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intromortal · 15 hours ago

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⭑ INCH BY INCH ⸻ park sunghoon

you have a boyfriend gifted with a pornstar cock, but he refuses to use it on you, too scared he'll end up hurting you. so your best shot is to devise a plan to get him to crumble, and even if things don't unfold quite as expected, what matters is the result anyway... right?

starring ⋆ f!reader x park sunghoon, besties!jaykewon

this work contains ⋆ smut ⋆ minors so not interact ⋆ barely any plot, way too much smut, sunghoon being diabolically hung, my extremely poor attempts at humor, established relationship, nasty nasty shit... brat tamer sunghoon, alcohol consumption, implied driving under the influence, jealousy, slut shaming (not from hoon), a tiny bit of violence, blood, size & bulge kink, fingering, dry humping, slight degradation, partially clothed sex, a freaky voice message, edging & overstim, oral (f!red), mutual masturbation, lube, squirting, unprotected sex ⸻ rules m.list

length ⋆ one shot ⸻ 23.6k words

⭑ NIA ⸻ i'm in pain and my period is abt to start ANDD antibiotics fucked my stomach up so if you see typos no you don't. anyways. big fat cock. who agrees!! shoutout to my homies vivi and stella for putting up with my ass and deactivation threats anytime i write anything ever!!! and for having read this before anyone else

Having a dick so big multiple people suggest you make a career out of it isn't half as nice as it sounds, Sunghoon would know that better than anyone.

Even before getting any experience, he'd been aware of just how comically large his dick was. He'd known ever since he had to go out of his way to search for porn with ‘massive cock!’ in the title for it to look anything like his, and even then he often found himself thinking they had to be exaggerating a bit for the sake of clicks.

Turns out, the comparison with real life average sizes is even more ridiculous.

He knows it sounds silly, there are hordes of men out there that would pay good money to swap places with him—his dear friend Jake being the first in line.

Sunghoon still cringes when he remembers the first time he'd oh so innocently asked Jake for his opinion on the matter. Truthfully, all he wanted to hear from his bleached blonde friend was some reassurance, maybe how it was all in his head, or how at the end of the day the right person would love and appreciate every part of him no matter what, or whatever you tell people in situations like these. His first mistake was believing Jake out of all his friends would do the most tactful thing.

“That thing’s like—fucking huge!” Jake shrieked, grabbing Sunghoon’s phone out of his hands, every protest falling on deaf ears. “There’s no fucking way, man.”

“It’s not that b—” Sunghoon tries to speak, but Jake stops him before he even gets a sentence in, calling Jay’s name at the top of his lungs.

“What are you—”

“WHAT,” Jay yells back from the kitchen, over the deafening sound of the food processor in use, annoyed by Jake’s continuous interruptions that day. Of which at least four were to show him some nasty looking recipe he found on tiktok.

“You gotta come take a look at this!”

At the time, Sunghoon was still vaguely uncomfortable around Jay. He was nice enough, and he was a great roommate, so there was that at least. It was a good trade off because the other option was staying at the way too crowded shitty dorms, and he liked the privacy that this deal got him. He wasn't always on board with it, Jake had to talk him into it when high school ended, but he swore him and Jay would be the bestest of friends if only he could let his reservations behind for a little, at least give him a chance.

Sunghoon moved away halfway through the second year of high school, and for a while it felt like Jay had swapped places with him and taken the life he was supposed to live for himself. First his best friend, Jake. Then the girl of his dreams, the one he never found the courage to confess to, you.

Thing is, while Sunghoon could recognize Jay had done absolutely nothing wrong to him per se, he still felt betrayed by him in a way. Truly it was just envy.

The food processor comes to an abrupt halt, and all that can be heard from the other room is a deep sigh, followed by the sound of dragged footsteps as their tall friend walks into the messy—in the way only college boys living spaces can be—living room with resignation. “Fine. But this better have nothing to do with Cheetos or tacos.”

“Much better.” Jake winks at him, nudging Sunghoon’s hands away with his elbow, the younger hissing in pain. “Behold,” he turns the phone towards an unassuming Jay, aware of the fact he's about to change the older's view of Sunghoon forever.“Sunghoon’s monster of a cock.”

Jay’s hands stop on his apron, (the ridiculous one with a bodybuilder torso and cheetah boxers Jungwon got him for a secret Santa) and his mouth hangs open for a second too long, before he comes back to his senses and notices how Sunghoon slumps back on the couch, cheeks burning red. Jay swats the phone out of Jake’s hand. “What the fuck is your problem, dude.”

“What? I’m just saying it’s way larger than average!”

“He’s uncomfortable.” Jay says, going back to drying his hands on the apron. “Leave him be.”

This only makes Sunghoon’s cheeks redder, his ears a bright pink too. Jake scoffs, eyeing him suspiciously. “Sure. I’m sure having a porn star cock must be so mortifying. Who even complains about stuff like this?” he snickers before making his voice a pitch higher. “‘Poor me! My dick’s too heavy! What will I do!”

“Oh my god,” Sunghoon runs a hand through his hair, pulling the ends a bit. “It is not that big.” He looks at Jay for support, expecting him to disagree with Jake.

Jay’s gaze falters to his pants for a split second. His mouth twists but he remains silent.

“Not you too.” Sunghoon's hands now hold his face as he sinks into the cushions further, legs spreading. “Just say what you wanna say.”

“I mean…” Jay gestures towards Sunghoon's crotch. “I suspected you were big but… that’s crazy, man.”

“It’s not that cra—”

“Yes it is! You’ve got a fucking gas storage tank in your pants and you wanna sit here and tell us it’s not crazy?” Jake says, exasperated by that point. “And stop playing dumb. It’s big. That’s good. I’m sure the ladies go crazy over it. Or the gentlemen. Or whoever it is you fuck.” He kisses his teeth, muttering under his breath. “Lucky bastard.”

“Jake’s right, Hoon. I don’t know why you're so… negative about it. It's a good thing."

“I wouldn’t know,” Sunghoon mutters under breath, more to himself than to the guys, but it’s still loud enough for them to catch it.

“Oh? Then whenever the time comes, you’ll see how much they’ll love it,” Jay says.

"I'm just worried." Sunghoon tries his best to avoid both sets of eyes staring intently at him. "What… what if I end up hurting someone?"

Jake coos, then moves closer to Sunghoon on the couch, his breath fanning over his ear as he whispers, “Always so concerned about other people. Aren't you such a cutie pie?”

The boys weren't exactly wrong, but with big dick come great responsibilities—as Jake said. Yup, roll your eyes at him, not Sunghoon. He's innocent—like having to finger and eat out your partners for what feels like an eternity before even trying to push the tip in, which is not exactly the best situation to be in as a virgin. Current Sunghoon thinks that's the best part, but it took a while to get here.

Sunghoon has always been a very patient man though, a gentle giant in every sense of the phrase. The last thing he would ever want to do is inflict pain accidentally on another human being.

When he got his first actual girlfriend, he'd been so nervous and honestly quite scared to have sex with her. So he got on Google whenever he had free time to study ways to make it as comfortable as possible, watching all kinds of video explanations or reading through feminine pleasure blogs written by women for women specifically, because that's where Jay told him the good stuff was at.

By the time he got to actually have sex with her, his mind was so overwhelmed by all this information that he essentially forgot how to even think. It was anything but romantic, so deeply embarrassing Sunghoon still cringes even after all this time when his mind betrays him and reminds him of it while trying to fall asleep at night.

And then, to add insult to injury, his girlfriend cheated on him and left him for this guy she'd only just met, because 'it might not be as big, but at least he knows how to use it'.

Heartbroken and with an hurt ego, Sunghoon did that thing all boys do when their first relationship doesn't work out: hit the gym and promise themselves they're never gonna fall in love ever again.

That second part ended up failing, because from the moment you showed up at his doorstep to visit (your now ex boyfriend, but a beloved friend nonetheless) Jay and Jake, five different bags around you, with eyes as big as saucers and staring at him like he had invaded his own apartment, all the feelings younger Sunghoon had for you hit him like a brick to his nape all over again.

You two dating came as a shock to everyone around you, mostly because while you were aware of Park Sunghoon's existence and vice versa, you'd never given it too much thought. You remembered him as the scrawny kid with the cute moles from math that you used to always catch staring. He was often around Jungwon because they were neighbors, but was way too shy to even say hi to you. That, and he was also always around Jake—who you were not exactly fond of, given his reputation—so you steered clear of him when you could manage to.

Then, when the third year of high school started, you stopped seeing him around, and Jungwon told you he had moved away to follow his dad's business. You wouldn't admit it at the time but the hallways seemed duller than usual for a few days, but that probably was also due to Jake not being as loud and energetic with his best friend gone.

Last year of high school, you went on a few dates with Jay from history class, and while he was the closest you have ever thought a man to be perfect, you both agreed you worked better as friends than anything more. Usually that means 'you're cool but I'm gonna try my best to not have to say hi to you if I see you around', but Jay is so wonderful, you actually kept in touch and became quite close, even if platonically.

By the time the year ended, you had a very tight group of friends consisting of yourself, Jungwon, Jay, and even Jake—who, for the record, isn't nearly as bad as all the crazy rumors make him out to be. It saddened you that it took so long to find your group, but you were grateful you had one nonetheless, a lot of people never get that luxury, so you weren't about to let a little graduation get in between you all. You spent a good five days consoling Jake that no, no one was going anywhere and yes, you will all be best friends for life.

But then college started, and it became difficult to stay in touch because Jay and Jake had to move. Jake reassured you that you and Jungwon would be more than welcome to visit and stay over at their apartment—which you found funny because that is technically not Jake's apartment at all, at least not until Hoon moved in too and the three of them started sharing the costs, but he has a way of making every place he steps foot in his, like he's meant to be there, so Jay let it slide.

So the first thing you did when you finally had some free time was getting on the cheapest flight available to go visit your friends. Heavy luggage in hand and stained sweatpants on, you were dumbfounded when the one who opened the door for you was none other than Park Sunghoon, and not Jay like you expected.

He was no longer the shy kid you remembered him to be, and he had grown nicely into his features, his hair now a jet back instead of the brown you were accustomed to see. Over those two weeks you realized that while you have know Sunghoon all your life, you had never really seen him, and it made you want to go back in time and hand a little paper note to the shy boy always staring at you during class.

Your head sinks further into your pillow with a whine, the case enveloping it sporting gray spots of wetness, where your tears and drool had accumulated over the last torturous half an hour Sunghoon spent fucking you open with his fingers. You don't know what he means, because you feel like you could take his entire fist by now, that's how wet you are. If your pillowcase is such a mess, you don't even wanna think about what your bed sheets look like.

"I can– take you," you protest, breath hitching mid sentence at a particularly deep curl of his fingers inside you.

"Yeah?" Sunghoon quirks an eyebrow at you, moving his thumb to suddenly hover over your clit. It's not a full touch, nor does he really move it from there, but just the expectation of it has your walls involuntary flutter around his digits. A wicked grin overtakes his face, in a way you think it would clash with his prince-like features. But it looks right at home on him, the canines poking out only adding to his devilish charm.

"Then what's this? Gripping me even tighter," he says against your lips again, like he can't pick between kissing you or speaking, like anything he does he needs to do it with your taste on his mouth. He shakes his head, pouting at you before you get the chance to retort. "Squeeze me this tight when I'm inside you, and I'll believe you're trying to push me out, baby."

The press of his length against your thigh doesn't help, and when your eyes roll to the back of your head, half the reason is the new spot he's now reaching making you see stars, the other is your frustration with him. You know he's huge, and you know he cares about your comfort above all, but a little sting as he bottoms out inside you would be a hundred times better than the 'prep' he's subjecting you to. It took so long to even get here, and now he plans on making you wait even more? You have half the idea to push him off of you and get on top of him, take what's yours. If he's not gonna believe you can take him, you might as well just show him.

Of course, that wouldn't work, because Sunghoon is infinitely stronger than you are and the only thing you would accomplish is looking stupid thrashing under him as he keeps you pinned down. Probably with one arm only too, to really get his point across.

"Add another finger then." There's a certain bark in your tone that makes him chuckle. That's all it is: bark and no bite. You can do nothing but demand, and demand, and demand again, but if he's not willing to give it to you, there is close to nothing you can do about it. And it makes Sunghoon's cock twitch against the slick skin of your thighs. He loves knowing he has you at his mercy.

"Woah!" he gasps, and the fake surprise only irritates you further. Or at least that's what you tell yourself, because Sunghoon doesn't miss the way you clench around his fingers whenever he talks to you like this. "Missy, you're so bratty today… where are your manners?"

The retort is ready on your tongue, but the words mold into a surprised hiss when he actually prods your hole with a third digit, feeling around for a way to slowly ease it into you. You fear it won't be as easy as you hoped, but you also don't want to back down now that he's giving in.

"Just put it in." You angle your hips to give Sunghoon easier access.

"Easy there." He leans back on his knees, and you hate how you're so needy. Even when he's still so close, fingers pumping in and out of you at a torturous pace, you crave for every inch of your body to be touched by his, for your breaths to mingle for as long as possible. You wonder how it's possible to miss someone who's right in front of you, but your heart yearns to hear the rhythmic beat of his own against your chest all the same.

You don't get to dwell on it too long, because the sensation of something wet dribbling right where Sunghoon's fingers meet you rips you out of your thoughts.

It takes a few seconds for you to realize what's happening, but when it sinks in, your mouth slowly hangs open in a moan, eyes closed to relish the feeling.

"You like that?" Sunghoon asks, and for once you can't bring yourself to care about the cockiness in his tone. In fact, it's the last thing you could care about—not when his digits are working to spread his spit all over you, and his third finger is slowly making its way inside you right next to the others. It's a tight fit, and Sunghoon can't really move his fingers like he wishes to, but it'll do for now. He can always do it over and over again until you're ready, as long as you keep making those faces for him. "Look at you," he continues. "You were so demanding earlier, now you're falling apart and I'm barely just getting started."

You clench around him hard, body all tensed up as you accommodate the sudden change in thickness.

Sunghoon bends down again when he notices you're not easing up, trailing his way back up your body with pecks, giving you a few on your lips once he reaches your face. "Does it burn, baby?" he asks, the playful edge in his tone from earlier completely gone, smoothed down to the usual soft timbre you love so much. "Do you want me to take it out? I'll make you cum with two fingers, it's okay."

You shake your head. The stretch does burn, but you also want to prove to him that you can take him.

"You sure?" The murmur vibrates against your ear, the sound of his voice close enough to have you arching your back, pushing your stomach against his harder figure. If you had any sort of reservation about continuing, it's totally gone now. His insistence to make you comfortable always ignites pure want in you.

You nod, but your eyes are still screwed shut because of the burn, so it's not enough for Sunghoon to let go yet.

He slows down his movements, trying to help you out, but the whine you let out is enough to let him know you actually want what he's giving you and more. Still, he needs to hear it. "Use your big girl words, I know you can."

"Wanna keep going."

"Aaand?"

"Please, Hoon." You know you're far gone when you don't even care about how whiny you sound, you would get onto your knees and beg if he asked you to right then. You would want to forget about it right after, but still, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Thankfully, your boyfriend is very nice to you, so 'please and thank you's are enough to keep him satiated, at least for now.

"Good girl."

The praise goes straight to your cunt, further tightening the grip you have on his fingers. Sunghoon is flattered, but that's not what you need in that moment. So he reminds you.

"Take deep breaths, baby. It's only gonna hurt more if you don't ease up."

"Hoon, want more."

"I know baby, I know. But it'll feel better if you stop tensing up. Here, follow my breaths and let go." He kisses both of your shut eyelids. "Eyes on me, pretty. Okay?"

You obey him like it's second nature, but when you open your eyes and you're met with the downright angelic sight of your boyfriend, black strands of hair framing his face and his chain dangling slightly from his neck, you don't understand how you're supposed to calm down. He starts taking deep breaths, ones you try your best to mirror. And despite what you thought, the focus on your chest rising and falling and the warmth in Sunghoon's eyes does make the stretch a lot better. You were enjoying yourself before too, all things considered. Now it's different, you're struggling to keep your sounds in, and any other time you would be mortified by how much wetness is seeping out of your cunt, but Sunghoon's presence is relaxing in a way no one else's has ever been for you.

The more you explore each other's bodies, the more you start to think that maybe, just maybe, there is not a single thing you could do with Sunghoon that you would ever regret. The safety of a judgment free zone with someone who obviously cares deeply for you makes the experience so much better than you could have ever imagined. What other people did to you, no matter how pleasurable, just didn't measure up to what Sunghoon does with you. And you haven't even gone all the way in.

"Theeere we go, see how much better it feels when you're not being a brat?"

Sunghoon is careful with you, watching your every reaction and studying your expressions so he can learn exactly what makes crumble and what brings you closer to the edge, what makes you forget you have to breathe and when to pause so he can drag your pleasure out for as long as he wants, for as long as you can handle. His cock is rock hard, casually rutting against you from time to time. You have half a mind to reach into his boxers and help him out, but you're not sure you could do a good enough job at it, not when he's starting to bend the tips of his fingers to reach right where you need him.

You can feel yourself getting closer, so you grab his wrists—whether to stop him or push him further, you don't know yourself. What you do know, is that just fingers have never felt this good before, and if you had the choice to feel like this forever, you would take it.

The sudden grip doesn't deter Sunghoon, it encourages him instead. His movements are faster, deeper, but still just as precise. It's like he already knows the ins and outs of what brings you pleasure. "Gonna come all over my hand, baby? I know you're close."

You nod desperately, throat too raw and dry to produce sounds more complex than little whines—which Sunghoon finds adorable, he can't wait to find out what sounds you make when he's splitting you open on his cock. He coos, and that alone almost makes you cum. Almost, because what really does you in is his thumb moving to finally circle your clit, really touch it.

Your body tenses up again when your vision goes a searing white, but Sunghoon's other hand finds your thighs right away to prevent you from caging his hands between your legs. He worked hard to make you cum, so you're not gonna take the sight of your fluttering pussy away from him, not when he has rightfully earned it.

"You did so well," he says, his hand caressing the skin of your inner thigh as a reminder to relax your muscles, his thumb slowing down its movement on your clit as your walls flutter around his digits at longer intervals each time.

You eventually even out your breathing, your vision still a little fuzzy, but you feel lighter and content. Once Sunghoon is sure you're okay, he pulls you in for a sweet kiss, like he wasn't just rearranging your guts with his fingers alone moments ago.

"Perfect, you're so perfect," he whispers between kisses, landing a wet smack on your nose when you scrunch it in response. "You're always gorgeous but this—fuck, you're beautiful." He keeps kissing you, each kiss waking up a different butterfly in your stomach. You feel giddy like you haven't ever since you were a kid running through the meadow on a spring evening. You giggle when he reaches the valley of your breasts, and run your fingertips through his hair, his head resting on your chest.

