj00 @jnysaln @woncheecks @soobinslvr13 @kejingken @v1shwa-xo @yeovnjin @c1eod1n3 @etherealid7 @naeyerys
part 1 // part 2 // part 3
#xylatox fic recs#txt smut#txt hard hours#beomgyu hard hours#beomgyu angst#txt angst#beomgyu smut#txt fic#beomgyu fic#beomgyu#beomgyu x you#beomgyu x y/n#beomgyu au#beomgyu imagines#beomgyu x reader#beomgyu x female reader#txt x reader#txt au#txt imagines#txt x y/n#txt x you
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BARE MINIMUM â multi
the jjk men do the bare minimum, and you, like an idiot, almost break down. and theyâre even more sweet about that. | 1.2k
includes: g.suguru & k.nanami & t.fushigoro & g.satoru. fem!reader, early established relationship (dating), some hurt/comfort, kissing, suggestiveness, lots of cute names (pretty girl, sweetheart, honey, baby, doll etc). based on this by @aquasoftware
geto suguruÂ
you sigh the second you set your work phone down, thankful the messages stopped for a second, except your personal phone rings just as fast. you groan as you pick it up, letting out an annoyed, âwhat!â
âhey, pretty girl.â you sit up immediately as you recognize your boyfriends voice. oh crap, you did not mean for that to happen. âsugu, iâm so sorry, iâve just had a really long day and i didnât notice that it was you.â
âreally? itâs only twelve,â he says but it isnât accusatory, if anything, he seems worried which just fuels your guilt. âanyway, itâs why i called, wanted to ask how your day was.â
âoh.â oh. it seems like a trick question, all youâve ever known is the âshut upâ and âstop talking so muchâ from your family and past boyfriends, this feels like a trick, asking how your day was just so he can tell you your voice is annoyingâ âgood.â
âgood? you just said it was long. tell me about it, tell me what happened, i miss your voice.â he misses yourâ okay, now this really is a trick phone call. maybe he has gojo there to laugh with him. it feels cruel to assume these things of suguru but you donât know why else he would ask. âyou there? are you busy? i can call backââ
âno, no, just not used to the question, i guess.â youâve only been dating for a few weeks, guess thereâs a lot you need to get used to with geto suguru.Â
âreally? thatâs stupid, i love hearing about your day so câmon, i wanna know everything i can in this twenty minute break.â you canât help the smile on your face.Â

nanami kentoÂ
you let your head fall to the pillow with one last breathy sigh, laughing. âwhat?â ken asks, finally sitting up from in between your legs. you just shrug, not ready to let go of the magical world he put you in for the past hour. you would say your first time with kento is a success.
he shakes his head at you with a smile of his own, standing up off the bed which worries you. your smile falls immediately and you push yourself up with your elbows, eyes following him as he enters the bathroom. you didnât mean to be rude, you were just happy. he has to know that. but you donât think calling out to him when he wants alone time is wise so you just fall back on your pillow, pulling the covers up to your face with a frustrated sigh this time. you canât seem to get anything right.Â
âsweetheart?â you hear his voice and immediately pull the sheets down. âdo you mind if i clean you up? pretty sure i did a number on you.â he asks, fingers moving down to your legs above the satin fabric. you shake your head mindlessly, not exactly sure whatâs happening.Â
youâre not stupid, you know what aftercare is, you just donât usually receive it. and by ânot usuallyâ you mean ânot everâ. he pushes the cover up to your stomach so youâre not bare, something you didnât know youâd actually care about that much till he gave you the option, and a few seconds into cleaning his and your âfunâ off of you, he looks up, âwhy did you do that?â
âdo what?â you thought everything was perfect, you thought you did good.Â
âcover your face.â
âoh, iâ iâm sorry, i just thought you were gonna shower or head out or something.â despite it being his house, it isnât exactly unheard of for you that a man leaves you in the bed the second you both come.Â
âhoney,â he frowns, moving so he can kiss you, pushing himself up with his elbow right next to your biceps. it takes a while before he says something, not wanting to bring too much attention to the topic, he knows how closed off you can get. so he settles with, âi love you, okay?â your heart swells up as you nod and kiss him again.

fushigoro toji
your phone rings for the third time and assuming itâs your friend asking why you arenât at work again, you just silence it and go back to bed. god, this headache is gonna kill you, and if it doesnât then your temperature just might. why is everything cold?
you donât even hear your front door open, which is good considering you couldnât do much even if it was a burglar, but you do hear your boyfriend knocking on your bedroom door. he calls out your name as if checking if youâre still alive. âhi, toji.â you mumble, face still in the pillow so he doesnât really hear anything. good thing youâre still breathing at least.Â
âhey, doll,â he sits down next to you, pushing you inside. âgot you some soup, figured you wouldnât be able to eat.â
you gasp, looking up quickly and spotting two large bags on his lap. âoh my god, youâre a heaven sent.â he smiles, though it does strike a question in the back of his mind about just how many douchebags youâve been with if you think soup while youâre sick is angelic, but it doesnât matter because youâre smiling at him through your tear stained cheeks and itâs the most beautiful sight heâs ever seen.Â
he leans down to kiss your hair before you push him away weekly. âstop it! iâm sickââ
âand where did you get it from?â he challenges with a smirk, though thereâs no real heat as he opens up the soup container. heâs the one who got you sick anyway, he might as well take responsibility for it. once youâre eating in his arms, you feel a thousand times better.Â

gojo satoruÂ
satoru knocks on your door for the second time before you finally open the door, your earrings in your hand as you try three different pairs on. âuh⌠hey?â he hesitates as you rush him in and shut the door. âyou look beautiful, baby.â he doesnât even get a moment to kiss you because youâre running back into your bedroom.
âiâm sorry!â you yell so he can hear you, âiâm totally late.â he walks into the room to find your clothes laying on every horizontal surface. âi swear iâm done, i just need to find my other earring and iâm so done.â
satoru just laughs, walking towards you to stop your frantic search for the matching pair of earrings in your hands. he, finally, kisses you. when he pulls away you notice the flowers in his hands, âwhatâre those?â
âthose,â he says with a smile, âare for my perfect girl. my law graduate girl.â he sees the tears brimming in your eyes and quickly takes your face in his hands to kiss you again. âyouâre graduating.â
âi am?â you ask with a small smile before the tears start flowing. âi am. âtoru, iâm graduating.â he laughs and pulls you in for a hug.Â
#gojo satoru x reader#satoru gojo x reader#geto suguru x reader#suguru geto x reader#nanami kento x reader#kento nanami x reader#toji fushigro x reader#toji x reader#toji x f!reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen scenarios#&. mine#&. toji#&. gojo#&. geto#&. kento
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đą ACE jeon jungkook (one)

18+
Pairing: Yandere!Crimeboss! Jungkook Ă Detective!Reader
Themes: Obsession, power imbalance, cat-and-mouse tension, psychological warfare, forced proximity, dark seduction, corruption
Genre: Dark romance, crime thriller
Warnings: Dubious consent, manipulation, possessiveness, graphic language, coercion, criminal themes, stalking, dark erotic content, emotional degradation, SMUT
âHe was just another criminal on your list â cold, untouchable, dangerous. But the moment you walked into that room, Jungkook forgot every crime he ever committed and started planning a new one: making you his.â
part two
ââââââ đąâââââââ
He wasnât just a rumor on the streets â he was the kind of name whispered in locker rooms and back alleys, in morgues and in the untraceable lines of cartel accounts. No fingerprints. No face. Just stories. Gruesome ones. A man who could vanish in the blink of an eye and reappear in the form of another dead informant. Another burned-out safehouse. Another officer âgone rogue.â
Jeon Jungkook.
Your first case as lead investigator was small â an arms deal gone wrong in Busan, two bodies in a warehouse, both shot through the heart. What caught your attention was the precision. Two shots, one for each man. Bullet casings wiped clean. No signs of forced entry. The cameras had been cut thirty seconds before it happened.
The only trace left behind was a single white playing card on the floor, bleeding into the pooling crimson beneath the bodies.
The Ace of Hearts.
Thereâs a moment in every detectiveâs life where things stop being about justice â and start being about survival.
Your moment came in the form of a manila folder, dropped onto your desk with a thud and a muttered, âGood luck.â
You didnât look up right away. Just stared at the stamped name across the top like it might bite.
No face. No verified voice. Just a trail of shattered lives and dead witnesses. His file was thick. Thicker than any youâd seen. Most of it redacted. Every page screamed warning, even the pages that said nothing at all.
Drug trafficking. High-tech weapons. Political blackmail. A hundred aliases. But one signature â left behind like a calling card, stained in red.
Some said he was born into the criminal world, son of a now-erased syndicate boss. Others believed he carved his empire himself, a ghost who learned how to hack his name out of the shadows. Either way, no one had ever seen him. Not clearly. The only known image was blurry, snapped through shattered glass mid-explosion.
He looked young. Too young to be behind so much blood. But something about the tilt of his head, the laziness of his posture, the way he stared directly into the lens â it made your skin crawl. Like he knew he was being watched. Like he wanted to be.
You were officially assigned his case as lead profiler. The youngest ever brought onto the division. You didnât ask why they gave it to you. Maybe they thought you were expendable. Maybe they thought heâd underestimate you.
ââââââ-
They brought him in at 3:17 a.m.
You were already waiting â coffee long cold in your hand, eyes glued to the monitor as grainy footage played on a loop. A blacked-out car. A familiar walk. Heâd exited the vehicle like he didnât have a care in the world, shoulders relaxed, hands in the pockets of his long dark coat. Even with a team swarming him, Jungkook didnât flinch. Didnât fight.
He smiled.
The bastard smiled like he was right on time.