"I love you," Sunghoon whispers, and for the first time in your life you know those words to be true, no hidden intention behind them, no cruel joke waiting for you at the end of the line. It feels right when they're coming out of Sunghoon's mouth.

"I know, I love you t—what are you doing." It's much more of an accusation rather than a question, because you see the little wicked glint in his eyes as he resumes kissing his way down your body—first down your navel, then between your thighs.

"Showing you how much I love you, duh." He spreads your legs as open as he can get them before you start protesting again. "Besides, I haven't gotten a taste yet."

You should stop him, because suddenly you're reminded of how he still hasn't come yet, and you would feel bad to neglect him. The look in his eyes though—needy, almost feral— keeps you pinned right in your spot. "What… about you?"

Sunghoon looks at you, genuinely confused. "What about me?"

"Yeah, I should be… helping you out." You glance down at him, and the wet patch on his boxers makes you clench around nothing. Had you not witnessed first hand how messy Sunghoon can get, you would assume he cummed already. Knowing that's only pre though, makes saliva flood into your mouth at the mere thought of your boyfriend's cock pumping load after load down your throat. Screw 'not hurting' you, you would be happy gagging and choking endlessly around him if it meant you got a tiny little taste.

"Oh baby, but you are helping me out. Just lay back and let me." Sunghoon pops two of his fingers in his mouth, tasting the residues of you high still lingering on his skin, rich and divine on his tongue. "So good, now let me get a real taste."

He trails his wet fingers up your body, relishing in the way you shiver under his touch when he brushes over your nipples. He grabs your face once he reaches it, and forces you to look at him. "Wanting to please me… aren’t you such a generous girl? So, so good for me. So eager to please, you’re so cute.” He doesn't miss how your lip twitches in response to his words, and how your hand slides between your thighs and how they close around it. “But, I'm still not done.”

“But—”

“Shhh,” he silences you right away. He parts your lips with his thumb, and your response to it is immediate, sucking on it without needing to be told what to do. You swirl your tongue around his finger eagerly, as if trying to show him what he is missing by not letting you take his cock out his pants. “See? So perfect for me. Such a pretty and obedient girl, am I right?”

You nod subconsciously, like he has you under a spell, ready to comply with anything he asks out of you. Maybe he does.

“I know that’s right.” Sunghoon takes the thumb out of your mouth, coating your lips with your own spit as he caresses them with it. “Then do what you’re told and lay back. I can fuck you another time. Now spread those legs for me mkay? Yeah, just like that. So much we can do in the meantime."

"I just don't get why he won't stick it in me."

"You have such a way with words."

You throw a fry at your best friend, only to get more irritated when he catches it midair with his mouth. Jungwon chews it loudly with his mouth open—because he knows it annoys you to death—then washes it down with his coconut milkshake that he won't let you get a sip of because 'using the same straw as me counts as cheating now that you're dating Sunghoon'.

"Okay but why? You're a man. What's the thought process behind this? Tell me."

"Girl, it's your boyfriend. You tell me."

"What if he doesn't fine me att—" A fry hits you right on your forehead, and it's like the impact activates your brain cells, because of course Sunghoon finds you attractive, that is not the problem.

"Now, let's be honest with ourselves please. None of that shit."

Your back hits the bed with a soft thud, arms spread out as you stare at the very familiar ceiling of your room. A sight you've been taking in quite often recently, while trying to come up with a plan to get Sunghoon to dick you down good.

Jungwon shoves a fist of fries in his mouth, barely chewing before speaking again. "I don't get why it's such a big deal."

You roll onto your side, facing the blonde little gremlin occupying the space next to you. "It's a big deal because— why is your ass on my pillow. Jungwon get—"

He silences you by feeding you a handful of fries from the container on his lap. "You were saying?"

You gulp them down quickly before replying, because you're civilized enough to do so, unlike someone else. "We've done it all, and I know he's scared of hurting me, but I can also tell he's holding back. I'm ready– I've been ready. It's just… whenever I think it's gonna happen he pulls back so suddenly, like he's restraining himself."

"Mhh… you've talked to him about this, right?" Jungwon looks at you in a way that feels entirely too judgmental, like skipping the communication part is something you do often enough for it to be a pattern. Something he needs to check off of a list before he gives you more advice.

He's not completely wrong. As in, at one point in your life you had made an habit out of assuming people's thoughts and intentions, but that is in the past. And those people are not your Park Sunghoon.

The polaroids messily scattered on the wall above your desk, like someone had dropped them and they'd defied gravity to stay there, glimmer as the sun starts its golden descent into the horizon. Old, more ruined around the edges ones you took right after Jungwon got you a polaroid camera with his very first salary from working at an ice cream shop over the summer. Pictures of sunsets and dumb words carved into sandy beaches, of thumbs digging into teenager Jungwon's dimples. Newer, glossier ones that you took when Sunghoon gifted you a new camera, after the one Jungwon got you finally broke down after years. You'd cried so hard that day, because it had felt like growing up.

The charger is still hidden under all the mess of receipts in your comforter's drawer, you still hope one day the pink sticker covered camera will turn on if you charge it long enough.

But some things are meant to stay in the past, and better ones are always hiding behind the corner, ready to come your way.

You aren't the young girl with the pink polaroid camera anymore, just like you're not the girl that is scared to voice her thoughts and troubles any longer.

"Of course I have."

"And?"

"Won, he just tells me I need more prep. I've had plenty of that, trust me. Like, he's spent the last month using this toy on—"

"Okay, okay I get it. I trust you, spare me the details."

"—Point is, I'm more than ready. I know it's gonna be uncomfortable and a bit painful at first, he's like… so huge it's—"

"I get it."

"—but that's a given with how big he is. I think it's just… him being nervous, really."

"Have you… tried to, uhm. Take charge? Maybe you calling the shots would make it easier for him to let loose." Jungwon looks down on his lap as he plays with the rings adorning his fingers. You wouldn't say he has ever been particularly shy per se, not when it comes to discussing your sexual life, even in heavy detail. He was the boy your mother made you take a bath with after a whole day of rolling around in dirt as a kid, because his wasn't around a lot of the time. The same boy who has seen you toothless and with horrible haircuts, who has seen all your embarrassing phases. Talking to Jungwon was much more akin to talking to yourself rather than venting to a diary, because he stored secrets in his heart that you would never be comfortable writing down on paper. Except he also calls you a dumbass when he needs to.

It's been a little different ever since you started dating Sunghoon freshly out of college, but you imagine it can't be helped since Jungwon is also very close to him.

You take a deep breath, shoulders slumping with the motion. Yeah, like that would ever work. "He doesn't give up dominance ever, really. I have tried a few times but…" you trail off, thoughts suddenly plagued with images of Sunghoon putting you back in your place instantly whenever you tried to take charge. You have already given it some thought, a lot of thought, actually. What wouldn't you do to have Sunghoon under you and at your mercy, so responsive to every touch, perhaps even tied down. Yeah, you're gonna have to bring it up more seriously to him, maybe then he would let you—

"Are you seriously fantasizing about dominating your boyfriend right in front of my cheddar fries?"

But you're gonna continue that thought another time.

"Let's see then…" Jungwon continues, evidently determined to find a solution to your problem. "Maybe act out? Would that work? Mhhh… I don't know, you're already very annoying day to day and he puts up with that…so."

Jungwon genuinely looks like he is putting so much thought into it, somehow it makes it more offensive.

"Yeah. And who grew up next to him? You. Exactly. You trained his patience, if anything," you retort, but Jungwon doesn't even give you the satisfaction of acknowledging it, because you both know that you do love to be a nuisance to your boyfriend whenever you get the chance.

"Wait." Jungwon perks up after a seconds of deep thought, making the plushies on your bed fall on the floor, but the situation is so dire that you don't scold him. Instead, you cast a hopeful glance in his direction. Please let his brain cells work for once in his life.

"Isn't Hoon like, terribly jealous every time someone brings up that time you and Jay dated in high school?"

The cogs in your brain turn, and if someone was to walk into the room at that moment they would be able to smell the fumes coming out of your and Jungwon's head.

Jungwon continues, though he doesn't need to, because you have caught what he is hinting to already. "You need him to snap? What better reason to if not some good ol' jealousy. Am I right?"

But of course he is, that little gremlin genius.

"And, it just happens that a few high school acquaintances are organizing a get together soon. You know people will bring up you and Jay, just drag Hoon along. It's fate."

"Have I ever told you that you're my bestest friend ever and that I owe you my life, Won?"

Your plan is not working out as expected.

Getting everyone on board took you and Jungwon some time, but they all eventually agreed to come along. Sunghoon himself was the one with the most reservations, since he moved away halfway through high school and he missed a good chunk of it. Most importantly, he missed how you and the others became friends in the first place, so he's always been a little bitter about it.

Calling it a plan was an overstatement. You wore a skimpy little outfit, black miniskirt and sheer thighs, and bet on someone bringing up how you and Jay used to date in front of Sunghoon. You hoped that would make him jealous enough to grab you and drag you home, maybe teach you a lesson that you would inevitably learn nothing from.

Instead, you get sulky Sunghoon with a beer in his hand, looking at you like a kicked puppy as you and Jay make conversation with your old acquaintances. It doesn't help that Jungwon refuses to pick up his phone so you two can come up with something quick to stir the night towards your desired outcome.

The call goes into voicemail again, and you sigh for the hundredth time that night as you end it and open up his chat to type in another text.

"No answer yet?" Jay asks, smoothing his pink dress shirt. He's always the classier looking guy in the room, no matter where he goes, but the hue of pink he chose for the night makes him stand out further in the sea of swarming bodies.

You shake your head. You're in a quieter corner, away from the thumping speakers, but your throat is sore after all the screaming you did over the deafening music. You thought you would get used to the volume when a few of the people at the reunion suggested moving to a club across the street to end the night with a bang, just like the old times, but it somehow got progressively worse instead.

From your side, Jake puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles to catch someone's attention, and when it doesn't work, Jay laughs at him.

"Sunghoon looks bored, I think we should call it a night," Jay says.

"Bored? He looks like he's gonna murder the next poor soul that steps too close to Y\N," Jake takes a swing of the drink he's holding, something that looks like aged whiskey. Very much unlike anything Jake would order. He hisses after the liquid burns his throat, even when diluted by the melted ice. "Jay, my man, your taste is so ass."

You give the interaction a half hearted laugh. Despite your original plan, you hate seeing Sunghoon so uncomfortable, especially when you know he only came along to make you happy. He insists he doesn't belong surrounded by people who pretend to remember who he is and keep bringing up stuff that happened in the past expecting a glint of recognition from him. You tell him there are multiple people with a similar experience to his even when they attended all years, you tell him he belongs anywhere as long as you and the other guys are there. He tells you those are the people that don't get invited to these sort of events.

"It's getting late anyway, maybe we should just go," you say, checking your notification bar for any sign of life from Jungwon. Still nothing.

"I'll go get Won." Jake throws back the remaining drink, scrunching his eyes and hissing at the bitter taste he still isn't accustomed to.

You take a second to scan your surroundings, and the swaying mass of sweaty bodies makes you nauseous. You used to love getting rocked back and forth by the music, uncaring for a single thing in the world if not the overwhelming love you felt for everyone and everything around you when alcohol buzzed through your system. When you were younger, it felt like ibuprofen for your soul. Now, it only amplifies the hurt in your chest when you think about how heavy this night must have been for your boyfriend.

Before you can make your way to him, someone grabs your attention.

"Jay! And you over there, it's been a while."

You instinctively turn towards the loud voice, finding a vaguely familiar face cockily grinning in your direction.

"She has a name." Jay takes a deep breath and gives you a look, his jaw tense, and that alone is enough to let you know right away the guy in front of you is nothing but trouble.

The guy continues as if you weren't even there to listen to the conversation. A ghost. "Doesn't matter, being your girlfriend is all she was known for back then." He takes a swing of his beer, taste as bitter as his voice. He's very obviously drunk out of his mind, words slurring and step unsteady, but his words annoy you anyway.

"Excuse m—" you try to interject, but he speaks right over you.

"You two back together?"

Jay looks like he's seconds away from punching him, but you simply shake your head no. "Oh! No, and I'm not single actually. My boyfriend's here—" you turn around to look for Sunghoon where you last saw him, and beam when you find him right as he walks up to you. His shoulders relax just the tiniest bit when he notices how relieved you look when you meet his gaze, the way you reserve that look to him only, the way you light up as soon as you spot him. "There he is! Perfect timing, baby."

Sunghoon slides a hand around your waist possessively, placing a soft kiss to your temple to really get the point across. "I was looking for you."

Truth is, he wasn't. He had his eyes on you the entire time, but you were playing with your rings and kept readjusting your clothes as the conversation was unfolding, and Jay looked uneasy too, so he figured nothing good was being said.

"Yeah, sorry! Just catching up with friends from back in the day. Y'know, reminiscing and stuff. Have you seen Won around?" You want to diffuse the situation before the idiot in front of you says anything he might regret. You want Hoon to be a little jealous, not for him to get you all kicked out of a party because someone decided to run their mouth a little too much. Your hand finds his exposed biceps, and it looks like he made the right choice by stepping in, because now that he is all up in your space, you're visibly more comfortable.

Sunghoon shakes his head. Last time he caught a sight of Jungwon in the crowded space was when the night had barely started, and he wore a cowboy hat as he shoved his tongue down some girl's throat. Good for him. "He's probably… catching up with acquaintances too."

You look like you are about to say something, but the nameless guy interrupts you before you get a single word out. It gives Sunghoon all the more reason to dislike him, even before he listens to what he has to says. "And you are? I don't recall seeing you around."

"Oh! Hoon just moved to a different school halfway through high school, but we're all friends," Jay replies instead, familiar with his best friend's feelings about his high school years.

"Then why is he here?"

Sunghoon's jaw clenches. You squeeze his arm as if to remind him you are next to him, and he melts instantly into your touch.

"I'm here because my girl and my friends are. Now if you'd be so kind, we are trying to have a nice night, and you're interfering with that." Sunghoon turns around, holding you against his chest as he starts to make his way to the bar to grab another beer.

"Yeah? You know your friend and your girl used to fuck? Maybe they still do."

Sunghoon was raised to be a patient man. One that counts to ten before reacting, a man who wouldn't even hurt a fly. So it must be the alcohol fueling his actions, because before he realizes what he is doing, he grabs the guy by his shirt, knuckles white as a ghost making the material wrinkle in his hold. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Sunghoon knows he is being provoked, but not even Jay trying to step between them can do anything to calm his anger, not when the poor bastard spits on his shirt, then says something that he really shouldn't have.

"I mean look at her." The man laughs, and it's bitter, filled with something more sinister than mere disgust. It's envy. "Are you surprised? She's dressed like a whore."

Sunghoon moves before you have the time to grab him, right fist colliding with so much force against the man's face, his lip breaks on contact. He wobbles a bit, hit taking him by surprise, but he just gathers the blood dripping inside his mouth and spits it by Sunghoon's feet.

"Hey! Hey." Jay grabs the guy's arm, roughly yanking him back as a crowd of people starts to notice the commotion, heading to take a look at what's happening, a few bodyguards included.

"So tough," the man starts a laughs interrupted by winching when his broken lip curls too much. "Take that out on your so called friend—"

Your voice drowns out the rest of the sentence. "Baby, please."

Sunghoon looks at you, and for a second you doubt he sees you. There's so much anger in his eyes, like he wants nothing more than to rip the little bitch in front of him to pieces. They're almost unfamiliar in a way that send shivers down your spine. You hate the fact that you can't tell if it's fear or lust. But the storm behind his gaze clears out for a second when he sees the alarm on your pretty face, just the one you need. "I wanna go home."

No matter the anger coursing through Sunghoon's bloodstream like venom, thick black poison inciting him to turn back and finish the job, his conscience always prioritizes your well being and what you want. So when you take his hand a make a beeline for the exit, he follows without a single complaint.

The car ride back home is uncomfortably silent.

Sunghoon doesn't hum the random tune playing on the radio like he usually does, he doesn't hold your thigh nor does he even spare you a glance, and you start worrying he might be mad at you.

The words said about you earlier sting, but they don't hold a candle next to Sunghoon's silence. You want to speak up, fill the void that is so uncharacteristically awkward, but the words die in your throat the second you try to push them out.

A ding! followed by your phone screen lighting up signals a new notification, and you swipe through your phone to find out if Jungwon has finally made his existence known.

It's a text from Jay. You notice how Sunghoon's eyes dart to your phone for a split second before going back to focusing on the road ahead, his jaw twitching under the street lights.

00:27 AM. Jongie <3: You guys made it home yet?

00:28 AM. you: not yet, you? did you find the others?

Last thing you heard as you dragged Sunghoon out of the club was Jay arguing with both the still nameless guy and two bodyguards who had been notified of commotion next to the bar. Your main goal was to get your boyfriend the hell out of there before he broke someone's face in, but now that you're away from the mess and the dizziness from the alcohol has started to die down, leaving your muscles and bones tired, you worry for your friends too.

00:29 AM. Jongie <3: Heading back now, Jake texted me he found Won.

00:29 AM. Jongie <3: Wasted, ofc. But apparently Jake's taking care of him now.

00:31 AM. you: don't know if i like the sound of that. will they ever let us back in there?

00:33 AM. Jongie <3: Yeah no chance, Won won't be happy when he finds out.

00:35 AM. you: how did him and jake even get home?

You lock your phone for good after Jay confirms Jake mumbled something about a really nice girl with a great rack driving them home, deciding you'll deal with their bullshit another day, when you're completely sober and not worried about what your unusually silent boyfriend might be thinking.

Just in time for Sunghoon to pull into his driveway. He doesn't remind you to take your bag with you as he always does, he doesn't wait for you to be out of the car before heading straight towards his front door. Truth be told, you're more shocked he didn't just drop you off at your own apartment because now you're really sure he must be upset with you.

It's dumb, really. What that guy said is anything but your fault. But your panicked mind makes up scenarios in which Sunghoon knows you wanted to make him jealous, wanted to get a reaction out of him for something as silly as getting him to properly fuck you. It convinces you he has every right to be upset.

His hand twitches in pain for a second while unlocking the door, dried blood—both his and not—staining his pristine knuckles, and it only aids in making you feel worse. You follow him through the entrance, and he waits for you to walk inside before locking the door for the night. It's now or never.

It takes all the courage you can find within yourself to speak, and still your voice comes out uneven, shaky, things your voice has never been when talking to Park Sunghoon. "I'm really, really sorry."

He turns back to you like you just said the most shocking sentence he's ever heard in his life, and he quickly grabs you by your hips when he notices just how scared you look. He quickly realizes you must've mistaken his silent attempt at calming down his anger at the situation for coldness towards you for some reason, and his heart breaks a little at the thought of having made you doubt yourself. When he answers, it's the softest you've ever heard him. "What for, pretty girl?"