âAre you sure you want to be the one to interrogate him?â your commanding officer asked as he handed over the file. âHeâs not like the others.â
âI know.â You didnât say the rest: Thatâs exactly why I have to.
Youâd been tailing him for six months. Always one step behind. Surveillance footage here, wiretap audio there. The pieces never quite added up. No matter how many hours you poured into his case, the deeper you dug, the more he vanished â like smoke curling just out of reach. He wasnât a man. He was a myth.
Until now.
You took a deep breath before stepping into the room, heart hammering with anticipation and a dread you didnât want to name.
And there he was.
The second interrogation started before you stepped into the room.
You could see him through the mirror.
Jeon Jungkook â uncuffed, seated loosely in the chair, one leg stretched out like he owned the ground beneath it. He wasnât doing anything. Just staring at the empty seat across from him. Like he knew youâd be there soon. Like heâd been waiting.
When the door opened, he didnât turn.
But when you walked in â when your heels clicked on the concrete and the air shifted around your scent â he moved.
His head turned slow, then his eyes lifted.
And they devoured you.
Not with awe. Not with admiration. With hunger. Sharp, unrepentant, and barely contained.
The cuffs had been reattached at your request â short chain, anchored to the table.
You sat down without flinching.
But your hands tensed on the file.
He didnât say anything. Just kept watching.
His gaze flicked over your eyes, your lips, your throat. A slow drag. Calculating. Carnal. Every inch of your body felt cataloged, peeled back layer by layer â and not in a scientific way. No, this wasnât a profilerâs stare.
âSo itâs you,â he said, voice low, thick like honey laced with poison. âThe little shadow.â
Your spine straightened. âExcuse me?â
Jungkook chuckled, leaning in like you were sharing a secret. âYouâve been on my trail for half a year, detective. I knew someone was watching me. But I never expected you.â
His gaze dropped â slow, deliberate â tracing your form, lingering where it shouldnât.
And then he smiled like something divine had clicked into place.
âGod,â he murmured, âyouâre beautiful. They didnât put that in your file.â
It was the kind of look men wore before they ruined something soft.
âJeon Jungkook,â you said calmly, forcing your voice steady. âDo you know why youâre here?â
His tongue slid slowly across his bottom lip.
You looked down. You had to. Even one more second of eye contact and you mightâve flushed.
âWe have a forged ID. You were in the passenger seat of a car linked to last monthâs arms deal. The driver was seen leaving a drop site in Gangseo. Youâre being held while we investigate further.â
No response.
You tried again. âDo you deny knowing the driver?â
His mouth twitched at the corner. Not a smile. Something more base.
You knew, without looking up, that he was still watching your mouth.
âYou understand this is serious?â you continued.
Still no words. But you could hear his breathing. Controlled. Deep.
He wasnât ignoring you.
He was soaking you in.
You glanced up again, only for a second â and there it was. The glint. The flicker of movement, the jerk of his fingers against the cuffs. He wanted to reach for you.
The way his gaze had locked between your lips and your collarbone⌠it was like instinct was fighting him with every breath.
The cuffs were the only thing stopping him from moving.
He shifted slightly, and the chain strained.
The sound was loud in the silence.
âYouâre not going to say anything?â you asked, voice sharp now, snapping to protect your own pulse.
His throat worked once.
And then, finally â âYou were just a name on a screen until five minutes ago. Now that Iâve met you I feel like Iâd burn down the world to keep you looking at me like that.â
Your heart stilled.
He didnât say it with fondness. He said it like a man crawling through a desert, finally reaching water.
You didnât respond. You didnât dare.
Jungkook leaned forward until the cuffs yanked him back with a quiet metallic click. His smile curled slow â dark, knowing, primal.
You wanted to move. You shouldâve moved.
But you didnât.
Not even when he said, softer now, âWhat perfume is that?â
You opened your mouth to answer, then stopped yourself. You were not here to play. You were not here to entertain fantasies.
But something told you this man had already started building them.
The rest of the interrogation went nowhere.
He answered nothing. Said little. But his eyes never left you. Not even once.
You left feeling like your body had been touched without ever being reached. Like your bones would remember this encounter long after the bruises of his gaze faded.
You needed a break. A shower. Silence.
You got none of those.
Instead, five hours later, you were summoned to the deputy chiefâs office.
âHeâs being released,â they said flatly.
Your mouth dropped open. âWhat?! On whose orders?â
âEverything we had is gone. Witnesses walked. Evidence scrubbed. Whoeverâs backing him has reach. Judge signed off five minutes ago.â
You were still arguing when the elevator doors opened downstairs.
And there he was.
Jeon Jungkook, fresh clothes, no cuffs. Walking out as casually as if heâd just finished a spa day.
But when he saw you â he paused.
Paused like the sight of you had just punched the air from his lungs.
Then he smiled. Not politely. Not smug.
Like was about to devour you.
You didnât speak.
Neither did he.
But he crossed the distance slowly, calculated, until he stood just close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. The same way a man might pass someone at a crowded bar â only this wasnât crowded. And it wasnât by accident.
His eyes dragged across your face. No shame. No mask. Just heat.
Then, as he passed, his voice ghosted behind you:
âNext time⌠you wonât have a table between us.â
And he was gone.
_____________
You told yourself it was over. That heâd disappeared back into whatever empire he ruled from the shadows. That he had more important things to do than fixate on the woman who couldnât even get him charged with a forged ID.
But logic didnât help when you looked over your shoulder too often in grocery stores.
Didnât help when you kept locking your door twice, even though youâd never forgotten once in your life.
Didnât help when you kept waking up in the middle of the night with your heart racing â from nothing.
From something.
From whatever was now living in the silence.
Because the truth sat deep in your gut, heavier than you could admit even to yourself.
Jungkook had looked at you like you were already his.
And men like that didnât forget.
You went back through every note in his case file. Every surveillance photo. Every redacted line of intel. You looked for signs that heâd ever taken an interest in one of his investigators before â any woman, any name, any pattern.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the way he had looked at you across that interrogation table. Like he hadnât just noticed you. Like he recognized you. Like the universe had finally handed him a shape heâd been waiting to see â and it just happened to be yours.
Attention from a man like Jeon Jungkook felt like heat under your skin. Like a fuse had been lit somewhere deep in the walls of your life, and now you were just waiting for the spark to reach the core.
He wasnât making a move.
And thatâs how you knew he was serious.
You started carrying a weapon off-duty. You started varying your commute. You memorized exits. Not because anything had happened.
But because you felt it.
Like breath on the back of your neck in an empty room. Like the echo of footsteps one beat behind yours on a quiet night. Like an eye watching through a scope you couldnât see.
And now he knew exactly what you looked like when you werenât behind a badge.
_______________
You didnât want to go.
But your friends insisted.
âYouâve been working nonstop,â Hari said, looping her arm through yours. âYouâre barely sleeping. Youâre paranoid.â
I have reason to be, you wanted to say. But you bit your tongue.
âJust one night,â Minji added. âWeâll dress up, drink too much, dance a little. No cops. No crime scenes. Just fun.â
So you gave in.
The club was new. Lavish. Private. The kind of place where you didnât walk in unless your name was on a list or your dress cost more than your rent. You didnât ask how your friend got the hookup â some cousin-of-a-cousin situation, she claimed â and you didnât push. You were too tired.
Too worn thin.
The second you stepped through the velvet-draped doors, it hit you: the money. The power. The heat.
It wasnât a place people came to unwind.
It was a place people came to be seen.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Music pulsed low and dark, more bass than lyrics. Everything gleamed â marble floors, glass staircases, sharp-dressed men and women with too much perfume and too few inhibitions.
You felt out of place immediately.
Still, your friends pulled you to the bar.
âSomething expensive,â Minji told the bartender, grinning. âSheâs a cop. She needs it.â
You didnât correct her. Not anymore. You werenât sure what you were now.
You took the drink. Sipped. Smiled when they cheered.
And for one moment â one brief, suspended moment â you let yourself relax.
Until you noticed something.
A man. In the far corner. Near the VIP mezzanine.
Watching.
You looked away. You looked back.
He was gone.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Just nerves. Shadows. The trick of a crowded room.
But the unease grew. You scanned the layout â exits, guards, mirrors angled too carefully.
And then it hit you. All at once. The subtle perfection. The impossible security. The air of controlled chaos, polished to an art. The Ace of Hearts on every wall.
Youâd studied this style before. In reports. In background intel.
And then you knew.
This place wasnât just owned by someone like Jungkook.
It was his.
You stood so suddenly your barstool scraped back.
Your friends blinked. âWhoaâhey, are you okay?â
You were already walking.
The hall toward the private wing was guarded, but no one stopped you. Not one hand lifted. Not one voice called out.
Like you were expected.
The hallway grew darker. Quieter.
You turned the corner too fast â heart pounding, fists clenched â and slammed into someone.
Hard.
You stumbled back. Hands reached out.
Caught you.
You looked upâ
âand froze.
Jungkook.
He wasnât dressed like he was last time. No cuffs. No chains. A white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top covered by a black suit blazer with the matching trousers, expensive watch glinting, a ring on one finger youâd never seen before.
But his eyes?
Exactly the same.
Still dark. Still quiet. Still piercing into yours like they knew something that could end the world.
He didnât speak.
He just looked at you.
And for the first time, you couldnât look away.
Not because of fear. But because you saw something worse. Satisfaction.
Like this moment â you here, alone, in his domain â had already happened in his mind.
Like heâd imagined this exact scene a hundred times.
âDid you follow me here?â you breathed.
His head tilted slowly. âNo,â he murmured. âYou came to me.â
You stepped back. âI didnât knowââ
He didnât move.
Didnât have to.
The hallway seemed to shrink around him.
âYouâve been waiting for this,â you whispered, pulse racing.