Tears well in your eyes when you fail to find the words. You're sorry for so many things, you don't even know where to start. You're sorry for dragging him somewhere he didn't even wanna be in the first place, sorry for taking advantage of his kindness for your own benefit, you're sorry his knuckles are raw and bloodied just because he had to defend you. Above all, you're sorry for being so damn selfish.

Sunghoon carefully caresses your face with his clean hand, so none of that bastard's blood goes anywhere near your pretty features. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip like it's second nature, silently waiting for you to say what's on your mind. He searches your gaze, but you're too busy trying to not burst into tears right there in front of him, so he lowers his hand to your jaw and gently angles your head upwards.

His eyes are kind and warm, no hint of the searing coldness they held mere minutes ago. "None of what happened today is your fault," he speaks slowly, sincerely. He makes sure every single word leaving his lips is loud and clear, no room for misunderstanding or doubt. Sunghoon is smart, he knows you like no one ever has put in the effort to. "I'm sorry if I made you doubt yourself back there, I should've said something. I'm sorry." He sounds secure and confident in what he's saying, but the little unsteady breath and the sharp swallow that come right after betray him. His hand slightly trembles on your skin, and it makes your heart sink even more.

Something else to add to the list. You're also sorry for making Sunghoon feel guilty over your emotions when he never did anything wrong to begin with.

You still struggle to speak, especially when Sunghoon is looking into your eyes as one would towards the light shining through the water surface after holding their breath in far too long, like it means being able to breathe again. There's a devotion in him you've never seen, something actors on a stage cannot replicate, something you don't think words to describe it have been spoken out yet. Something purely unique to you and him.

When your words fail you, you show him your own devotion in a different way.

There's a medication kit Sunghoon got forever ago solely to patch up Jake and Won whenever their Jake and Won antics get them hurt (very often, comically often). Never in your life would you have imagined Sunghoon to be on the receiving end of the care, but here you are.

Sunghoon follows you wordlessly to the couch, giving no protest when you point to sit down while you take your spot next to him.

The saline stings as you carefully clean the wound, but Sunghoon makes no show of it. You finally have a reason to look at somethings else other than his eyes as you gather your thoughts, but he doesn't lose sight of the frown deepening on your face.

Sunghoon watches you intently through his now messy bangs as you hold his bigger hand in yours as if it were made out of the most precious, frail glass. His fingers are way thicker than yours are, but you brush against his knuckles with the cotton just as softly as he kisses your forehead seconds before you let yourself be taken by slumber in his arms every night. He sees all the expressions fluttering on your face, he gives you the time he knows you need. He knows there's something you need to get off your chest.

When the blood stains the cotton instead of his skin, you speak up, "Does it hurt?"

Sunghoon hums in disagreement, the sound dry in his throat. You press into the raw skin a little harder, earning a low hiss from him. "Don't lie to me. We don't lie to each other."

"We don't, but you're hiding something from me." He stops before continuing, his voice a mere whisper, "what's wrong?"

"You got hurt because of me."

"That's not—"

"Yes you did." And once the river of words tumbling out of your mouth starts, it can't be stopped any longer. "I know how you feel about high school and—"

"It's not that—"

"But it is. I don't care if it was five years ago or ten or fifteen, I know you feel a certain way about it and don't lie to me to spare my feelings because it makes me only feel worse. You feel a way about it and I still went out of my way to take advantage of it for such a stupid reason and now I feel like a fucking idiot. And it also got you hurt."

"Baby," Sunghoon says after a moment of quiet, only filled by your heavy breathing. "Hey."

You busy yourself by grabbing the gauze in the little med kit next to you, but you make the mistake of glancing at him for a second, and the little smile dancing on his lips keeps your eyes glued to the sight.

"It's only a few scratches. What's all this really about?"

"I just… fuck, I'm never living this down." You stretch the white bandage over Sunghoon's wound, wrapping it a few times to fully secure it. You take a deep breath, buying yourself more time by inspecting your boyfriend's fingers like they're the most interesting thing you've ever seen in your life. He playfully taps his index against your palm. It makes you smile despite your best efforts not to. "I just wanted to make you jealous."

You say it so quietly even Sunghoon, barely inches away from you, almost misses it. Almost, because you hear the teasing in his tone loud and clear. "Jealous?"

Cat's out of the bag anyway, so you might as well explain yourself. "Before you say anything, Won gave me the idea."

"Of course."

"I just, y'know. Best friend stuff," you say, as if it's the answer to everything.

"Best friend stuff… as in?" Sunghoon keeps prodding, and the faint smile you hear as he speaks without having to take a look at him simultaneously makes you want to grin and roll your eyes at him. You bite your inner cheek instead.

"As in… complaining about my boyfriend…"

"Oh, you must have so much to complain about."

"Well, for starters, my boyfriend doesn't want to fuck me—"

Sunghoon erupts in a fits of boyish giggles when he finally figures out what's going on, delighted to see how embarrassed you are by this whole ordeal. He grabs you by your hips and sits you right on top of his lap so suddenly you let out a little shriek of surprise. "Trust me, your boyfriend would love nothing more than to fuck you through the mattress."

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and you lower your chest against his, noses brushing each other. "Then what's stopping him?"

Sunghoon's warm breath tickles your lips when he whispers, "Maybe he thinks your pretty little pussy can't take it yet."

A warm feeling travels through your body, settling into your lower abdomen, and just when you think he's gonna kiss you, he pulls back and rests his back on the cushion behind him, sinking further into the soft couch and pulling you down with him.

"Hoon—"

"Mh-mh. You haven't told me what Won's idea was yet."

"You know it." You raise your hand to playfully hit his chest, but he's faster than you are and catches your wrist midway with his injured hand.

"I don't know a damn thing," Sunghoon says as he brings his lips to the back of your hand, letting them brush gently against your soft skin before placing a small peck. "Go on, enlighten me."

You pout, but Sunghoon's set on making you talk, and even though you're stubborn and embarrassed, you know he won't let it go until he's satisfied with your response.

And, the slowly growing hardness under your exposed panties, combined with the residuals of alcohol still buzzing through your system are making it hard for you to stand your ground. Not when Sunghoon looks as good as he does with his bangs messily covering his eyes, and fitted short sleeve highlighting his hard chest underneath the cotton. Unfortunately for you.

You move on his lap, adjusting your position so you can feel more of him through the thin material covering you. You crave the harsh coarseness of his jeans on you, for the heat seeping out of him to envelope you fully. You're on top of him, thighs straddling his, yet you feel the invisible push to be even closer. As close as you physically can be.

Sunghoon sees the hunger in your eyes, he has all this time. He too is barely hanging on by a thread, and the self restraint he's miraculously managed to keep until now is dwindling by the second. All the times you've begged for him, all the times he's fucked your pretty pussy open with different toys, bigger and thicker each time. All the times he's had to take cold showers after seeing the raw need for him to claim you fully reflected in your eyes, even after coaxing orgasm after of orgasm out of you. You're so insatiable, but he might be even worse. Once he gives in, he doesn't think he'll be able to let you go ever.

Sunghoon knows you've felt ready for a long time, and even if he thinks you could use more getting used to bigger sizes before he allows himself to finally sink into you, the temptation gnaws at him all the same.

He just needs a little confirmation.

"Tell me, what was this master plan of yours?" he speaks with his mouth pressed to your palm, softly running his nose down to your wrist, allowing himself to bask in the warmness of the scent you chose for the night.

"Won's, not mine."

"That you willingly agreed to."

"I just… wanted to make you jealous." You finally admit, avoiding Sunghoon's gaze at all costs.

"How so? Wearing this tiny little dress?" His voice is lower, more dangerous. He slides his free hand to grab a handful of your barely covered ass, the skirt having ridden up to your waist almost completely. "You know I like it when the attention's on you. They can look all they want, you're mine." The movement causes you to jerk up against his crotch, earning a low grunt from the man beneath you.

"Tell me, baby," Sunghoon rocks you slowly against his hard bulge, caging his bottom lip between his teeth as he takes in your needy and embarrassed form. "How did you plan to make me jealous? Why?"

Your hand slides down his chest and dips under the thin shirt before caressing just over the waistband of his underwear peeking out of the dark jeans. "I thought it would be a smart idea to drag you along to the get together, and I guess I hoped someone would bring me and Jay up. I know how you feel about it and I wanted to use it to my advantage, but I also didn't consider how you'd feel surrounded by strangers reminding you of all the time you and the guys lost. All the time we lost. You came to make me happy and I was being selfish the entire time. You even got hurt because of me—"

"Not because of you. He should be thankful you were there to stop me or I would've broken his ugly face in."

"Still. I'm so sorry. It was childish."

A beat passes without either of you saying anything, and you twitch uncomfortably in his lap.

"Why?"

Your lip trembles, and your heart sinks at the thought of having angered your angel of a boyfriend. Tears well up in your eyes before you even attempt to explain yourself, but Sunghoon gently angles your chin toward him until you're met with his gaze. It's intense, darker than you've ever seen in all your time knowing him. He searches your face for something, and you realize it's not anger casting shadows behind his eyes. It's pure, unfiltered lust.

"Why did you want me jealous?" His voice is raw, like it pains him to produce a single sound, like whatever you answer him with is the honey that will soothe it.

You twitch again, and this time you're not scared, but your insides twist all the same. He rest heavy and hot under you, and you don't know how you'll handle another rejection if that's what this is leading to.

"I wanted you to fuck me, really fuck me. I hoped it would be enough to push you to the breaking point, Sunghoon.“ You swallow hard, and the saliva in your mouth feels thicker than usual. Maybe it is, maybe you're just more aware of all the sensations within your body. "I need you to break."

It's all Sunghoon needs to hear.

He lurches forward to capture your lips with his, harsh and messy, like an animal that has finally broken out of the restraint keeping it chained. His hands roam all over your body, eager to explore every single inch as if it's the first time he ever does.

You reciprocate him with just as much hunger behind every movement, hands slipping from his body to his hair to pull his head back. You grind your hips against his, moves deliberately slow compared to the feverish kiss. "I need you. I don't wanna wait anymore."

Sunghoon moans into your mouth when you release his hair, and he doubles his efforts, sliding his fingers through the wide gaps of the fishnets covering your thighs, big palms fully working you on top of his bulge.

"You want it so bad, baby?" He says between open mouthed kisses, full lips raw and red from the fight with yours. "I'm gonna give it all to you."

Uncaring for the mess of knocked over stuff you two leave in your wake, from Sunghoon's keys loudly hitting the ground to your heels abandoned somewhere on the carpet, you make your way to his room without ever letting go of each other. All around you is just background noise and things you'll think of later, the only thing that seems to matter is to get in bed and get rid of all the pent up frustration clouding your minds.

The door shuts closed and soon your back hits the bed with a soft thud, Sunghoon's hands heavy on your hips and mouth hot on your neck as he carves a wet path on your sensitive skin, caging you between his hard chest and the mattress. He wraps your leg around his middle, and when your cores touch again, you both sigh in relief.

You've spent all this time on the cusp of finally getting something more, waiting—albeit not so patiently on your part—for the right moment, and now that you both know you're just moments away from it, seconds seem to stretch out into hours and even the slightest teasing feels unbearable.

That's what you think, at least. Because Sunghoon is nothing but a tease at heart, and he has very different plans in store for you.

You take advantage of the little moment of pause to undress yourself, but Sunghoon stops you as soon as he notices what you're trying to do.

"Keep it on," he murmurs along your neck, feeling your pulse quicken right under his full lips. He kisses along your collarbones, to your shoulder, exactly where the strap of your dress rests. His teeth graze the material, and he draws back slightly before letting it snap back into place, the slight sting making you jump just the tiniest bit in his hold. "You wanted to make me jealous in this? Then I'll fuck you in it." He mouths his way back up, until he reaches your ear, teeth gently biting right where he knows it makes shivers spread all over your body. "Next time you wear it, my cock is all you'll be able to think about."

You can't hide the way your body reacts to his words, thighs pressing together from the sheer excitement.

Sunghoon toys with the strings of your fishnets, and for a moment you think you should take them off, but he just rips a hole through them, allowing his hand to finally slide underneath them and grab your ass as harshly as he wants. "These were getting on my nerves."

"I can take them—"

Sunghoon silences you with a kiss, slower than the previous one, calculated and meticulous but every bit as passionate. His teeth sink into your bottom lip until you gasp against his mouth, his tongue gently licking away at your lip to soothe the sting. He pulls your core closer to his, unabashedly moaning into your mouth as he ruts his hips into yours.

The tights start to frustrate you the more he works himself against your panties. You want to be closer, you need to feel him push against you completely, and they're in the way. So once again, you try to rid yourself of them.

Sunghoon keeps you still. "These stay on until I tell you to take them off." His tone is commanding, but not abrasive, muffled by your skin. "Understood?"

You barely nod when suddenly he's bending you at his will like you're his to drag around as he pleases, and while usually you would've fought back just for the sake of it, you play nice this time, doing anything to not have him changes his mind and leave you hanging once again.

He sets you on your knees, facing the headboard of his king sized bed, a sturdy and thick thing, wood carved with elegant loops and twirls all around the edges. They gleam and cast shadows alike when Sunghoon reaches over you to turn on the bedside lamp.

The same hand steadies your hip as he lowers himself onto you, pressing his chest to your back and littering kisses from your temple to your neck. "Aren't you such a cute little thing?" he whispers into your ear, chucking when he feels you shudder under his weight. "So needy and desperate, making up plans just to have my cock in your tight pussy." He's so big, so warm. So strong. It makes your knees weak, and you would crumble on the soft mattress if not for his large hand keeping you still. "Should've just come to me right away, should've begged for my cock like the good girl I know you can be." His other hand starts to travel down your body, and your thighs instinctively spread open to accommodate him.

Pride blooms in Sunghoon's heart. You're so pliant for him, sweetly allowing him to touch you all over, your body responding so well to his slightest touch, to his softest word. The trust you have in him makes his cock harder in his pants, but he's always been a patient man. A man that enjoys taking his time playing with his meal before sinking his teeth into it.

That, and you still have a lesson to learn. "But you've been bad, so bad." He bites your earlobe as his fingers hook onto one of the little holes in your tights, right over your throbbing core, so needy and ready to be claimed by him. You hear a loud rip before you realize what's going on.

His fingers immediately find your panties, slick and stuck to your drooling lips, and he starts touching you over them like all the teasing he's subjected you to until then isn't enough to satisfy him. "You'll make it up to me, yeah? You'll make me proud and happy." He licks along the shell of your ear, and your thighs shake, spreading open once more to coax him into touching you better. "I'll only fuck you when I'm satisfied with how sorry you are."

"Hoon—"

"Don't worry, baby." His fingers dip under the fabric, finally really touching you for the first time that night. He slides two fingers between your lips to coat them in your juices as he keeps talking to you in a tone that almost seems belittling, the pout in his voice too heavy and pronounced for it to be honest. "I'll make it worth it. All the time we waited will be worth it. I just have to get you nice and ready, dripping for me."

You have half a mind to turn around and fight him, because you don't understand how you could physically get wetter even if you wanted to be patient and take it. "I'm already wet," you say, and it comes out a little harsher than you intend for it to.

"Look at you," Sunghoon mocks you, the bite in your response only making him chuckle lowly in your ear, the vibrations from the sound make wetness pool on his digits, much to his amusement. "Can't keep the brattiness in check even when you should feel sorry. How can I take your apologies seriously?"

You open your mouth to answer, but his fingers pinch your clit before you get a single word out, replaced by a shriek that sounds something right in between pleasure and pain.

"Less talking." Sunghoon doesn't stop or lessen his touch on your poor sensitive bundle of nerves. Instead, he rolls it between his fingers, coaxing loud moans out of you with every single movement. "More of this."

The bed creaks under Sunghoon's knees as he detaches from your already quivering form and gets up to grab something. You complain with a little whine at the sudden loss, but just a quick glance in his direction tells you to stay still and be patient.

"Where's your phone?" Sunghoon asks. It sounds a lot more like an order.

"My… huh? My phone?"

"Your phone. Where is it?"

You gawk at him for a second, still in the same position despite the dull ache in your knees slowly but surely setting in, your mouth agape as you try to rack your brain for an explanation as to why the fuck Sunghoon needs your phone since he doesn't seem to be planning on offering you one. "In my bag. On the couch, I think."

It's only a few seconds before your boyfriend returns with your phone in his hand, and throws it carelessly on the bed next to you. He returns to his previous position, the warmth radiating from his body soothing you even when you don't know what to expect next.

You'd be lying if you said you don't enjoy this stricter version of your ever so loving and doting boyfriend, thighs clenching at the thought of the danger lurking behind his sweet demeanor.

"Unlock your phone and open Jay's chat." Sunghoon's calm facade is completely gone, replaced by pure fire.

"What?"

"You heard me." His grip on your thighs tightens, possessive and angry. "You're gonna open Jay's chat and record while I fuck your pussy with my fingers, and you'll have him hear how good I make you feel."

You're breathless, adrenaline pumping through your system and ears ringing at the thought of doing something so obscene, with one of your best friends on the other end of it no less. "Hoon, Jay didn't have anything to do with this… we shouldn't—"

"I don't care." Sunghoon bites your neck, sharp canines poking you just enough to elicit a gasp out of you. "You'll do as I say and tell him you won't ever go back."

He sounds so possessive, so unlike any version of him you have experienced, and just this little taste has you obsessed. You love the soft spoken, big sweetheart he always is, and you love the sleeping beast hidden just beneath the surface too. You love the anticipation of what's to come, not knowing which side of Sunghoon you're gonna get.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the phone, his is sure and steady as it makes its descent down to your wet pussy again. Sunghoon takes his time, letting his fingers ghost on your thighs for a little before sliding the panties off of you. You hear him moan behind you, and you're glad you don't get to see what you suspect is him licking off the wetness off the fabric he just rid you of. That would be way too much for you in the moment, you think.

The Jongie <3 contact in your favorites section seems so silly now that you're mere seconds away from letting him hear how your boyfriend fucks you, so you take a few deep breaths in preparation. As if sensing your hesitation, Sunghoon quickly places a gentle kiss to your temple, and just like that, he's back to his caring self. "You said you're sorry, baby. You should show me, but you don't have to."

You press the voice message recording button moments later, heart thrumming loudly in your ears as you slide your finger up so it keeps recording hands free.

"Such a brave girl. So, so good for me." Sunghoon praises you, and it soothes some of the anxiety you feel, his tone thick and sweet as honey, you barely recognize it as the same one that was giving you harsh commands earlier.

The downright filthy sound of Sunghoon's digits spreading your pussy lips open has you cowering in embarrassment, but your boyfriend doesn't care. He needs Jay to hear how absolutely soaked you are. He wastes no time, pushing in three fingers inside you.

Your mouth is hung open in a silent moan, eyebrows knit together and eyes closed, taking a moment to adjust to the sudden sensation. It stings, even when you're so wet it's dripping down your thighs by now, but his fingers are so long and thick the initial stretch is always uncomfortable, despite all the training.