And then came the smallest smile.
âNot waiting,â Jungkook said softly.
âPlanning.â
You didnât move at first.
When Jungkook said planning, you froze. Not because of the word â but because of the way he said it. Calm. Measured. Like this wasnât a surprise to him. Like tonight, this hallway, this very breath between you, had all gone exactly the way he knew it would.
âIâm not here for you,â you said, but your voice cracked halfway through.
He raised an eyebrow. âArenât you?â
Your fingers clenched at your sides. âLet me go back to my friends.â
âI didnât stop you.â He leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket. âYou came this far.â
You swallowed. âWe shouldnât have come here.â
But even as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you. Quiet. Controlled.
âI wouldnât go back that way.â
You turned slowly. âWhat do you mean?â
He tilted his head, eyes dark and steady. âDo you know who the man is sitting two tables behind your friend with the ponytail?â
Your stomach dropped.
âYouâve been watching us?â
âI always watch whatâs mine.â He took a step forward â not fast, not loud. Just close enough that you felt it. âAnd what I want.â
You tried to swallow the panic in your throat. âYou wouldnât hurt them.â
âNo,â he said simply. âI wouldnât.â
And then his voice dropped.
âBut other people might. People who owe me things. People whoâd do anything to earn back my trust.â
You stared.
Jungkook didnât look away.
He wasnât gloating. He wasnât bluffing.
He was warning you.
âI donât want to see your friends in a tabloid headline,â he said softly. âNot when you can stop it.â
You didnât speak.
Didnât breathe.
He stepped back then â gave you space â and nodded toward the stairs at the end of the hallway.
âI just want to talk. Upstairs. Just us.â A pause. âTen minutes.â
He let that linger.
Then: âUnless youâd rather go back and roll the dice.â
You hesitated.
And that hesitation was all it took.
You followed.
The club blurred behind you. The bass dropped away. You heard nothing but your own heartbeat echoing in your ears as you followed him up the glass staircase and down a private corridor lined with black marble and gold trim.
He opened a door. Waited.
And you stepped inside.
The second it shut behind you, he moved. Fast.
You didnât even have time to turn before his hands slammed against the door on either side of your head â caging you, pinning you, his body pressed full against yours.
The click of the lock was the last sound you heard before you felt him.
Breath hot against your neck.
Hands skimming your waist, possessive but slow
His lips found your throat before you could reply â warm, wet, desperate. Kisses turned to nips, his teeth grazing sensitive skin like he couldnât decide if he wanted to kiss you or mark you.
And God, you hated the way it lit your nerves on fire.
He kissed just beneath your ear. Down the side of your throat. The curve of your shoulder. His grip tightened on your hip.
âIâve thought about this,â Jungkook murmured against your pulse. âEvery night. Every time I closed my eyes, it was this. You. Right here.â
You sucked in a breath â not from fear, not from resistance.
From the heat.
The terrifying, suffocating heat of being wanted like this. Devoured like this.
âYou should hate me,â he whispered. âI know you do.â
His hand slid higher, curling against the side of your neck, not squeezing â holding. Like you were something delicate. Like you were already his.
âBut you came,â he said. âThatâs all that matters.â
He kissed you again â harder now, teeth dragging.
And you knew this wasnât about seduction anymore.
It was about claiming.
And he wasnât going to stop until every inch of you remembered who you belonged to. Your body was frozen.
Not by choice.
Not entirely.
You werenât sure if it was fear or instinct or the terrifying awareness of how close you were to destruction â but you couldnât move.
Not with him that close. Not when you could feel how real his hunger was.
His voice ghosted over your skin.
âYou donât know what you do to me,â he said, quiet and rough. âI havenât been able to think about anything else since that room.â
You flinched, but he smiled like it was affection.
âYouâre shaking,â he whispered. âAre you scared of me?â
You didnât answer. He didnât wait.
Suddenly, his hands found your thighs, gripped tight, and he lifted you â clean off the floor, like you weighed nothing. Your arms flew around his shoulders on instinct, legs locking around his waist, and thenâ
Then you were on the bed. Still wrapped around him.
His mouth crashed to your shoulder as he pressed you down into the mattress, still clothed, but pressed so tightly you could feel every twitch of his body.
âI need you,â Jungkook muttered, voice wrecked now, desperate. âRight now. Canât wait. Canâtââ
He was unraveling. Coming apart at the seams from the fantasy heâd waited too long to touch.
And thatâs when you knew you had one shot.
You forced your body to relax. Gave a soft, breathy hum near his ear. Let your fingers smooth along the back of his neck.
âJungkook,â you whispered sweetly. âLet me take care of you.â
That made him still.
You shifted your hips gently beneath him, fingers brushing his jaw. And when his head lifted just enough, you leaned in and gave him the softest kiss on the lips. Barely there. Just a taste.
He melted.
Eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting slightly as if he didnât know how to handle that kind of softness.
You smiled.
âGood boy,â you purred, brushing your lips across his. âLet me worship you a little.â
Another kiss, teasing, light, just enough to keep him drunk on you. Then down his throat. His collarbone. His chest.
His hips jerked slightly.
You smirked.
âSensitive,â you teased. âDidnât expect that.â
He growled under his breath, but you slid your fingers down his chest slowly, tenderly, like you were tracing a masterpiece.
You kept your voice honey-sweet, just enough to stroke his ego. âYouâve been patient with me, havenât you, Jungkook?â
He nodded, breath shaky.
âAll that time watching. Waiting.â You dragged your nails over his shoulders. âIt mustâve been so hard.â
âEvery fucking day,â he rasped.
You kissed him again â etting your lips barely part against his, teasing the tension. He moaned into your mouth, hips pressing harder, arms trembling as he held himself above you.
When you pulled back, his lips chased yours instinctively. And that was when you knew you had him.
âYou dont understand what itâs been like,â he murmured, voice low, thick. âKnowing your name. Your face. Having to wait.â
He kissed the corner of your mouth â soft, reverent â and your hands curled into fists, not from fear, but from restraint.
Because if you wanted to survive this, you couldnât play defense.
You had to seduce the devil.
So you tilted your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw. âThen why wait?â you whispered. âYouâre the one who locked the door.â
That made him pause.
His eyes darkened, pupils expanding, lips parting just a little. You brought your hands up slowly, grazing the sides of his chest, kissing down his neck and unbuttoning his dress shirt, then trailing them down, down, until your fingers curled into the belt at his waist.
âTell me,â you said softly, âis this how you imagined it?â
He swallowed.
âI bet it was filthier in your head,â you teased, nails dragging just slightly. âHarder. I bet I was already begging. I bet you thought about me choking on that big, big cock.â
âDonât,â he warned, voice shaky.
âDonât what?â You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. âSay what you want me to say?â
He hissed under his breath. His whole body leaned forward slightly, chasing the heat of you, and you knew then: you had him.
Of course you did.
Because in his mind, this was always inevitable.
His eyes devoured you like he didnât know where to look â your mouth, your thighs, your hands as they slowly found his shoulders. His shirt was completely unbuttoned now, revealing the toned hard skin of his chest, and his abs.
His eyes were now fluttering shut, mouth parting slightly as if he didnât know how to handle that kind of softness.
And while he was distractedâyou moved.
Quick, fluid, practiced.
You rolled your hips, shifted your weight, and in one smooth twist, flipped the both of you.
Now you were on top, straddling him.
He blinked in dazed surprise, chest rising and falling, letting you guide him like a man under spell.
You pushed him to lay all the way down, and he groaned, head falling back, and you took that opportunity to press soft kisses along his throat. Each one slow, teasing, calculated. You dragged your lips along his jawline, whispering between them.
âThought about this too, didnât you? When I walked into that interrogation room? I bet you touched yourself to it.â
His breath hitched.
âYou didnât want to hurt me. Not really,â you lied, sweet and syrupy. âYou just wanted to know what I taste like.â
He nodded, barely breathing.
And then your hand slid down between you â slowly, confidently â and palmed him through his pants.
The sound he made was broken. Half-groan, half-whimper, head falling forward to your shoulder as his hips arched into your touch. His hands found your waist â not gripping, just holding. Like he thought he finally had you. Like this was real.
âThatâs it,â you whispered against his throat. âYou like being touched, donât you? Bet youâd let me do anything right now.â
âYes baby, donât stopâ,â he gasped. You smiled against his skin.
And then you pulled back.
Your hand moved fast â a sharp, sudden strike straight to his groin, the heel of your palm hitting hard through the expensive fabric.
He choked out a grunt, body curling forward in reflex.
Before he could recover, you shoved him back onto the bed.
A ragged, wounded sound tore from his throat as his body curled toward the pain.
And you ran.
You bolted from the bed, flung the door open, and didnât stop to look back. His cursing rang in your ears, low and strangled, full of disbelief and pain and fury. The sound of it shouldâve satisfied you.
But it only fueled the adrenaline in your blood.
You barreled down the stairs, through the corridor, chest heaving. The music from the club below pounded like a heartbeat.
Your friends were still at the bar.
âMOVE!â you shouted, breathless, just as the guards began turning your way.
You slammed into a standing table, sending bottles, glasses, and bodies flying.
A blur of chaos.
It gave you seconds.
Just enough.
You grabbed your friends, who were still too stunned to scream, and dragged them toward the side exit as shouting broke out behind you.
And when you burst into the alleyway and sprinted into the streetâ
You knew one thing.
You escaped tonight.
But the look on Jungkookâs face as you left him breathless and in pain?
He wasnât going to forget it.
And he sure as hell wasnât going to forgive it.