Sunghoon doesn't like that, so he gives you no time, no warning, and just starts pumping in and out of you, curling the tips just like he does when you're about to cum and need the tiniest push. He's unfair, so unfair, because how are you supposed to keep your sounds down like you planned to when he's finger fucking you like it's his life mission to have you come undone in record time?

You don't know if it's an ego thing, or he just wants to make your punishment that much harder. It must be both, because within seconds you're moaning and gasping out in pleasure for him and Jay so beautifully, really putting on a show for the both of them. But it's so hard to focus and remember what you're supposed to say, and the longer the voice message is, the more mortified you'll be in the morning.

For now, satisfying Sunghoon's thirst for punishment and placating the jealousy you yourself caused is your top priority. You'll think about the consequences another time.

"Aren't you gonna say hi? Where are your manners?" Sunghoon's mouth drops to your ear, the movement of his fingers inside of your cunt relentless and not giving you a single second to breathe properly. It doesn't matter to him, how much harder he's making for you to accomplish your task. He basks in it, even. He's proud of how just his fingers are enough to turn you dumb with pleasure.

"I—mh," you try your best to muffle the moans cascading from your lips, to no avail. Even if you managed to do so, the incredibly loud squelching noises in the background would betray you.

"Need a hand?" he laughs dryly, and you feel the faint presence of a fourth finger next to the other three, waiting to slide in and stretch you open further.

"Hoon!" you gasp in surprise.

"That's right, baby. That's who you belong to. Tell Jay."

"I—I belong to—Hoon! I can't!"

His fourth digit keeps prodding around to find a possible entrance, but you're already so full you think any more would actually break you. "How do you plan to let me fuck you, then?"

He's teasing you. You both know you can and you will. It's just a matter of taking it slowly. His finger is suddenly not trying to inch inside you anymore, despite how lost you both are in the moment, your comfort comes first always. It just means Sunghoon will find another way.

He speaks lowly against your ear, but it's enough for your phone to pick it up clearly, "Once I'll split you open on my cock like you've been begging for, nothing else will ever satisfy you. No one else will. Once I claim your little hole, it's mine. Jay's seen how big I am. He knows it too. Tell him whose pussy I'm about to split open."

"Mine." You gasp at a particularly harsh thrust.

"No. Mine." The sheer command in his voice makes you clench even more around his fingers, as if the fit isn't already tight enough. "Try again."

"Yours! It's yours."

"Good fucking girl." He moans against you, his hot breath rising goose bumps all over your skin. "Tell him you'll never go back to him," he adds after a moment, quieter.

The pace he is fingering you at slows down just enough so you can actually get a coherent sentence out, and you're silently grateful for this little show of mercifulness on Sunghoon's part. If not for this, the voice mail would probably end up being an hour long.

"I'll never—mh. Go back to you."

"Good. So good. Now tell him how happy you are with me, happier than you ever were with him. Tell him you love me," he rasps, high on the reassurance you're providing him. High on how obedient you are for him.

"Love Hoon so much, I love him. I love him so so much. Hoon, please." You're a mess, dripping down onto the bedsheets and clamping around his fingers so hard any more would probably cut Sunghoon's blood flow. The more you grip him, the wider you spread your thighs to accommodate him, like you're silently begging for him to be harsher. He has half a mind to fulfill your body's wordless plea.

"Look at you, spreading your pretty legs for me. You like it when I talk to you like this? Does it make your little pussy wetter?"

You're so tight, so wet, and Sunghoon is so impossibly hard. He could cum right there just thinking about how good you'll feel wrapped around him, walls convulsing and milking him for all he's worth with every orgasm he gives you. For every orgasm you bless him with.

A sight for sore eyes, one Jay will never see nor hear. Because as soon as he can sense you climbing up your high, getting so close, your walls fluttering against his curled up digits in preparation and juices plentifully seeping out of you, he grabs your phone and ends the recording himself.

Sunghoon moves, and suddenly you miss the weight of his chest pressing into your back, but the pace of his fingers inside you slows down again. You wail as you feel the climax you were so close to dissipate, and suddenly you feel like invisible ropes are keeping your front tied to the bed. Your back gives in under the pressure, arching in ways that should be uncomfortable but it's the only outlet other than the plentiful sounds being pushed out of you your body has to ground itself in the midst of all the pleasure.

The loneliness your heart feels whenever he deprives you of his body heat for as much as a few seconds has tiny broken sobs and whines lurch out of your throat, but like every single time, Sunghoon is there to soothe you. "I know, baby, I know. Just let me help you feel good. Yeah?"

Even when you're supposedly being punished, he can't help but go a little easy on you, his gorgeous angel. His spoiled baby. But it's okay, because you did such a good job, listened and obeyed to his every command.

Sunghoon's warm breath tickles the skin of your bottom, and his nose brushes up from your mid thigh to your ass, giving you a playful yet gentle bite on the plushy skin. Air gets stuck in your throat in anticipation, but like every single thing he does, he takes his time in savoring all the moments leading up to finally get your sweet taste to coat his tongue like he's craved for this entire time.

You're twitchy and so responsive in his hold, and Sunghoon is enamored with the sight of your fluttering walls trying their best to suck his thick digits in even more. Greedy little cunt for a spoiled little girl. A perfect match.

He watches intently how you react to every single thrust of his fingers inside you, how your knees shake and body flops forward when he bends the tips in just the right direction when you least expect it. He pushes in deeper, and deeper, until you're gushing on his palm, your essence dripping down his wrist and a few droplets down to his elbow too. He registers your every moan, every beg for more, imprints all your sounds in his memory like they're the dearest ones he's ever made.

Sunghoon remembers all your reactions from times you'd consider unimportant, from the little moan when you first bite into anything he's cooked—whether you really like it not—to the way your leg bounces when following the rhythm of a song you said you despised because they played it on the radio too often, to the way your eyebrow twitches when he mentions a name you haven't heard before.

When you catch him with that sweet look in his eyes, staring at you with a toothy grin and canines peeking out, it's because he's watching you and storing everything in his mind, no matter how mundane, no matter how dumb, no matter how silly. It's a no brainer he'd do this in times like these too, even when he's witnessed you come undone under his gaze plenty of times, he doesn't want to miss a single one.

It's not really about learning what brings you pleasure faster and what prolongs it, he's familiar with all of that already, Sunghoon just happens to really enjoy watching you, even if you think it's the most embarrassing thing in the world.

So he does exactly that, inspects you carefully as he keeps fucking you open with his fingers, taking guesses about how hard or deep he should make his pumps, pride blooming in his chest—and cock throbbing in his pants—when you react exactly like he expects. While usually he watches you with a lovesick smile, the grin on his face and fiery glint behind his eyes are different now, hungrier and needier, but every bit as obsessed.

Because that's exactly what Sunghoon is, deeply and unashamedly obsessed with you.

He builds your orgasm up again, brick by brick, flick of his wrist by flick of his wrist, until you're quivering and shaking and begging him to not take it away this time.

"Please," you moan, hand clenching onto the bedsheets beside you so hard you'll be shocked if by the end there won't be a hole ripped in them. "I'm so close."

Sunghoon notices how you hold onto your orgasm, waiting for his approval. It makes his hips twitch forward involuntary, eager to please and eager to give you anything you want. "I got you baby, let go. Let me hear the pretty sounds you make when you cum for me."

It's all it takes for the coil in your stomach to completely snap, and the second your warm walls flutter around Sunghoon's fingers for the first time, you feel a sense of emptiness that lasts only a moment, before you're full again. It's not as thick, shorter but so much wetter, and through the thick fog clouding your mind as your body is overtaken by uncontrollable shivers spreading from your core to every extremity of your body, you realize he just replaced his fingers with his tongue.

Another lightning strike shoots right through you, head to feet, as Sunghoon keeps fucking you through your orgasm with his tongue. You're still fluttering around it and releasing all of your juices right into his awaiting mouth when the ringing in your ears slowly fades, replaced by the downright obscene sounds of Sunghoon slurping up all he can get out of you. It's messy and nasty, the lower half of his face completely coated in your essence but he doesn't care. He wants more.

He moans into your pussy like he's the one being pleasured, and once that single second of bliss between fully coming down from an orgasm and overstimulation setting in goes by, he pulls you in closer when you start moving too much. You're still too sensitive, but if Sunghoon thinks you're greedy, you have to realize he's even worse. Feeling the dull throbbing of your walls as you come around his tongue one time just isn't enough. If it were up to him, he'd have you wet his mouth again and again until you physically can't withstand any more. Until you're barely coherent and slipping into a peaceful sleep, completely tired out.

Sunghoon grabs a handful of your ass with his still dripping hand as he licks a stripe down from your hole into your lips, spreading them open with his tongue to find your clit, throbbing and raw from your previous orgasm. He rolls it between his lips, toys with it with his tongue, uncaring for the way your body pushes away from his mouth. After all the begging you did, you have no business running from it, if you ask him.

"Stay still," he growls into you, both of his hands tied together on your lower back as he fully pushes you down on the mattress with his strength, leaving you nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He nuzzles his face into you, enveloping all he can get with his warm mouth, sighing and groaning contently with every bit of wetness you gush right on his tongue.

He explores every inch of you, every nook and cranny he can get into, cleaning you up with each lick and wetting you even more with every other. "So fucking good," he moans into you, dragging you back against him when you think you can't physically be closer, when the tip of his nose pushes into your hole and when the only way he has to breathe is through his mouth which is full of you. He pants and gasps against your cunt so much you fear he might suffocate himself just to not come up for air a single time.

Your own face is pushed against the bed, mouth biting down on the cotton fabric beneath you to ground yourself in the immense cloud of pleasure Sunghoon is giving you. He's so lost in your taste he doesn't even remind you to not muffle your sounds, the only thing in his mind is to have you come undone on his mouth once more.

Sunghoon knows he's close to his goal when your little pained whines start turning into longer, more drawn out moans, when you stop running away from his tongue and instead start thrusting yourself back into his hold, back into his mouth. All your senses are ablaze, nerve endings lit and confused but so pleased at the same time. You yourself don't know when the it stopped hurting and became that dull, impending feeling of almost there to something more that both maddens you and keeps you hooked, but you roll your hips anyway in search of just the little nudge in the right direction your body violently craves.

Like always, Sunghoon knows exactly what you need.

"Go on, baby. Touch your little clit for me." His voice is full and rich of that low gravel you barely get to hear, but that has tingles run down your body when you do. "Help me make you cum." Sunghoon lets his tongue run back up from your clit to your slit again, inching closer to your throbbing hole as you let a hand sneak under your body to your pussy, immediately finding your sensitive bundle of nerves.

You're so drenched by now you don't need to wet your hand before drawing circles all over it, dragging it in all the directions you know have your toes curl. Sunghoon likes it messy though, so he gathers a glob of spit and loudly releases it on your cunt, the position making it dribble down right where your hand is working to bring you closer to your peak.

The onslaught of wetness pooling down only adds to the already embarrassingly loud noises coming from your cunt, and you're so wet, your own fingers slip a few times. It doesn't help that your arm shakes under you even when pinned down by your entire body weight when Sunghoon shoves his entire tongue down your hole again, using both of his hands on your lower back to move you so you're fucking his muscle as if it were a toy. His nose drags on your perineum with every movement of your bottom half against his face, and under any other circumstance you'd be mortified, but Sunghoon has a way of soothing you in the most embarrassing situations without really having to do anything but be there with you, like nothing matters in the grand scheme of things when his body is heating yours.

You speed your movements up to match the pace he sets, and with every thrust of his tongue combined with every flick of your wrist, you feel the band in your lower tummy stretch and warm up, until your sight turns searing white and warmth envelops your body from your core to all your limbs in rhythmic waves, first every other second, and then gradually slowing down.

You release on Sunghoon's tongue, and he wastes no time, gulping down all he can manage to, moaning into your heat like he's tasting the most divine nectar. You can't see it as you're busy catching your breath and slowing down your heartbeat as the rush of pleasure dissipates into a calmer buzzing felt all over your body, but Sunghoon's eyebrows crease in the middle, his eyes closed as he commits the taste of your cum to his memory, right beside all the indecent bits of you he treasures in his mind.

Sunghoon pulls his tongue out of you, already missing the way you flutter against it when you come undone, and leaves a trail of pecks all over your bottom, first on the plush of your ass still kept up by his strong hold despite you having completely given up on keeping yourself upright long ago, then all over your thighs, switching from one to the other as he runs a reassuring hand all over your skin, wordlessly soothing you. His palms are big and thick on your thighs as he moves to wrap his hands to the front, steadying you one last time to capture your clit in a gentle suckle, just enough to have your body convulse in overstimulation, but too tired and spent to fight back.

He pulls off of you with a pop after hollowing his cheeks around it one last time. "Did so good for me, baby. You're so perfect."

Without Sunghoon's hands keeping you up, you slump on the bed, completely this time, groaning when the burn in your lower body fully sets in now that you can move it again. It's dull and persistent, and especially fiery right where Sunghoon's hands stayed locked for most of it.

"You okay, pretty? Was I too rough?" He sounds concerned when you take longer than usual to regain your strength, his hands immediately roaming all over your body to massage any sore spot. His touch is light like a breeze but welcome like the sun on a spring day, warming up all the knots in your muscles. The dangerous edge seems to have completely evaporated, only leaving your sweet boyfriend behind. In the moment, it's exactly what you need.

You give him a vague sound of approval in response, but you know it's not enough for him when he gently maneuvers your body around to face him, holding you so carefully one would think him scared of damaging you.

The warm light shining from the night stand casts shadows on his face, but the slight concern etched on his features is bright as day. It's an intimate moment, and you'd giggle because of the sheer difference in his behavior if you had the energy to do so. Instead, you reach for his hand. The same hand that held a bruising grip on you just moments before, the same hand that hit the man who disrespected you.

Sunghoon returns you touch right away, locking your fingers with his as if second nature. You place a featherlight kiss on them, allowing your lips to linger on his salty skin as you speak. "I'm great. Perfect even." It comes out a little raspy, like you haven't fully caught your breath yet, but it's a start.

"Yeah. You are."

"And you? You doing okay?"

Sunghoon gifts you one of his cannot-possibly-contain-it smiles, the ones where he looks down for a split second as his eyes crinkle and somehow smile wider than his lips do. Your favorite kind of Sunghoon Smiles you'd say in the moment, though if you were to compile a list they would all be in the number one spot.

"Perfect, even."

"Hey, that's my line—" you start, but Sunghoon finishes your sentence for you.

"—Don't steal it."

You hum, the taste of skin still on your lips as you bask in the moment for a little, neither of you daring to break the peaceful quiet that wraps like a fuzzy blanket around you. Sunghoon flinches just the tiniest bit when your fingers graze the bandaged scratches, making you ease up your hold on his hand. He immediately squeezes yours to tell you it's okay.

"You know," you say after you let the silence linger for a few more seconds, only your heartbeats and shallow breaths filling the air in the dimly lit room. "You look really hot when you're mad."

Fits of giggles pour in the almost nonexistent space between you—first Sunghoon's, yours following suit.

"I must look super hot when I'm jealous then," he says with that teasing edge in his tone you're all too familiar with. He dips down to catch your lips in a slow kiss, suckling on your bottom lip gently, the corners of his mouth still raised. He hasn't stopped smiling once.

"Absolutely," you say before Sunghoon pecks you again, and then keeps doing it as you try to continue. "And when you're happy—" another peck. "And when you're bored." Another peck. "And when you're—sorry if I say this but you look like a cute kicked puppy—sad.

"So you're gonna keep finding ways to make me jealous, I assume."

It's not meant to be a jab, you know he's being playful. But it stings you just in the right way, and suddenly you're in the passenger seat of Sunghoon's black Bentley again, worrying about having hurt his feelings past redemption.

Like all things you, Sunghoon catches it right away.

"Hey there, it's okay. I'm not upset, baby." Sunghoon's hands are secure around your hips, his thumb running soothing circles on your skin while your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer because it's simply never enough.

"You should be. You're too nice."

Sunghoon presses his lips on your fluttering lashes. "You being a little brat is nothing new. I think I know how to handle you pretty well, don't I?" His breath, minty but also vaguely bitter from the beer still, warms your cheekbone. Sunghoon's proximity to you is intoxicating in ways no amount of alcohol could ever be, and you hate beer, but god, what wouldn't you do to taste it off of his lips for the rest of your life.

Whoever is up there must be gracious because your prayers are answered the very next second, with Sunghoon ghosting his lips on yours, looking at you with tenfold the intensity and fire from earlier, like someone drenched the space behind his eyes with gasoline and lit it up without you noticing it. The switch is so sudden, and by now you should be used to this, but you don't think you ever will. Not when your boyfriend is looking at you like he might devour you whole any moment, and you'd let him. You'd love to let him.

"Act out all you want," Sunghoon says, voice dripping in possessiveness, right against your awaiting mouth. You want to swallow every last bit of it. "Go out there in short little skirts barely covering your ass. Make up all the silly plans you want, even ones where Jay's involved. Let everyone get a good look at you because that's all they'll ever fucking get." His hand reaches for your inner thigh, then folds it to give himself better access. His bulge is heavy and hard against your bare core, the weight of it enough to have you shiver and mewl, but when Sunghoon starts grinding his hips into yours, the noises spill out of you like you have no control over them. "At the end of the night, after you've had your fun, you'll always come back to me. In my bed, soaking my pants with your little pussy because you only get wet like this for me."

It's embarrassing how fast you feel like you could come again, but Sunghoon's hard thickness slides so perfectly over your folds even through the fabric, and the harshness of his jeans catches your clit every so often in such a delicious way. His pants are soaked through in your essence, both of you moaning and panting in each other's mouths so messily you don't even know if it could be classifies as a kiss or a mere exchange of spit.

"You're mine," Sunghoon rasps, like his life depends on it. He fumbles with his pants, depriving you of the mouth watering friction. You make a few noises of complaints, but his teeth are quick to sink into your bottom lip to silence them. "A spoiled little brat. But mine."

The heaviness of him finds your dripping core again, this time so much warmer, only his underwear separating your most sensitive parts from touching. It's the closest you've ever been to feeling his cock on you, and it's overwhelming. Electricity shocks run through your body when he starts moving his pelvis against you, completely coating the already damp material with the mix of your arousal and release. He's not unaffected—his own precum shows up right where the little slit in his tip is, the fabric of the boxers a darker shade of gray there.

"Mine to love, mine to discipline, mine to train. Mine." You don't know wether the hoarseness coming from his throat is due to the anything but proper activity you two are partaking in or simply the raw need for you to really let his words sink in, but the effect it has on you is clear. The proof is right where your cores meet.

You tentatively roll your hips into his, movements emboldening when you earn a few low grunts from him.

"This pussy is gonna be mine too now. Mine to worship and please. Mine to fuck open like she never has been before. I'm gonna ruin you for everyone else. You want that, right?"