#bts imagines#bts#imagine#bangtan#bts updates#love#yandere#jeon jungkook#jungkook#yandere jungkook#jungkook imagine#bts jungkook#possesive love#jjk smut
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its okay that you crave me
content warnings: 18+ mdni, non-con/dub-con, somnophilia, bondage, piv, ass play, cunnilingus, breeding, sukuna being generally terrible
Thinking about obsessed ex-boyfriend Sukuna who will not accept that youâve ended things with him. You're his and youâll always be his even if you donât know it yourself. You wonât get a moment of peace from him - constantly blowing up your phone with texts and calls, changing his number every time you block him, managing to find your new number when you try getting a new one to get away from him.Â
Heâll show up wherever you are. Your usual grocery store, the gym, even happening to show up in the same restaurant as you when you dare to go out on a date. Always giving you that same grin, flexing his muscles and callously suggesting that you go back to his place - you must miss him after all.Â
And with every rejection you give him you grow more exasperated, more aware of the fact that Sukuna is not the sort of man who gives up. You wonder what it would take for you to finally get him off your back. Nothing youâve done so far has worked - changing your habits, going to new places further away from your home, even changing apartments. No matter what you do heâs there, his presence unshakable.Â
You even try getting a new boyfriend, moving on from him completely and making things official with a nice coworker of yours. Sure, this new guy doesnât stoke heat and passion in you the way that Sukuna used to, but heâs a hell of a lot nicer - no manipulation or cruelty and not even as much as an interaction with the police unlike your criminal ex. A pleasant and safe option who treated you nicely.Â
Unfortunately your gambit to push Sukuna away, to show to him that youâd moved on and that he should too just furthered his obsession with you. He knew that you couldnât really be serious about this loser. That guy couldnât protect you like he could, couldnât look after you like he could and certainly couldnât fuck you like he could.Â
Heâd had enough of this annoying little game that you were playing with him.Â
So it was your own fault that he was breaking into your new apartment in the middle of the night. Youâd pushed him to this, if youâd just come back to him like his good little girl things wouldâve been easy, but now he has to do it the hard way.Â
He had no problem getting in through the back window, you were practically helpless without him, completely unaware of how to keep yourself safe and secure. Werenât you lucky it was him climbing into your bedroom and not some creep? You didnât even wake up as he stood over you, all curled up and cozy in your bed, completely at his mercy.Â
Youâd always been a deep sleeper. Thatâs why it was so easy for him to tie your hands against the bedpost, sliding your cute silky nightgown up your body, exposing your soft breasts and pretty pussy to him. Heâd missed seeing you like this up close - it just wasnât the same watching old videos that heâd taken of you, he needed to be able to touch you.Â
Burying his face between your thighs, he wasted no time getting to work and eating you out. He was desperately hard and wanted to fuck you as soon as possible, but you used to always whine if he didnât prep you first. So he was being nice, doing you a favor so that maybe youâd show him a little gratitude when you woke up.Â
His thick tongue explored your pussy thoroughly, taking his time lapping over your folds before pushing the tip of it into your tight opening, relishing in the way your legs were twitching at his touch. It was so cute how your body responded to him instinctively, as if you were made to be his.Â
Heâd worked you halfway to an orgasm by the time you awakened. With your mind a haze of sleep and pleasure it took you a few moments to understand what was happening, to see those deep red eyes peering up at you from between your legs. Dread pooled in your stomach, mixing together with the aching feeling of need that Sukuna had worked into you with his tongue.Â
And as youâd struggled against the rope that tied your hands, and thrashed your legs against his grip, you felt humiliation burn in you as you came on his tongue. Body convulsing with a twisted pleasure as he granted you release. He knew your body even better than you did.Â
The next thing you knew he was changing positions, crawling up your body and pressing a rough kiss to your lips, swirling his tongue against yours and making you taste yourself on him, sitting back and grinning at the look of horror on your face. Heâd taunted you, telling you to stop pretending you donât like it.
He positioned himself over you, throwing off his own clothes and running his cock along your slit. Taking no notice of your cries and begging for him to stop, chuckling at the cute little excuses that you threw at him like how it wasnât fair to your boyfriend. Didnât you know yet? He was your boyfriend, you were his.Â
For a moment heâd played along, acting as though he cared about anything you had to say, untying your hands and watching as you shuffled away from him, giving you that little glimmer of hope that heâd leave you alone. Before he took it all away.Â
You were helpless as he pounced on you, pressing your face down into the bed sheets as he mounted you, sinking his cock into your sopping pussy and letting out a sigh of relief. Heâd missed this. Other women just couldnât compare to you - your pussy was just so warm and tight, wrapping around him as though you had been moulded for his cock.Â
He found it amusing, the way that just moments ago you were begging him not to put it in, but now you were whimpering and whining like a needy little slut. He was made for you too after all.Â
He fucked you hard and fast, as was always his way. Driving his cock as deep as it would go, laughing at the cute little sounds that you were making each time he pressed you into the mattress, revelling in the way your pussy was squeezing around him with every thrust. One of his hands moved to your ass, his hand circling your puckered hole, his cock jumping with elation as you begged him not to touch you there.Â
Slipping his thumb past that tight ring of muscle he mocked your pathetic little cries, noticing the way that your pussy was squeezing him tighter now that he had a finger in your ass, his cruel voice reminding you that actually you liked this, that you loved him and that heâd make you feel good if you just stopped fucking complaining for once.Â
And you hated that it was true, but you did like it. His cock felt so good pistoning into you, the cruelty of his words and the way that he completely dominated you was making your pussy drip with need. He was the only person who could make you feel like this - your nice little boyfriend certainly never did this, never had you seeing stars like Sukuna did as you came on his cock, face roughly pressed down into a pillow.Â
Sukuna pulled out of you for a moment, satisfied that heâd seemingly broken through your resistance. He flipped you over, your body limp from your second orgasm, and threw your legs over his shoulders, putting you in a mating press before sinking his cock back into your sloppy pussy. Your weak little whines spurred him on as he enjoyed the new position, fucking into you hard, gazing at that pretty, fucked-out expression that you had on your face.Â
Yeah - that was for his eyes only.