You nod frantically, your hips running after Sunghoon's in a relentless chase, like they have a mind of their own.

"Say it. Say you want me to ruin your little hole."

"Ruin it—Hoon, please."

His hips falter when he hears just how desperate you sound, his eyebrows scrunched up in the middle and you can tell he's biting down on his tongue to ground himself. It only encourages you.

You reach for his boxers, wrapping your hand around the outline of his bulge and trying to contain your facial expressions at the reminder of just how ridiculously large he is. You squeeze it with your palm, his eyelids fluttering closed and his chest heaving from your touch alone. You try not to think too much about how outrageously wet the fabric is, all thanks to you. "Please, I need to feel you inside," you beg, arms pushing your tits—now basically spilling out of your dress—together and looking up at him with the most innocent doe eyed expression you can muster up.

Sunghoon's jaw leaps, and you feel like under a microscope as he watches you. "Little minx you are." He reaches for the first drawer of his night stand, rummaging though it quickly before pulling a tiny bottle out of it. It's lube.

"I don't need—"

Sunghoon silences you by spitting right on your pussy, your complaint turning into a whimper at the contact. "You do, baby. You need all the help you can get." Complaining more will get you nowhere but tucked into bed, still needy, horny and with a wet pussy, so you decide to play your cards cleverly and let him do his thing.

You paw at his boxers, fingers dipping into the waistband and trying to tug them down to get to the prize hidden behind. You spread your legs open even more as Sunghoon rips a larger hole into your tights, the veins running down his arms slightly bulging from the effort.

The sudden coldness of the lube dripping down on your puffy folds surprises you enough to rip a little yelp out of you, and Sunghoon's wide palms find their rightful place on your thighs, pushing them against your hips and lower stomach. He takes a good look at your cunt, spreading you open to his liking and leaving no inch of your skin hidden from his sight. "Such a pretty pussy." Your joints still ache and burn from all the exertion they already endured, but Sunghoon's words are like a soothing balm for your body and mind. "Prettiest cunt in the whole fucking world, all wet and ready for me to fuck."

You finally manage to free his cock fully, despite his filthy words sending waves of weakness through your body, and immediately wrap your palm around the middle, mouth watering when your thumb doesn't reach your other fingers. Not only is it way longer than average, it's also thick beyond comprehension, perfectly curved to hit all the right spots in you and so fucking veiny you can feel more slick pour out of you in anticipation. You quite literally cannot stop gawking at it, trying to move your hand up to his tip, just as thick if not thicker than the base, and you gulp as you watch beads of semi transparent liquid pour out of it.

"What is it, baby?" Sunghoon asks, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he tries to not buck his hips into your hand. "We can stop if you want."

"No!" Your grip around him tightens, earning a gasp and a shallow thrust from him. Your thumb swipes over the head to spread his need all over, making it easier for you to slowly jerk him off. "Please," you add, quieter, afraid he might take the opportunity away from you.

The sight of you laying down so prettily with your much smaller hand enveloping his length, has all the blood in Sunghoon's body rush straight to his groin. He could cum at any moment, just from having you right in front of him like this, but he's set on making it worth the wait.

"You're so fucking hot like this." His hand finds your cunt again, fingers spreading your folds open so he can take a good look at the sensitive bud he loves so much, finding it so swollen he wishes to just bend down and suck on it again.

Once the lube fully coats his digits, he brings them down to your hole again, prodding it just enough to make sure it's slick with the cold essence. He squirts more of it right onto his cock while you keep fisting him as best as you can, spreading the lube all over it until all that can be heard in the room is the loud squelching noises and both of your heavy pants and low groans. His fingers keep rubbing your folds, coaxing more of your own arousal out of you, the feeling so distracting the pace you set on his cock falters a bit. To compensate, you add your other hand too, milking him with both at the same time.

"Fuck yeah, just like that," Sunghoon moans, and he looks divine above you with his lip caught between his teeth, gaze flickering from where his hips have started fucking into your fists, to where his fingers are playing with your pussy, like he cannot decide which view is best.

His cock throbs in your hands every time your hold tightens or your movements get faster, and you're stuck watching every reaction. His chest heaves, sometimes he looks like he forgets to breathe and then he has to make up for it. His cheeks are flushed, and when you notice how his bangs are sticking to his forehead because of the sweat accumulating on his hairline, you suspect he might be close.

"Gonna come?" you ask, battling your lashes at him, hoping he'll do just that from your hands alone. That's enough to wake him from his daze, and you almost regret asking when he breaks free from your hold and stops playing with your pussy.

The disappointment is short lived, because without wasting any time, Sunghoon brings your legs close together around his cock and sets both of your feet on one of his shoulders. He fucks your thighs just like that, with slow thrusts, making sure to slide his cock between your folds and let you feel every single vein running down his length. "You'd love that wouldn't you? Me coming all over your pussy. You're so fucking messy."

The shirt still covering his torso leaves close to nothing to the imagination now, clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest because of the sweat, and you're basically drooling at the sight. The feeling of Sunghoon's cock between your thighs and on your cunt is too much for you already, clit throbbing with need every time his tip catches on it, balls pushing against your hole every now and then, but you make the mistake of looking down when his thrusts get faster, and the view you're met with has you absolutely obsessed.

The head of Sunghoon's cock peeks out from your thighs every time his hips move forward, red and leaking so fucking much on your lower tummy it looks like he's cumming all over you already. But then it just keeps going, reaching close to your belly button, and when his head rests right on it, your mouth goes slack. It's one thing to see how big he is normally, but to have it compared directly against you, it makes the room spin in circles and your body feel even weaker. You need him inside you now.

"You like the view, baby? That's how deep I'm gonna be inside you, how deep I'll be fucking you," Sunghoon laughs, a little manically, and you hate how much it turns you on, like you need to be any more than you already are. "You'll feel me riiight here." He stops his thrusts to tap his cock on your stomach, the sounds of the tiny slaps reverberating through the room. "All up in your guts."

You gasp out his name when his hips go back to working his cock between your thighs, in an attempt to get his attention, but he already knows what you want.

"I know, baby. I know. Just a little more I promise." His gaze flicks up to meet yours, watching you intently for any sign of discomfort, any indication that you might want to stop. He knows it's unlikely—Hell, he's sure you were about to beg him to fuck you for the nth time that night just now—but he needs you to be absolutely sure. The weight on his chest, the slightest hint of uneasiness looming over him despite all the excitement fades in the background when all he finds on your face is pure lust, unfiltered need for him.

The pace slows down a little, and Sunghoon keeps eye contact with you as he speaks with his full lips brushing the skin of your ankle, giving you a few kisses there to ease up any anxiety you might feel. "Are you sure, pretty? We can wait a bit more. We don't have to—"

"Hoon. For the love of God just put it in or i might actually die within the next two minutes."

An amused wheeze tickles your skin, followed by a gentle nibble right where his lips kissed you. He rests your legs back down while he still kneels on the bed "Alright, alright."

He's spent all this time preparing you, telling you to take it slow for your own well being, but as you watch the way his eyes hesitantly shift focus around your body, you think maybe he's not the one ready yet. "Hoon?" you catch his attention, voice meek but it's like music to his ears, always.

Sunghoon hums in acknowledgement, but he looks deep in thought. His thumb follows the ridge of your jaw to your chin, then swipes over it a few times as if to encourage you to continue.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Had a change of heart? Weren't you just about to die a few seconds ago?"

"I'm asking you."

He exhales, then bends down to place a soft kiss right on your parted lips. "Of course I'm sure. I'm just…" He trails off, but you already know what he's thinking.

"You won't hurt me," you say, keeping eye contact to really get the point across. "Besides, even if you did. I'd enjoy it a bit."

The corner of his lips lift up, and you know you've finally cracked through him. "I suppose you would."

His elbow rests by your head, while his other hand grabs his cock and gives it a few pumps in preparation—not that he needs it, Sunghoon doesn't think he's ever been this goddamn hard in his entire life. "Give me a few taps anywhere if you want me to stop, if it helps you can bite me when it hurts." He positions himself, hand still guiding his tip to your leaking entrance, but doesn't push in just yet. "Where should I cum?"

You're about to lose your mind, hips slowly rolling against his tip to try to coax it inside of you and he's still talking instead of doing something about it. "Huh?"

"Where do you want my cum baby? You won't be able to talk when I'm fucking you."

The sheer seriousness in his tone has shivers run down your spine, but you don't dwell on it too long. "Inside. Anywhere you want just please—Oh my god."

The sting of his tip slowly pushing in stops you from finishing your sentence. It's a mild discomfort for now, but the feeling of it stretching you open is better than any of the toys you and Sunghoon experimented with could've ever provided. He's just getting started, but your mouth is already ajar, and more wetness seeps out of you when your boyfriend rewards you with the most beautiful moan you've ever heard.

"God, it's like she's begging me to slam all the way in." His thumb swipes over your clit in circular motions to help you ease up so the first few inches aren't too harsh on your poor drooling pussy, and even though the tip isn't even the entire way in, the sight of his cock slowly disappearing inside your heat quickly shoots up to his favorite spot. "Deep breaths baby, remember what I taught you—No, don't tense up, it's okay. You've got this."

Your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head, pleasure and discomfort blending into one slowly as he waits for you to adjust. How are you supposed to not clench around him when he's encouraging you like this? It's beyond you.

Your hand shoots to grab Sunghoon's muscular biceps when he starts moving again, and he stills right away, waiting with bated breath for the taps to come.

They don't.

"Is it all in yet?" you ask, because truly, you feel so fucking full already, fuller than you have ever been. But the amused look on Sunghoon's face tells you exactly what you need to know.

"I mean." He moves a little more, and the burning—even if eased up a bit by all the juices and lube coating both of you—resumes. "A little more than the tip is."

"The tip?"

"The tip." Sunghoon thrusts out gently before pushing in again, both of you moaning at the same time. "I can fuck you with just that, it's enough to make you come harder than you ever have." He doesn't wait for you to tell him what to do, opting to give you shallow thrusts to test the waters, his thumb never parting from your clit.

The way you shudder and the little sweet sounds you make because of his tip alone has his stomach knot in all kinds of ways and his cock leap and throb so much it fucking hurts. Sunghoon would want nothing more than to shove it in and claim you fully, mold your pussy around his girth so perfectly no one else would ever be able to give you a cock half as good as his—like he would let that happen in the first place.

You're writhing under him, legs kicking a little when he feels the slide in and out slowly get more comfortable and slippier. That doesn't mean you're not clenching around him so hard he could cum at any given moment, but for your own pleasure—and his, really. He wants to shoot his load as deep as he possibly can—he tries to hold off to the best of his capabilities.

But fuck if it's not the hardest thing he's ever tried to do.

He almost breaks when your own hand reaches down for the one working on your pussy, smaller palm attempting to cover the back of his and to coax it into moving faster. There's a bit of drool on the corner of your lips, and you look so wrecked already, Sunghoon hates how a shiver runs down his spine at the mere thought of how you'll look like when he's balls deep inside you. "Hoon—fuck. I want more."

He coos at you, pretending he's not a wreck himself, pretending the thread thin sliver of sanity he has left isn't the only thing preventing him to fold your legs all the way up to your chest and fuck you into oblivion, but the arm next to your head shakes with restraint, and the knuckles on his fist are ghostly white by now, even if you're too blissed out to pay attention. His voice is shaky, uneven, but his words are careful and patient, even when you'd rather them not be. "We gotta get your pretty parts used to it first baby, come like this just once, it's only the last stretch."

Your whines turn into moans when his movements on your clit fasten and his tip nudges inside you a little deeper, just enough to momentarily satisfy your craving for more.

"Aren't you a greedy little thing," Sunghoon rasps, holding back his own impending orgasm with all his strength, beads of sweat now rolling down his neck deliciously, and you kinda wish you could bend forward and lick them off of him. "Asking for more, and more, and more after the stunt you pulled today. My pretty baby," his thumb pushes more forcefully on your bud, making it hurt so good for a second as you adjust to the pressure, then giving you harsher drags, meant to have you come undone and quivering under him in no time. "So desperate for cock you just had to go ahead and try to make me jealous. You like it when I'm jealous?"

You gasp, nodding frantically as you feel the familiar knot in your stomach tighten more and more, an embarrassing amount of slick pouring out of you and running downwards.

"You're so fucking lucky this is the first time we do this," his voice is rough, an octave lower than usual. "Or I would've bent you over and fucked you so silly the second we got home without stretching your pretty pussy open. But I'm so kind. Thank me for it."

You clench hard around him at his words, toes bending because you don't know what else to do with all the pleasure coursing through you, and he gives a gorgeous deep groan in response. "I'm gonna—"

"Then thank me for it."

You come around him hard, harder than you ever have, thank you's pouring out of your lips like a broken prayer, entire body shaking head to toe from the intense orgasm. The buzz in your ears persists for a while as you try to come down from it, and you can see but it feels like you can't, like your brain isn't registering any of the images your eyes capture. Bright, static, dark spots, so many things at once. It feels like you blacked out for a second even if you didn't, all your senses dulled to make space for all the other sensations your climax provides.

When you slowly start to regain power over them, you're met with the sight of Sunghoon panting like a dog, eyes closed and fist wrapped around his cock, the head poking out and redder than you've ever seen it, looking like he just ran a fucking marathon. Somehow, he managed not to cum. He was so close though, so close he had to pull out the second your walls started to involuntary flutter around him or he would've been done for.

The tight black shirt is still clinging to him like a second skin, and the first coherent thought of yours after the fog around brain clears is to get him out of it as soon as you can. You tug at the hem, still panting and blood buzzing from the release. "Off."

Sunghoon doesn't answer you with words, but he rips the shirt off his torso, throwing it somewhere on the floor behind him. His hands are shaky as they travel from your waist to your hips, then reaching your thighs, spreading you open further in front of him and allowing him to take a look at the big mess you—both of you, really—made. Sunghoon's cock is rock hard, tip oozing enough precum to make all the prep you've endured so far pointless. (Not really, you know better than that.)

Sunghoon goes back to nudging his tip on your hole, just holding it there without pushing in quite yet, casting a last questioning glance your way because he needs the reassurance that you're okay with this one last time before he fully commits.

When you nod, he slowly eases himself back into you with a low moan accompanying the motion, this time his gaze holding yours. The face you make as his tip stretches you open makes it a hundred times harder for him to keep his chill, wanting nothing more than to say fuck it and pound you stupid like you've been begging him to do ever since things first got handsy between you two.

The burn isn't nearly as bad as it was the first time, leaving space for so much more pleasure to course right through you, and you can't help the relieved sigh that leaves you when his tip is fully back inside you again, like it's a need for you to be filled by it. And Sunghoon sees that. He sees the fire in your eyes, the greediness slowly pooling behind those pupils he loves so much, how your hips look for his even if taking any more in hurts.

His hips jerk forward more than he intends them to, but he can't help it, not when you're looking at him like he's the prey. More of your wetness coats him, and both of you loudly moan into the night.

"You feel so fucking good, baby," Sunghoon whines, actual tears filling his waterline because he can't believe how much you're gripping him, pussy fluttering around his girth with every little bit he pushes forward, welcoming him like no one has ever done. "Tightest little pussy ever."

The hold on your thighs is bruising, but it helps you stay at least a little grounded so you wouldn't have it any other way. Whenever you think you're too full and cannot possibly take anymore, you feel a little more of Sunghoon's cock slide in you, so you get on your elbows with what little strength you have left and take a look for yourself. He's barely halfway in, and the burning sensation is starting to set in again. It hurts, but it hurts so good, you need more and you need less at the same time.

"Yeah, that's right, angel. Watch how your greedy needy cunt swallows me." Sunghoon's eyebrows are creased, sweat now not only dripping from his scalp, but little droplets constellating his broad chest, following the paths preset by his sculpted physique, all the way down to his vline. A mouthwatering sight.

"So full," you sigh, eyes never leaving from where you're connected, clit throbbing the more he fucks his cock into you, begging for a lick of attention.

"You'll be so much fuller. Can you behave and handle that for me, mhh?"

You bite down on your bottom lip, nodding along to his words and sneaking down your hand to play with your clit when you come to the conclusion that Sunghoon's hands are way too busy gripping your plushy skin like his sanity depends on it.

"Smart girl," he praises.

The wetter you become, the easier and more pleasurable the slide is. Sunghoon watches you for any sign of unbearable discomfort, slowing down when you bite your tongue or picking his speed back up when you bless him with those precious needy whines of yours. "You're doing so well, my gorgeous girl. So fucking amazing, making me feel so good already, God, you're perfect."

His words of encouragement play a big part in easing the pain for you, soothing you enough to make it easier for you to not tense up when his cock nudges a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. Your hand flies to your lower belly and you swear you feel him right there, so much deeper than you've ever had anyone—or anything—be.

"There we go," Sunghoon puffs out like he's been holding himself back from breathing this entire time, his pelvis grinding against your folds deliberately. And you finally realize he's all the way in for the first time ever. "Squeezin' me so tight, are you scared I'll run away?" He pulls back a bit before fully thrusting inside again, the curve of his cock aiding in making him hit all the right spots you could've never reached yourself. "No fucking chance. Not after I've got a taste of this. Gonna fuck your pretty pussy open every fucking night, until I've trained her to take me in without any complaints."

He sets a slow pace, not wanting to overwhelm you just yet, then adds, in a softer tone, "Does it hurt too bad, baby?"

If he keeps the back and forth up for much longer, you're gonna end up getting whiplash. But between groans and higher pitches sounds, you manage to answer him. "Any more and you would've popped me like a balloon."

Sunghoon giggles as he bends down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, hands finally loosening his grip on your legs and traveling all over your body. "You begged, and begged and—"

"I'm not complaining, am I?" you ask, breaking the kiss and resting your forehead on his, the saliva string connecting you two shining under the warm light of the lamp. "Harder."

Sunghoon complies instantly, speeding up his movements and giving you actual thrusts instead of the messy mix of grinding and nudges he'd taken a liking to. His hot, wet mouth finds your neck, too greedy and selfish, in desperate need of hearing the beautiful sounds you make instead of swallowing them down. His tongue skates over your pulse point, a shiver traveling down your entire body when he gives you the lightest nibble right there before licking it up again in apology.

"I can still taste you in my mouth." His breath tickles the wet skin of your neck, your front arching into his when goosebumps appear all over your exposed arms. "Always want to—mh, taste it. You'll let me eat your pretty pussy again after you gush on my cock?"

Even if you want to reply, you really can't, not when the pace he's drilling into you at is knocking the air out of your lungs, and the bolder his movements get, the more you understand why he asked where he should cum before even staring. You want to look at him, take in every expression on his beautiful face, but the pleasure is too much to handle and the only thing that seems to help is closing your eyes and letting them roll back into your skull.

Your lips are raw from all the biting, and you're so incredibly thankful when Sunghoon's hand swats yours away from your clit to replace it, allowing you to sink your fingers into his broad shoulders, clawing at them with every languid thrust he gives you. He feels so perfect, filling you up to the brim and then some more, stretching you out so fucking good you suspect you won't ever be able to scratch the itch if not with his cock.

"I'm in love with this fucking pussy, baby," he moans, loud and unapologetic, making his way with open mouthed kisses down your neck, then following the line of your clavicle, only to dip down between the valley of your breasts. Your tits have spilled out of the tiny little dress due to bouncing around with every precise thrust Sunghoon gave you, and your nipples are perky and hard, begging for his attention right in his face.

"And your tits, fuck. So pretty, I'm gonna eat you right up." He licks a stripe on one of your hardened buds before enveloping it fully between his lips and sucking on it lightly, sighing contently into it when you push your tits on his face further, loud whines spilling out of you.

The very familiar band in your tummy starts to tighten again the more he works on your nipples and clit at the same time, thrusts never once faltering. All of your senses are heightened to such a degree you don't even know what to do with yourself anymore if not lay under Sunghoon and let him absolutely ravage you, not a single thought but 'feels so good' crossing your mind. But it's fast, too fast, and you want it to last for longer, want Sunghoon to keep fucking you for hours until the only word you remember is his name.

You try to push his hand away from your clit, only earning a reprimanding yet gentle bite on your nipple, a warning. "I c-can't."

"Can't what, pretty girl?" He rolls your nipple between his lips, lapping away the tingling sensation the nibble left on it that has you jolt in his hold. "Use your words."

You throw your head back in frustration, feeling the impending climax approach you once again, the nth that night. "Don't want it to end," you gasp, using up all the strength left in you form a coherent sentence.

Sunghoon coos at you. Fucking coos at you only to deepen the strokes of his cock inside you, angling his hips to reach even deeper. "Cum for me baby, I'll just keep fucking you."

Your thighs shake as they wrap around his waist to pull him closer, his hips switching to grinding his cock into you instead of thrusting it, the fat tip poking the most delicious sensitive parts of your heat. You gasp and wheeze, claw and scratch and draw blood from his skin but it never hinders or stops his strokes. You clench around him time and time again, wrapping around his cock so nicely Sunghoon can feel his own orgasm build up in the pit of his stomach.

You come around him with a silent scream, every single part of your body twitching under him as he keeps fucking into you, now chasing his own high. He still takes a moment to watch you and how beautiful you look at the highest of your peak, eyes glazed over and mouth hung open, sweaty skin glistening so beautifully he wishes to be a painter and capture it forever. It's a sight he's never gonna grow accustomed to, and it has his stomach twist in knots. "That's it baby, so fucking gorgeous, keep cumming for me like that, milking my cock so well."

Even in the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body looks for his, hips rolling into his as if to silently ask for him to cum inside you, now that your voice has completely failed you.

"Just a bit more. We're almost there, my perfect little baby, so good for me," Sunghoon is babbling too by now, so damn enamored with the sight of you trying to keep your twitching under control even though you're still cumming around him and teetering on overstimulation so he can fully savor his own high. "The most perfect angel girl ever. I love you so fucking much."

Your head is light and Sunghoon's words reach you as if in slow motion, muffled by your own blood buzzing in your ears. You're completely drenched, and the bedding underneath you is too, but neither of you can bring yourselves to care. The slide is not painful anymore, and everything feels so warm and slippery, you never want it to end.

The image of Sunghoon still grinding and fucking his cock into you, his pace now reduced to a desperate mess and nowhere near as precise as it was, clears up slowly as your ears stop ringing, but your pleasure never does. You don't know if you're still cumming or if Sunghoon fucking you just feels this good you can't tell the difference, but you feel like you're on cloud nine and lighter than you've ever been.

Sunghoon's torso is completely glistening, and you feel some of that slick coat your skin too when he bends your legs into you, folding you against the bed and hitting even deeper inside you.

You're a moaning mess as he pistons his dick inside your heat, dragging perfectly against your gummy walls. You look down and see a bulge poke your lower tummy with each deep stroke of his. The sight alone is enough to have you on the edge again, but it feels different this time, like you cannot possibly contain what's about to happen.

"Hoon—"

"Shh," he silences you, hair a sweaty mess and dripping all over your figure. The squelching sounds of his skin slapping against yours, connected by white strips of slick on both of your thighs get even louder when his pace gets faster, the hand that played with your clit suddenly pushing down on the bulging of your stomach. "Give it all to me, soak my fucking dick—fuck, I'm gonna cum baby, gonna cum so deep inside you."

You cannot stop the dam from breaking, juices shooting out of you so suddenly you're taken aback too, coating his entire lower abdomen in it. Your cunt throbs around him so hard, almost like it's trying to push his cock out of you. You can't think of anything, cannot fathom anything that's not Sunghoon, and his perfect cock, and how good you feel, going completely limp on the bed.

He moans louder than you at the sight of your wetness drenching the bed and his cock. "Fuck, take it all baby. I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm—"

His hips stutter one final time against you, burying his cock deep inside you and shooting his seed in multiple thick spurts as deep as he possibly can, filling you up perfectly. He dips down to catch your mouth in a messy kiss, panting into your mouth even as you two are still both trying to catch your breath from your orgasms, but your lips on his are all the oxygen he needs.

"I love you," you whisper into the kiss, your words finally having found the way out of your throat again.

Sunghoon hums, his body weakened and tired but still hovering above you instead of slumping on you. "I love you more." He gives you a sweet peck like he wasn't just putting you through the matters moments ago. "You were perfect, baby. Did so amazing." He lets his body go beside you on the bed, dragging you between his arms and grimacing when the wet mess you made on the covers touches the back of his body. "A rag won't be enough."

You smile, weak but content. "And who's fault is that?"

Sunghoon pretends to think about it, but from the look on his face you can tell the answer is ready on his tongue. "I think it might be yours for being too hot I couldn't help myself."

You swat your hand on his chest, but there's no force behind the gesture.

"Aaand for making me jealous."

A groan leaves your lips, your arms coming up to cover your face. "How am i gonna ever face Jay again after this."

Sunghoon's chest vibrates against your skin. "You'll think about that after I clean you up."

You make a low noise of complaint, rolling over to push yourself on top of your boyfriend's body, hands resting on his toned chest as you reach for his huge cock and slowly sink yourself onto it, head thrown back in pleasure even if it's not fully hard anymore. Sunghoon's breath catches in his throat as he watches you lower yourself against him again, your head finding refuge on his shoulder. "Later."

You stay like that for a while, breaths slowly synchronizing in the peaceful quiet, Sunghoon's cock comfortably nested in your heat while his fingers lazily ghost over the entire expanse of your back. You could fall asleep at any moment, but you raise your head one more time to look at your boyfriend, his half lidded eyes meeting yours instantly. "You did not strike me as the type of guy to edge himself that much."

"Just go to sleep."

BONUS

You roll over to tentatively search Sunghoon's bedside table, ignoring the sound of the lube bottle hitting the floor, until the cold screen of your phone meets your spread hand.

Sunghoon is snoring lightly behind you, his nose nuzzled against your nape, and you hope to not wake him up as you unlock your phone. You recoil when the light that feels like a million suns momentarily blinds you, but even that is not enough to discourage you from completing the life-or-death task ahead of you.

You open up messages—promptly ignoring Jay's "never do this shit again. you two are nasty."— and click on Jungwon's chat, not wasting time to watch the several unloaded video files sitting in it (you can easily recognize the blonde silhouette of Jake's hair in half of them, so you're free to assume it's nothing of particular importance anyway) to type a quick text.

05:34 AM. You: mission accomplished ;p (cancel the hiking thing we planned for next week unless you carry me yourself. your girl can't walk)

Shockingly enough, he replies within the minute.

05:35 AM. twin: you shameless being (a whole week is crazy)

05:37 AM. twin: whatever, but I'm dragging you out for brunch so you figure out your means of transportation yourself. we need to catch up

05:38 AM. You: crazy night for both of us i assume

05:38 AM. twin: oh you have no idea

#mortal works #enhypen smut #sunghoon smut #enhypen x reader #sunghoon x reader #enha smut #enha x reader #sunghoon fanfic

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samah-2 · 3 days ago

Text

Daughter:

Mama... I’m hungry. My stomach hurts... We haven’t eaten for 3 days 💔💔💔

Me:

I know, my love... I know. But there’s nothing left in the house... no bread, no oil, not even clean water.😓😓😓

Daughter :

Then why don’t we go get aid? Our neighbor went yesterday to bring rice!🫣🫣

Me:

He didn’t come back, sweetheart! He was targeted! He left walking and came back a martyr...😞😞😞

Everyone who went this morning... half of them never returned.😭😭😭

Daughter:

So if you go... You might die too?😥😥😥

Me:

We shouldn't lose any of us ... I can’t bury a piece of my heart💔💔

Oh God... where do I go with my children? How do I feed them? What should I do?! 😭😭

I’m a mother, ya Allah... a mother who can’t feed her kids...😞😞😞

How do I keep living while watching their eyes slowly die in front of me every day?💔💔💔

Daughter:

Mama... my stomach hurts... but I’m not mad... just let me sleep in your arms🥹🥹

Me:

Come here, my love... My arms are empty of bread... but full of fear and love❤️❤️❤️

Forgive me, my baby...😭😭

This is our daily conversation with my children 💔💔

If you would like to help my children, the donation link is here👇

7# Verified By @bilal-sala7✅

#free palestine #free gaza #gaza genocide #gaza #gaza strip #help gaza #gazaunderattack #gofundme #gaza gfm #news on gaza

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charles-leclerizz · 3 days ago

Text

wrong room

on the runway : lando norris x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : Smut !!! (male receiving!oral sex, (un??) protected p in v sex , light dominance, Lando being a little possessive, mutual pining, soft dom!Lando energy, swearing, teasing, light voyeuristic vibes (friends nearby), mild praise kink, overstimulation), and lots of suggestive jokes.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : What starts as a summer getaway at a friend’s villa turns into something a lot hotter when Lando walks into the wrong room - and finds you in his old hoodie, watching F1 replays. You’ve always been friendly, never close. But maybe the hoodie wasn’t the only thing you’ve been holding onto.

designer notes : well, hopefully it was worth the wait <33 . would ya'll be mad at me if I told you I haven't started chapter 3 yet? nah, cause I'm feeding you guys so well?? ok anyway, remember to wear your seatbelts. love you

The villa is carved into the hills of Côte d'Azur like a dream - terracotta tiles, arched windows, the sea glittering just beyond a blur of lemon trees and white parasols. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and freshly crushed mint. Laughter carries from somewhere deeper inside the house, floating up and over the vines crawling across the exterior walls.

You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder and knock on the already - slightly - open door. It creaks as it swings wider.

“Hello?”

No answer - just music thumping softly from an unseen speaker, and the echo of distant conversation.

You step inside.

The marble beneath your sandals is cool. Someone’s kicked off flip - flops by the stairs. There’s a bikini drying over the back of a chair. You already know this isn’t going to be some luxury hotel - style getaway. It’s a shared house. A friend - of - a - friend kind of trip. Half of you doesn’t even remember who invited you - just that you needed the break, and this was close enough to what you craved so you said yes

“Hey! You made it!”

A voice - familiar - cuts through the quiet. You turn just in time to see your friend Luca come down the stairs in a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses pushed back into his curls.

“Finally,” he grins. “You’re the last one here. Thought you bailed.”

“I almost did.” You lift your bag with a huff. “Traffic was disgusting.”

He helps you with your things, leads you into the living room where it smells like watermelon and something vaguely alcoholic. A few people are sprawled out on couches or clustered around the pool deck visible through the wide - open French doors.

And then - of course - he’s there.

Lando.

He’s leaning back in one of the lounge chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, legs stretched out in lazy confidence. Tan lines on his thighs, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, jaw still sharp even in the golden hour haze. He looks over when he hears your name.

You haven’t seen him in maybe six months. You’ve never really been friends, but you’ve always hovered in the same social circle. Occasionally at the same parties, invited to the same post - race get - togethers, orbiting each other without ever really connecting.

But now he’s looking at you like he recognizes something new.

He nods, subtle. Gives you a half - smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

You shrug. “Didn’t know you were either.”

“Good surprise, then.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that - so you just smile, polite, and follow Luca further inside.

Your room’s upstairs, small but bright. There’s a ceiling fan and a tiny ensuite and just enough room to dump your suitcase across the bed without tripping over it. You unpack slowly, letting the noise of everyone else filter up through the open window. Somewhere below, Lando laughs - low and lazy - and you feel it like a fingertip dragged down your spine.

You should be immune to him by now. He’s Lando Norris. A walking thirst trap with dimples and the most unserious sense of humour known to man. But there’s something about here - the off - duty version, the sun - drenched version, the one who isn’t surrounded by engineers or cameras - that makes it feel… different.

Less like a boy on posters, more like a man below your window, dipping his feet into the pool.

You shake your head and change into something breezy: cotton shorts, a crop top. When you finally go back downstairs, the sun’s just beginning to dip below the treeline, casting long shadows across the pool deck.

People are already drinking. Someone’s pulled the Bluetooth speaker out again. There are half a dozen towels draped across every surface.

Lando’s still by the pool. This time, he’s in the water, arms resting on the ledge, talking to someone. His wet hair curls a little at the ends. His back is freckled from the sun. You shouldn’t be looking. You are.

He glances up just as you sit down.

You pretend not to notice.

Later, when you’re carrying two Aperol's back to your lounge chair, someone bumps your arm on purpose - gently, just enough to make the glasses slosh.

“Careful.”

You turn.

Lando again.

He takes one of the drinks from you before you can say anything.

“That was for me,” you lie.

“Too slow,” he grins, and sips.

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just the heat?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” He takes another sip, gaze drifting over your legs where you’re standing in the late - day sun.

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of how the top you're wearing hugs tighter now that it’s clung to your sun - warmed skin.

“Is this your game? Steal drinks and flirt with every girl who makes eye contact?”

“Only the ones who used to ignore me at parties.”

You blink.

“I didn’t ignore you.”

“You never said more than two words to me.”

“I didn’t know you,” you protest weakly.

He smirks. “You still don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it - open - ended, inviting. Like he’s offering a chance.

You roll your eyes and sit down, forcing the tension in your jaw to loosen. “You’re trouble.”

“I try.”

He settles into the lounge chair next to yours, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he tilts his head back to the sun again.

The rest of the evening blurs into the kind of contented, alcohol - soft haze you only get on the second night of a trip like this - just enough comfort to start relaxing, not yet enough routine to feel bored.

Dinner’s grilled and eaten outside. Someone plays bartender and makes the drinks far too strong. You laugh more than you expect. Lando doesn’t hover, but every time you glance over, he’s already looking.

You should go to bed early.

You don’t.

You stay long enough to watch him light sparklers with a lighter he shouldn’t have, teeth catching on the cap of another beer. Stay long enough to feel the way his laugh drags across your skin from halfway across the patio. Stay long enough to admit - to yourself, at least - that maybe this time, you do want to know him.

By the time you’re back in your room, showered and curled up on the bed with your phone in one hand and your sleep playlist in the other, you’re warm from more than just the heat.

The last thing you see before you shut your eyes is the faint blue light of a replay clip of Lando’s onboard from Monaco. You didn’t even mean to open it. But your vague connection the world of driving means that you, just like the drivers, are addicted to watching race replays like a lullaby. You let it loop anyway - quiet, steady - as you fall asleep in a hoodie you stole from a driver party two years ago.

You barely remember that it’s his hoodie.

It’s hotter the next day. The kind of heat that makes everything feel heavy - time, clothes, thoughts.

You wake up in the late afternoon, the bed tangled with your sheets and limbs, your skin still warm from the residual heat of the day before. The villa is quieter now. Most people must already be outside, and when you crack your window open, you catch the sound of a speaker playing something bassy and upbeat, mixed with the distant splash of pool water and a few hollered laughs.

You take your time getting ready, pulling on the only clean swimsuit you packed without thinking. It’s cute, functional enough - but maybe a little revealing. Maybe not what you’d wear if you didn’t know who else would be outside. Maybe it’s stupid how long you spend in front of the mirror tugging the straps into place.

When you finally head downstairs, the sun hits you like a wall - too much too fast, and all of it golden. The pool glimmers. Someone’s set out snacks, there’s a melting bowl of fruit beside a stack of half - read paperback books, and a cooler full of drinks wedged under the shade.

And of course - he’s there.

Lando.

Lying on a towel just at the edge of the pool. Board shorts low on his hips, eyes squinting up from behind his sunglasses. He’s propped up on one arm, lazily sipping something bright orange through a paper straw. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying off to the side, curls stuck to his forehead, skin flushed just enough to tell you he’s been out here a while.

You try not to look. You fail.

He notices. Doesn’t say anything - just tips his chin up in a sort of wordless greeting.

You set your towel down two chairs away. Not beside him. Not directly across. Just… within view.

“Someone’s late to the pool party,” he calls after a moment, voice lazy from the heat.

“I needed sleep.”

“You needed to make a dramatic entrance, you mean.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “You think everything’s about you.”

“Everything is about me,” he says, deadpan.

You stretch out on your towel, trying not to notice the way his eyes drift down your legs, then flick quickly away again when you catch him. The air feels thicker than before - or maybe it’s just your skin, suddenly too aware of every inch of exposed surface.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re already sweating. The sun beats down mercilessly, and you sit up, digging through your bag for your sunscreen. You squirt some into your palm and reach for your shoulder - and that’s when his shadow falls across you.

“You’ll never reach your back,” he says casually.

One minute Lily and Kika where beside you, the next they weren’t.

You blink up at him, “Thanks for the concern.”

He holds out a hand. “Give it here.”

You hesitate. Then place the bottle in his hand, trying not to think about how broad his shoulders look from this angle. He kneels behind you on the towel, the lotion cools against your overheated skin.

His touch is… careful. Gentle at first. He smooths the sunscreen between your shoulder blades with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs brushing the curve of your spine before dragging back up again, just before the thin tie of your bottoms. His hands are warm and wide, fingers pressing slightly harder with each pass, until you're leaning into the sensation without even realising.

“This, okay?” he asks, voice low - not teasing anymore, just… close.

You nod, barely trusting your voice.

He doesn’t stop. Works the lotion into your shoulders, your neck, fingertips grazing the strap of your swimsuit before pulling back just shy of scandal. You feel your whole - body hum, strung tight like a wire.

And then - just as suddenly - it’s over.

“All good,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

You exhale. Try to swallow.

“Thanks.”

He shrugs, tossing the bottle back toward your bag. “Don’t want your burning. Would ruin your dramatic entrances.”

You laugh, light but shaky. “Wouldn’t want that.”

You stay in the shade for most of the afternoon, half - reading a book you can’t focus on. Every time Lando walks past - dripping wet from a dive, towel slung around his shoulders, alcohol bottle in one hand - your eyes follow him before you can stop them.