He sped up, grinning as he watched your breasts bounce, loving the way your little hands were clawing at his arms, trying to stabilise yourself beneath the weight of his thrusts. He was desperately chasing release, amused by the way you suddenly seemed to regain a bit of awareness, pleading with him to not cum inside, telling him that you hadnât been on birth control since the two of you had broken up.Â
He paid you no mind, shoving his thick fingers into your mouth and silencing your pleas as he came, driving his cock as deep inside you as it could go, pushing up against your cervix and letting his cum pour into you. You were whimpering softly as he filled you up, trying not to think too much about how much of his seed was inside you right now.Â
Letting your legs fall from his shoulders, he removed his fingers from your mouth as he laid down on top of you, caging you beneath his massive body. You were silent now, trembling against him. He pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips before nuzzling his face against the side of your head, cooing and whispering against your ear about how you were his, how you were going to carry his children, how he was never going to let you go again - and that if you even so much as thought about leaving, heâd kill that pathetic little âboyfriendâ of yours.Â
As you lay there beneath him, his cock still buried and twitching deep inside you, listening to him ramble on about what horrible acts he would commit if you ever left again, you knew that this time youâd do exactly what he asked.Â
You were his after all.
a/n: I swear I'm working on chapter 3 of to distant lands but the sukuna brainworms took over and I needed to write this immediately.
Š sukunahs
#sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna x reader#sukuna#ryomen sukuna#jjk fanfic#jjk smut#jjk x reader#sukuna smut#sukuna ryomen smut#sukuna fanfic#jjk sukuna#sukuna x y/n#sukuna x you#jjk#jjk au
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Yandere boyfriend x reader
When he finally realized he's wrong for controlling you

You were crying. He hated seeing you cry. He missed your giggles, you being sweet to him. This is all his fault. If only he was a good boyfriend to you this wouldn't have happened. You ran away but he caught you.
You were his angel. When you ran away from him he felt depressed. He knew he would die without you but he didn't realize how much he really really needed you. He courted, stalked you for 6 years and when he finally have you he didn't let you free. He wouldn't let you work. He wanted you to depend on him.
You have no idea what he's been going through when you were gone. His always been possessive, controlling to the point that he would lock you up. How dare he. He blames himself for being so stupid. He punished himself for it, he couldn't even eat thinking that you were all alone , probably crying because of hunger. He would punch himself, heck he even started cutting. He couldn't get a wink of sleep knowing you're still not by his side. He deserves it all for controlling you.
He wasn't religious or anything, but when you ran away and he had no idea where you are he prayed to God that please... please let his pretty darling Y/n be ok and please let him find her. This time when he find you, he'll be better.
You deserve better. So he'll be better.
He would do anything and everything for you, except give you up for others. No way, you're only his. He would never let you go.
God must have felt pity for him because the very next day, one of his men finally found you.
"Please don't lock me up again... I hated it. Please just let me go" you wailed, unable to stop the emotions that flooding through you.
"Shhh...Baby Im sorry.... Im so so sorry for being a bad boyfriend to you... How dare i let you feel that way" he couldn't control his tears anymore the feeling of guilt is eating him up, others view him as a strong cold hearted man. But you really are the only one who could bring this side of him. You could really crush him so hard with just one look of sadness and coldness.
"Am going to give you space ...if that's what you need, but am not going to break our relationship Baby"
He never hurt you physically. He would rather die than lay a fist on you. He could kill anyone who hurts you, even girls. But he hurts you so much emotionally, by taking away your freedom and he would change that.
Your confused now. He'll really let you do things freely now?
"R-really?" You asked wiping away your tears
Fuck you're so cute. He just wanna eat you and love you. But no he needs to restrain himself. He wan-... No... He want and need your love, trust and he need you to feel free around him. Because he loves you, and he wants to put yourself first before him. He promised to be better.
"Really baby...Im so fucking sorry for doing shits in the past"
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