You don’t talk again. Not properly. But there’s something shifting now. You feel it in the way he looks at you longer than he should. In the way your fingers brushed his wrist earlier when he handed you a strong cocktail and didn’t pull away. In the way you can still feel his hands on your skin, hours later.

Something’s changed.

And you’re not sure which one of you is going to do something about it first.

You can’t sleep.

The villa’s quiet now - except for the creak of floorboards, the occasional pipe knocking in the wall, and the soft echo of wind sliding through open windows. Everyone else is either passed out drunk or tangled up in someone else’s sheets. The hallways feel like a lull, soaked in summer and moonlight.

You’re curled up in bed, too warm to get under the covers, wearing nothing but the old, oversized hoodie and a faint sunburn still blooming across your thighs. You didn’t mean to put this one on - it was just at the top of your bag. Familiar, soft, slightly too big.

Lando’s hoodie.

You don’t even think he knows you kept it. One of those late - night party things - he tossed it to you on a balcony and never asked for it back.

You’re not planning to see him tonight. Not thinking about the way he touched your back earlier. Not thinking about how he looked at you like he wanted to touch more.

Your phone’s propped up on a pillow, volume low, screen lit with one of his old Silverstone onboard replays. There’s something soothing about it. The smooth rhythm of the track, the flick of the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He’s in control. Sharp. Focused. You wonder what it’s like to make him lose that focus.

The door creaks open.

You sit up fast, yanking your blanket over the bottom hem of your hoodie. “What the - ”

“Shit - ” a familiar voice mutters. “Sorry. Fuck.”

Lando.

He’s shirtless, in just sweats, hair a little damp like he showered but didn’t bother to dry it. His eyes are slightly wide as he sees you, as if his brain’s still catching up with what he just walked into.

“I thought this was - ” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s not - yeah, this is definitely not my room.”

You should say something - ask why he’s even trying to come in when most people are already knocked out for the night.

But his eyes are stuck on your hoodie. His hoodie. You’re half - curled up, one leg bare up to the thigh, the hem bunched at the top of them, collar slipped low enough to show your collarbones and just a hint of skin underneath.

“You wear that often?” he asks, voice a little hoarse.

Your heart kicks up, fast.

“You gave it to me.”

“Didn’t think you kept it.”

You shrug, hoping your face doesn’t give too much away. “Didn’t think you wanted it back.”

He steps further into the room - slow, quiet - until he’s leaning against the inside of your door and shutting it softly behind him.

You look at him. He looks at you.

Then, finally, he speaks - quiet, but direct.

“You’re not telling me to leave.”

You swallow.

“Do you want me to?” you ask.

His voice is lower now. “No.”

You shift on the bed, pulse starting to hammer in your ears. “Then don’t.”

He stands there for a second longer, like he’s giving you a moment to change your mind. And then he’s walking forward.

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes dark in the low light. One hand lift - slow, deliberate - and pulls at the blanket until he brushes your knee from where it peeks from under the hoodie.

“You look good in that,” Lando says, voice soft, hoarse.

You smile, lips parted. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was trying to stay sane.”

“Why?”

He leans in, fingers tracing up your thigh, grazing higher until your breath catches. “Because if I thought about you in this hoodie too long, I’d do something stupid.”

Your hands fist into the sheets. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

He kisses you hard - not rushed, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting, wanting, and now that he has you, he’s not wasting a second. You meet him halfway, fingers threading through his damp curls, hoodie riding up over your hips as he shifts between your knees and deepens the kiss.

His hands slide up your bare thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs dragging soft circles. You gasp into his mouth when one hand cups the back of your thigh, spreading you further apart so he can settle between them.

“Still not telling me to leave,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw.

“I’d kick your ass if you tried.”

The room is barely lit by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows drape the corners, but the air is thick with heat - your heat, his heat - heavy enough to make every breath feel sticky and urgent.

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tense as he watches you. The oversized hoodie you’re wearing - his hoodie - hangs loosely, but every inch of skin you show feels like a dare.

You flip over his lap to kneel in front of him, heart hammering hard against your ribs. His cock is already hard, proud and aching beneath the loose sweats he’s left hanging low on his hips. His breath catches when you reach out, your fingers warm as they close around him over the fabric.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hooded with want.

You smile, cheeks flushed and lean in closer, tugging down his waistband, “You’re the one who walked into the wrong room.”

His hands find your hair before you can even move - gentle but insistent, threading through your curls as you lean forward, mouth parting to tease the tip of him. He groans softly, air escaping through his clenched teeth, and you know this is going to be slow, deliberate.

You take him into your mouth, starting light - teasing with your tongue, lips barely brushing the sensitive head. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails grazing your scalp, holding you in place even as you pull back, just enough to make him desperate.

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he rasps, his hips pressing forward instinctively.

You hum around him, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, sucking just enough to pull a deep moan from his throat. His hands tighten, gripping the sheets as you bob your head slowly, tasting him, swallowing every hitch of breath he makes.

When you take him deeper, your throat tightens, the stretch delicious and thrilling. He gasps, hips jerking up just a little, and you feel it - the pulse of his arousal, steady and strong. You slow down, using your tongue to circle the head, flicking the underside with precision that sends shivers through him.

“God, you’re so good,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper.

His free hand slips to your waist, pulling you up close, and you wrap your arms around his thighs, holding him steady. You want to hear everything - every ragged breath, every curse falling from his lips.

The way his hips start to grind forward against your mouth, desperate for more.

His fingers dig into your hair, tugging lightly, and you take it as permission to go deeper - slow, steady, careful. You feel his body tense, muscles flexing as he rides the wave you’re building, his breath hitching in ragged bursts.

When his hips jerk sharply and he releases a low growl, you swallow him down fully, holding him there as long as you can. He curses your name, gripping your hair harder, and when he pulls away, his lips are swollen, breathless.

You look up, cheeks flushed, and meet his eyes - glazed, heavy with want and need.

Without a word, he reaches out and pulls you to your feet, hands on your waist firm and sure. His mouth is back on yours instantly, a kiss that’s both desperate and possessive, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you backward onto the bed.

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin with reverent curiosity. You arch into his touch, heart pounding as he trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, whispering soft promises between each press of his lips.

He moves with slow, sure confidence, pushing the hoodie up over your head and tossing it aside like it’s been burning him all night.

“You’re all mine,” he breathes, voice thick.

You shiver, overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating off his body as he trails down your stomach, palms flat and sure. His fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, hesitating just a second before sliding beneath.

Every nerve ending in your body sings as he removes your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, exposing you completely.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles around your hip bones.

When he finally parts your legs, his eyes darken, focused, hungry.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit, teasing with his tongue in long, slow flicks that make you bite back a moan.

His mouth wraps around you, warm and wet and demanding, and you clutch his hair, hips rocking forward into him without thinking.

“Shh,” he murmurs against you, voice low and serious. “Gotta keep it down.”

You bite your lip, nodding, desperate to keep quiet but drowning in the sensation of his tongue and mouth working magic. He hums, flicks his tongue faster, and you feel the coil tightening deep inside you.

His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance, brushing just the tip before pulling back to focus on your clit again.

You’re trembling, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders as he pulls you closer.

When you come, it’s a shattered, stifled cry buried in his neck, fingers digging into his scalp as your body clenches around his mouth.

He holds you through it, slow and steady, until you’re shuddering and soft again.

Then, gently, he pulls back and grins up at you - wild, messy, utterly undone.

“You taste like everything I want.”

You laugh breathlessly and push him down, straddling him as his hands settle on your hips.

You take your time, rolling your hips, sinking down slowly, savouring every inch.

His hands grip your waist tight as you ride him - slow, deep, unrelenting.

The only sounds in the room are your gasps, his moans, and skin sliding against skin.

You lean down, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you move together - a perfect, messy rhythm.

When he’s close, you bite his shoulder, smile against his skin, and whisper, “Not so quiet now, huh?”

He laughs low and growls, “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

You pick up the pace, bouncing harder, nails gripping his chest as he buries his face in your neck, fingers clutching your hips.

And when he comes, it’s explosive - deep, guttural, his body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you.

You ride out the waves together, panting and slick, limbs tangled.

When it’s over, he pulls you close, pressing kisses along your jaw and whispering, “That was worth walking into the wrong room.”

The morning spills into the room like warm honey.

Golden light streaks across the sheets, catching on dust suspended in the still air. Outside the window, someone’s already put music on too loud - something distant and summery and muffled by the thick villa walls. But in here, it’s all quiet.

You shift under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from where Lando’s body presses into yours. He’s still half - asleep, one arm flung over your stomach, curls mussed against the pillow. You breathe him in sunscreen and sweat, salt and something softer. Like linen and heat.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip bone. It’s the kind of touch that says he's still here, even in his sleep.

You turn toward him, nose brushing his jaw.

“Lando,” you whisper, low and quiet, just to see if he’s awake.

Lando hums sleepily as you kiss his chin. “Mmm, you’re up early.”

“Not really,” you mumble. “I think it’s nearly noon.”

He groans. “We should hide. Stay in here all day.”

You smile. “You drooled on my pillow.”

He growls softly, burying his face in your neck. “Could be worse. Could’ve been your chest.”

You laugh, legs tangling with his. “You’re disgusting.”

“Last night you said I was talented.”

“I said you were decent.”

He grins sleepily against your skin, voice still thick. “You came twice. At least give me ‘skilled.’”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too hard - but you’re glowing, skin flushed from more than just the heat.

His hand slips lower, resting over the swell of your ass, fingers tracing lazy shapes again. You’re not doing anything, not going anywhere. It’s rare - to feel like this. Not just satisfied but settled.

Until -

“OH MY GOD.”

The door slams open, and you flinch, instinctively yanking the blanket up to your chin.

Lando groans so loudly it’s borderline feral. “No. Nope. Out.”

Oscar is standing in the doorway, already in swim trunks and a bucket hat, holding a protein shake in one hand like a fucking trophy. Squinting into the light like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“I KNEW IT,” he yells, pointing at you both. “Fifty bucks, bitches!”

You blink, dazed. “What - ?”

“I told Lily it would happen before the weekend was over,” Oscar continues, stepping just one inch further into the room like he’s inspecting evidence. “She said you’d pussy out. Guess who was right.”

You blink. “Wait, you two - bet on us?”

Oscar shrugs. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And then you started wearing that hoodie again. It was obvious.”

Lando rolls over and shoves a pillow over his head. “Oscar I swear to God - ”

“Hey, don’t blame me, you could’ve been subtle. But noooo, you had to be all hoodie and eye fucking by the pool.”

You groan. “How long were people watching us?”

Oscar snorts. “We have eyes.“

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, like he’s handing out a wedding gift. It’s when he sips at his gym bottle and hisses, you realise there’s probably tequila in there, “Try not to traumatize the maid staff.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut again.

Silence.

You both stare at the ceiling for a second before bursting into laughter.

Lando turns toward you, dragging you under him again, smirking like an idiot. “We are never living this down”

“I kinda don’t care”

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You gonna wear that hoodie again?”

You grin. “Only if I want everyone to know what I let you do to me last night.”

He pauses. Smirks.

“Bold of you to assume I’m not wearing it next.”

You shove him lightly, laughing, as he tackles you back into the sheets, messy and warm and unbothered - a little wrecked, a little teased, and a whole lot in trouble.

But somehow, it feels kind of perfect.

meet the models after the show ( epilogue ) :

It’s the last morning at the villa.

People are packing. Doors opening, zippers skimming across tile. Half - melted iced coffees line the kitchen counter, and someone’s already yelling about who stole their charger.

You’re still in Lando’s bed.

Still in his hoodie.

Still not ready to move.

He walks back into the room with two mugs in hand - both his. One is basic ceramic with your initials scratched in red nail polish. The other says World’s Fastest Slut in hideous bubble font.

He doesn’t even flinch when he hands you that one.

“You’re really still wearing that thing?” he says, nodding to the hoodie swallowing your frame.

You raise an eyebrow and sip your coffee. “You say that like you weren’t staring every time I wore it.”

He shrugs, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Just surprised you never took it off.”

You smirk. “Why would I? It’s comfy. Smells good. Annoys Oscar.”

“Ah,” he nods, mock serious. “You stayed in my hoodie out of spite.”

You hum. “Mostly. Partially because it makes my legs look good.”

His gaze drags down. “Can confirm.”

You blink. “You gonna tell Oscar that ?”

“Absolutely not. He’s been insufferable since he ‘won’ a bet that didn’t exist.”

You laugh, and he leans forward, catching your chin gently with his fingers. You try not to smile, but he leans forward and nudges your knee with his.

“You’re still coming back to mine after this, right?” he asks, casual, but his tone softens halfway through.

You blink. “Did I say I was?”

He gives you that look - head tilted, lashes low, mouth twitching like he’s holding back something cocky. “You didn’t have to.”

You take another slow sip of coffee. “Hmm. That so?”

He leans in closer, fingers brushing the hem of the hoodie as he murmurs, “Only condition is… if you keep stealing my clothes, I get to start stealing your time.”

You snort. “That was corny as hell.”

“Did it work?”

You meet his eyes, and yeah - it did.

You set the mug down and pull him toward you, letting him kiss you slow, like the world isn’t about to start moving again. His hand curls over your thigh, his smile warm against your lips.

When he pulls back, you sigh into his shoulder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come back with you.”

“Knew it,” he says smugly.

“On one condition,” you add.

He raises a brow.

“I keep the hoodie.”

Lando grins, eyes half - lidded. “Deal.”

You settle back into the bed, sun rising behind you, the sound of car engines and goodbyes faint in the background. But here, it’s just him. You. And the hoodie you’re never giving back.

856 notes · View notes

azzibueckers5 · 3 days ago

Text

take another drag (turn me to ashes)

synopsis: messy fwb pazzi, extremely unserious angst, alcohol usage, sexual content, situationship final bosses paige and azzi but they're like really really chill about it, um. the only hint that i'm giving in terms of the smut is possessiveness. enjoy!

wc: 6.5k (part 1/2)

a/n: title is from lana's diet mountain dew. you gay bitches won you get the first half tonight. enjoy the repercussions (sexual frustration). this was a tad rushed so i could get it out before the weekend so there's bound to be typos i am. Sorry. also roommate pairings are entirely made up #sorry

azzi tilts her head back against the couch cushions behind her and closes her eyes for a second, trying to assess what level of drunk she’s riding in their game of truth or drink in preparation for her next turn.

her teammates are scattered precariously around the room, all twelve of them making themselves at home in evina, aubrey, and piath’s small living room, and the half full handle of titos sits in the middle of the lopsided circle like some sacrificial token, daring azzi to test it.

she’s been spared from any truly invasive questions so far, only having to answer one about her first kiss (a random boy named carlos in the seventh grade after a movie date that had been nothing short of terrible) and what the most scandalous place she’d ever hooked up with someone was (she’d hesitated before answering this one, not because a hotel pool had been that embarrassing, but because her counterpart in that particular rendezvous was sitting directly next to her, fingers fidgeting in her lap and eyes refusing to make contact), so she hasn’t had to drink to avoid anything.

this was a team bonding event though– and the last one before the season officially started– so naturally azzi had been coerced into doing two separate rounds of shots by nika, in addition to sipping on a drink with god knows how many more, and the buzz in her limbs was starting to make tipsy feel like a thing of the past.

it was at least mildly reassuring that everyone around her also seemed to have reached that tipping point as well, and she could feel the atmosphere descending into that loose, rowdy environment that only happened on the rare nights when they didn’t have an early practice the next day.

amari is getting grilled about, like, her ex boyfriend’s dick size or something– azzi’s trying hard not to pay attention– which means azzi’s turn is next. she lifts her head up from the couch and ignores the slight dizziness that accompanies it, focusing instead on the feeling of paige’s hand repeatedly poking her thigh.

she tilts her head towards the blonde lazily and sighs, exaggerating her exasperation, and catches paige's finger in her own, stilling her.

“what.”

paige grins, crooked but blinding all the same, and azzi knows immediately that she is also hurtling towards drunk by the slightly dazed look on her face. she tries to smother the excitement that bubbles up at the idea of what usually happens when they get drunk together, and only halfway succeeds.

“nothin,’” paige says, unashamedly fishing for attention.

azzi rolls her eyes, and ignores the flutter in her chest when paige laces their fingers together instead of letting go.

“you’re an attention whore,” she declares, trying to scrunch her face into something that resembles annoyance.

“don’t act like you don’t love it,” paige drawls, and, yup. definitely a little drunk, because she’s slurring the end of her words a little, in a way that shouldn’t be endearing but always is anyways, and is flirting a little more brazenly than she otherwise would, especially in front of the team.

azzi is spared from having to respond when dorka kicks her right leg that’s splayed out on the ground in front of her and informs her that it’s her turn.

“you ready to drink, princess?”

she blinks away from paige’s face and scoffs, trying to catch up to the rest of the room. the last thing they need right now is for someone to accuse them of flirting again.

she pulls her fingers out of paige’s with a squeeze and says, defiantly, “m’not drinking. hit me with your best, dorka.”

the older girl smirks from across the circle, and anxiety pools in her stomach. she prays this question isn’t about her sex life.

“last person you got with. out with it.”

what a surprise. a sex question.

azzi internally sighs and tries to keep the panic off her face, tries to ignore the flash of memory at the question:

paige, kissing her in the dingy bathroom of ted’s, hands on the back of her thighs under her skirt; paige, dragging them stumbling back to azzi’s dorm, fingers tangled; paige, pressing azzi into her bedroom door, mouth moving down her neck; paige, fingers between her– she shoves the memory away, willing her face to stay unimpressed.

her rescue comes in the form of paige herself, which is, admittedly, a little incriminating, but she’s grateful nonetheless. “ya’ll must be extra horny today. how bout you go get laid instead of interrogating all of us about our sex lives.”

azzi nudges their ankles together in thanks, just as christyn groans somewhere to her left and says “don’t be a loser paige. we tryna make it actually fun,” and piath throws a piece of popcorn at paige and says “of course paige is defending azzi.”

damn it.

there’s a chorus of agreement from the girls around them, and azzi sighs, glaring at the glass handle in front of her and mentally prepping for the shot that’s going to curdle in her stomach.

but then, evina, who’s already properly sloshed, calls out impatiently, “yeah, come on az, last guy you got with. not that hard,” and azzi smiles.

blessed reprieve in the form of heteronormativity.

before anyone can object to the question, she blurts out “last guy i got with was james,” and hopes everyone is too drunk to inquire further.

got with is kind of an exaggeration– they’d kissed at the afterparty at prom and azzi had let it happen for approximately thirty seconds before his hands had started wandering and she’d broken away to run off and find her friends– but it's not her fault if people assume it was more than that.

she knows paige is gonna be sulky about the mere mention of him anyways, but that’s her problem. they’ve agreed to stop the whole messy hook up thing, what with basketball really gearing up and the fear of making things complicated, and that includes getting jealous when other people are brought up. never mind the fact that they’ve been absolutely terrible at adhering to that new rule.

christyn narrows her eyes suspiciously and asks “what do you mean by guy,” just as aaliyah says, rather shocked, “your prom date? as in not since may?”

azzi takes a sip of her drink and smirks. she should probably be a little bit more careful at what she’s insinuating, but she’s giddy at getting away without having to take a shot for a third time and also definitely a little drunk.

“i haven’t hooked up with a guy since may. that’s what you asked. paige’s turn.”

but they aren't letting her off the hook so easy, and olivia’s voice rings out over the rest of them, loud and laced with disbelief. “you brought someone home last month after the bar. nika and i had to sleep with pillows over our heads.”

nika is one of the two other people in this room that knows that that had been paige. azzi expects her to help them out a little bit here.

“yeah, azzi, what was that about?” she says instead, smarmy and annoying and so totally enjoying this.

so much for assistance.

dorka piles on with “liars have to take two shots to make up for it,” and azzi shoots a death glare at nika and sighs.

“m’not lying. evina said who’s the last guy. i answered the question.”

the room erupts again into shrieks of surprise and someone says “the princess is into women?”

azzi just takes a large gulp of her drink, pushes down the feeling of indignation at the thought that it's this shocking she’d be into women, and tries really hard not to look at paige.

she fails.

paige, for her part, is putting up a solidly mediocre performance on how to be nonchalant: lazy smirk, legs spread casually, and eyes refusing to look at azzi for too long. azzi knows her inside and out though, and can see the clench of her jaw and the shift of her fingers on the perimeter of her solo cup, the way her gaze is flitting around the room, cataloguing the different reactions to azzi’s sentence.

she pulls her eyes off paige’s silhouette before she gives them away and fixes her stare instead on aaliyah. “dunno why you assumed i’m straight, that’s your problem. somebody ask paige a question already. i answered mine.”

christyn makes a couple more attempts at getting azzi to spill on who this mystery woman is, but she refuses, and eventually the group moves on to start plotting on how to get paige to drink.

tomorrow, azzi will worry about the consequences of inadvertently revealing that she’s into girls– both because it makes her rather intense friendship with paige that much more suspicious, and because coming out to some of her closest friends via a shitty question in truth or drink is a admittedly a little pathetic. she’s never exactly tried to hide her sexuality though, it just turned out that when you’d only ever kissed one girl and were also trying to keep the fact that you were kissing said girl a secret, things tended to stay under wraps.

azzi breathes out a sigh of relief at her turn being over and shifts her thoughts to trying her best to prepare for paige’s interrogation, knowing that it’s fairly likely the question will pertain to her in some capacity, seeing as the team is hellbent on asking about sex escapades.

honestly. you’d think they were at a sleepover with sixteen year olds.

she hopes everyone around them is drunk enough to miss the tension in her shoulders, and the glances she keeps taking at paige’s face. she pointedly ignores caroline’s knowing gaze from the other across the circle, the only other one in the room besides nika who’s aware of the tangle of something more between them, and again, takes a rather large chug of her drink.

the relief of being out of the hot seat does not last long. because somehow the question that’s almost unanimously decided upon for paige is, in azzi’s opinion, seventeen times worse.

“p, how many bodies you got by now?” calls aubrey from where she’s stretched out against the tv stand, glee evident in her voice, and azzi’s heart sinks into her stomach.

she’s confident the answer is somewhere between three and five, but despite the fact that her and paige have never kept things from each other, azzi has made a point to actively avoid hearing about paige sleeping with other people. it was sort of an unspoken rule– they didn’t talk about the girls paige got with before azzi came to uconn, and they didn’t talk about the boys azzi had gotten with her senior year of high school.

they had a lot of unspoken rules.

they’d been each other's firsts (azzi stops herself from thinking too hard about the fact that she wants to be paige’s last, too), fumbling around in the dark of a hotel room (azzi reminds her self that that had meant more than any rushed hookup paige had sought out since), and though they’d maintained the conviction that the other was allowed to do whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted, they’d never been exactly good at sharing.

as the group around her debates what, specifically, has to meet the requirements for a body when it comes to having sex with girls, azzi racks her brain and tries to remember the last time paige had hooked up with someone other than her.

it had only been three weeks since she’d made one of her more terrible decisions to let the fear that paige had starting meaning more to her than basketball dictate the parameters of their relationship, and she’d initiated the rule that during basketball season (and the few weeks leading up to it), the two of them should halt the rather non-platonic aspects of their friendship for fear of making things too complicated.

she’d been half expecting paige to push back, would have most likely caved with merely a few sentences and a makeout as a counter argument, but paige hadn’t argued whatsoever, and they’d since been mostly successful at pretending everything was fine.

they’d only slipped up once since the implementation of the new rule– a rather heated makeout session in the locker room of all places when they’d been left alone post practice, sweaty and sports bra clad (they’d never stood a chance)– and they had somehow miraculously managed to spend just as much time together as they’d had before, so azzi doesn’t think paige has had time to add to her body count.

(god help both of them if she had, because azzi’s crashout would probably cause world war three)

that left only the ones she’d accumulated over the course of her freshman year, because paige and azzi had been effectively inseparable (and effectively exclusive) since their arrival at summer session workouts in may.

still, this doesn’t halt the twist in her stomach at the idea of paige with anyone else, and she fights the icky feeling in her stomach with a sip of her drink.

but azzi can handle this, definitely, and she’s prepared for paige’s answer when she takes a lazy sip of her drink and drawls out “four.”

what she’s not prepared for is the general disbelief that echoes around the circle, and the insufferable comments from various teammates about how “that can’t be true,” and “it’s gotta be more than that.”

azzi wants to hit someone. preferably all eleven other people in the room.

and then, her irrational anger at the rest of the circle refocusses to just paige because she humors it, leaning back and smirking. “what can i say? i’m picky,” grinning at the comments about how much of a whore she was the pervious year. as if it’s funny.

if azzi believed in things like auras and spiritual colors, hers would probably look like a christmas monstrosity right now– green for jealousy clashing with the crimson of her fury.

she shifts over, removing her leg from where it had been subtly pressed up against paige’s, and tucks her glower into the rim of her cup, plotting several murders as the group around them howls with laughter and continues reminiscing on paige’s escapades like it was a hilarious, wonderful time, and not the root of many sleepless nights for azzi.

she really has enough when evina giggles out something about how “paige needs to get back out there” and christyn agrees, slurring about how they miss “big daddy bueckers.”

azzi coughs. hard.

and then she finishes the rest of her drink in one swig, ignores paige’s searing gaze on the side of her face, and stands up rather aggressively to go fix herself another. if she subtly kicks paige’s foot on the way past, that’s nobody’s business but hers. she’s not doing a particularly terrific job of subtlety right now, but no one is sober enough to notice.

nika joins her in the kitchen, and bursts out laughing as soon as she sees the expression on azzi’s face, contorted into what is probably a rather hideous scowl.

“someone’s jealous,” she taunts, as she watches azzi pour a healthy amount of vodka into her cup.

“i’m not jealous,” azzi hisses. jealousy would imply azzi had a right to care about who paige gets with. which she does not. she adds another glug of tito’s for good measure.

nika eyes the amount of liquid in her cup and raises an eyebrow. “no?”

azzi glares. “nothing to be jealous over. paige can do whatever she wants.”

nika has the audacity to laugh at her. “ooookayy,” she drags out, hands raised beside her head like azzi is a feral animal. she sort of feels like it. “as someone who witnessed paige last year, it wasn’t nearly as crazy as they make it seem.”

azzi wishes this made her feel better, but in all honesty it’s information she already knows, which reminds her of how irrational she’s being, which in turn makes her more upset, at like, the world.

she huffs. “that’s none of my business.”

“uh huh. that’s why you were eye fucking eachother in the living room and are now pouring yourself a triple.”

nika muhl and her psychology degree can kick rocks.

“we told you, we’re not doing that anymore,” azzi muttered, doing a terrifically bad job at keeping the contempt out of her voice.

nika eyes her with exasperation. “and who’s fault is that.”

azzi’s frown somehow deepens at the accusation. “it’s no one’s fault. it’s just the right thing to do.”

nika blinks, disbelieving. “if you say so. when paige walks out of your room tomorrow morning with her hood up i’m going to say i told you so.”

“not happening.”

nika just raises her eyebrows. azzi decides she’d through with this conversation.

drink made, she stalks back to the living room, nika following close behind with thinly veiled amusement. she’s officially been added to azzi’s shit list of the night, directly behind one paige bueckers.

she plops back down next to the blonde, careful to keep the space between their bodies reasonable, and takes a sip of her drink, wincing at how strong she’d made it.

paige looks inquisitively at her, and azzi tries to ignore it, but then her head tilts back against the base of the couch as she sideyes azzi, brows furrowed in an unspoken attempt at asking if she’s good, which exposes the long, pale, extremely biteable column of her throat, and azzi jerks her head away before she does something stupid like lick it in front of their entire team, and ignores her.

she’s still mad at paige. not for having four bodies– that would be ridiculous. just for other, secret reasons. definitely.

she listens intently as nika immediately gets interrogated about the football guy she’s down bad for instead– serves her right for accusing azzi of being jealous– and decides that if the next question she gets asked is about her sex life, she’s going to take the shot. paige doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of hearing an answer that’s probably about her.

but then, when her turn rolls around and olivia’s nosy fucking question of “azzi who’s the best you’ve ever had and why” causes paige to smirk next to her, azzi decides that simply taking the shot would feed paige’s ego far too much.

so, she lets a smirk of her own cross her face and slurs out a massive fucking lie: “this guy i got with last year- charlie- very talented with his tongue,” and lets the room erupt into madness.

the look on paige’s face is delightful.

paige is by far the best azzi’s ever had– by, like, a factor of ten– and charlie had only been a brief fling senior year to (unsuccessfully) distract azzi from paige. he’d been mediocre at best. by the look on the blonde’s, face she knows that too, so the offense and shock laced into the outrage of her expression is beautiful. her eyes bore into azzi’s, drunk and disbelieving and pissed, and azzi swallows at the intensity of her gaze.

serves her right.

she’s forced to tear her eyes away when christyn calls out “i’m sorry, you got with a girl last month and you expect me to believe that the best you ever got was from a guy?”

azzi flushes, but she holds her gaz, shrugging, and then decides to pour metaphorical gasoline on the fire that is currently raging next to her. “wasn’t really impressed with her skills.”

paige honest to god chokes beside her, and the room erupts into hoots and hollers.

azzi lets the drunk commotion roll off her back, and makes the mistake of turning back to paige, feeling heat pool in her belly at the intensity she finds.

“i don’t believe you,” rasps the blonde into the admittedly small space between them, low enough that no one else can hear her over the chaos that’s taken over the room.

azzi smiles sweetly. “too bad.”

paige scoffs, and opens her mouth to respond with something presumably filthy, but then it’s aubrey’s turn to throw popcorn at them, telling paige to “lock in” for her turn.

paige’s anticipatory smile at aubrey is more of a pained grimace, and azzi lets satisfaction settle in her bones for now, knowing she’s gotten under her skin.

she knows better than to think this conversation is over. she’s rather excited about that fact. stupid stupid stupid alcohol.

the older girls convene in front of them for a second whispering ideas, and then they all seemingly agree on one with a chorus of excited yeses and christyn spins back to the rest of the group and grins.

azzi braces herself with a shaky inhale.

“tell the class about your favorite sex position, paigey,” christyn singsongs, and azzi's mind goes blank for a second.

she tries to stop herself from thinking about it, about what position paige might be thinking about, but fails miserably, and then a series of images are flashing through her brain:

perhaps how much paige loves to be between azzi’s thighs, used to beg the brunette to let paige go down on her, or even more so maybe how much she loves azzi between her legs, tongue tracing lines against her clit and fingers dancing inside, or maybe even that one time paige made azzi work herself back onto paige’s fingers, bent over the bed, and paige had come untouched just from watching her, or when they’d put the small bullet vibrator azzi had secretly bought between them, grinding on it and each other until they’d both fallen apart more than once, or when– jesus.

she needs to chill the fuck out.

azzi is not built for the sexually frustrated lifestyle.

she takes a large, large chug of her drink, and tries to focus on the burn of vodka down her throat, and not her absolutely filthy thoughts, nor the flush that’s coursing through her veins and making her skin hot.

beside her, paige smirks– a daring, cocky thing that pulls at the inside of azzi’s stomach– and doesn’t even think about answering, instead pouring herself a hefty shot from the handle in front of them and ripping it back, clearly enjoying the group’s groans at her refusal to answer.

azzi tries extremely hard to ignore the peek of her tongue as she licks the residual vodka off the rim of the shot glass, but her whole body feels hot anyways. she blames it on the mixture in her cup.

“bruh, you just wanted to take a shot,” accuses evina, off to the left, as everyone watches paige wince and grab for a chaser.

when she collects herself, she rasps out “yeah, or maybe i just think some things should stay private.”

she says it to the broader room, refusing to look at azzi, but she knows the words are meant just for her anyways, and as anger rolls off of the set of paige's shoulders and curls in the now much wider space between their bodies, azzi juts her chin out in defiance.

whatever– let paige be mad. that is not azzi’s problem.

she sees amari eyeing them warily, and caroline and nika have switched seats, no doubt so they can giggle to themselves about the tension they apparently think is hilarious, and azzi decides she needs a break.

when the group conversation derails a bit, partly due to the collective level of hammered and partly due to the boredom of the game they’ve been playing for an hour now, azzi decides a pee break is in order, both because she actually has to pee, and because the heated glares paige is sending her from beside her are fucking with her head.

she stands up off the floor– very wobbly mind you, the head rush at her upright position reminding her of the abundance of liquor in her cup– and stumbles down the hallway to the bathroom, trying to ignore how positively sloshed she feels.

the silence of the bathroom is a welcome reprieve from the chaos on the other side of the door, and azzi takes a deep breath as soon as she closes it, leaning back against it and cursing herself for letting paige get under her skin.

she knows she’s being unreasonable– that getting mad about the fact that paige has hooked up with people other than her is entirely ridiculous, one because it's information she already knows, and more importantly, two, because they're allowed to see other people– but she just looked so smug bringing it up. and the team thought it was so funny. and azzi wants to hit someone.

lying as payback had been fun– the look on paige’s face absolutely worth it– but now azzi feels like she’s going to crawl out of her own skin at the tension between them and the inability to do something about it.

she paces the small space for a second (noting in that slightly hysteric, satirical way that only come from drunkenness that evina’s bath mat is a hideous shade of orange), reeling with entirely unwarranted jealousy and fury and trying to pretend that the copious amounts of alcohol have not hit her bloodstream.

she stops short when she catches her own eye in the mirror. she’s flushed, the range of feelings that aren’t hers to have painted across her face, and she looks exactly like a movie character in a melodramatic shitty pg-13 romcom who’s realizing she’s too drunk and too sad in a party bathroom.

stupid stupid stupid stupid.

she spins away from her reflection, remembering that she does actually have to pee pretty bad, and plops down on the toilet, content to wallow in sexual frustration and misery for the remainder of the night.

but then, while she’s washing her hands– rather aggressively scrubbing as if she can wipe away the itch in then that yearns to be on paige’s skin– azzi’s peace and quiet is shattered by the arrival of the one person she’s currently trying to convince herself she doesn’t care the whereabouts of.

because of course paige had followed her.

she doesn’t even knock– the audacity– just barges right in like azzi’s not having a private moment to herself (a mental break).

“paige!” she huffs out indignantly, moving out of the way of the door and doing her very best to glare menacingly. “get out- i could’ve been peeing or something.”

paige looks entirely unbothered by that prospect. she closes the door behind her gently without turning around, arms crossed and jaw tipped down.

she looks infuriatingly good. azzi wants to hit her. like. with her mouth.

“nothin’ i ain’t seen before.” she pairs this aggravatingly calm sentence with a step into azzi’s personal space, and it's outrageous how affected azzi is by simply being in close proximity to her in private.

and how pretty she is. god damn it.

even with the edges of her vision blurring from the liquor, and the fact that her feet feel rather unsteady on the hideous bathmat below her, azzi can tell that paige is mad.

that type of focussed, heated anger that very rarely laces their interactions, not just simple annoyance. it unnerves her as much as it excites her, which is surely another sign that she’s going insane.

she chooses not to respond to the insinuation that paige has seen her in every state of undress, for her own sake, and tries not to think about her and paige in states of undress at all. which is actually a supremely difficult task, particularly when, again, they’re in such close proximity.

she’s starting to deeply regret that last chug of her drink.

the silence hangs around them, tense, and she suddenly realizes that somehow paige has backed her up into the sink. which is odd. considering last time azzi checked they weren’t merely inches apart. so that’s. concerning. or exhilarating. who’s to say? not azzi.

paige’s smirk is a little mean on her face, eyes wild, and she tilts her head, using the measly one inch she has on azzi to try and make her feel small. azzi refuses to let her.

“charlie?” she says, voice unimpressed. her hands coming up to rest on either sides of azzi on the sink, caging her in. “really?”

they’re not touching– not yet– but azzi feels the ghost of her hands anyways.

“what about ‘m,” she breathes. their faces are really close. and paige’s eyes are really blue.

“you expect me to believe the best head you’ve ever received was from a guy named charlie?” the and not me is unspoken, but azzi hears it loud and clear.

she scoffs, spurred on by the fire in paige’s eyes. she delights in this game. “why wouldn’t it be?”

paige’s eyes narrow. “i don’t know, maybe because last time i ate you out you came so hard you cried.”

azzi’s blood gets impossibly hotter at the reminder, but she stays strong, lifting her chin even higher. “was faking it,” she breathes. “like i said earlier, i wasn’t impressed.”

“really,” is all paige drags out, low and dangerous, and azzi feels the tension crackle between them like a physical brand on her skin. they’re not even fucking touching yet, and she can already feel the lining of her underwear growing impossibly wet at paige’s anger.

she refuses to contemplate the implications of that.

she hums in agreement and doesn’t say anything else, and paige just looks at her, lets the weighted silence settle around them.

and. okay. azzi’s not proud of this necessarily, but paige is looking like that in front of her and her mouth is turned downwards because she’s jealous and trying to hide it, and her sweats are slung low enough on her hips for azzi to see the waistband of her boxers, and.

and then they’re kissing because azzi apparently has absolutely zero self control.

her hands come up to grip paige’s shoulders, immediately opening for it, and though azzi was the one to close to gap between them, the one to tug paige down into a kiss, it’s paige that sets the pace, immediately rough and unforgiving, pining azzi hips against the counter with her own and nipping at her lips.

and god is it good, and god has she missed this in the last few weeks.

she’s vaguely aware of their new rules, that there are reasons they’re not supposed to be doing this whole kissing thing anymore, reasons she came up with, but she can’t for the life of her remember why she’s supposed to give a singular fuck about that right now when paige’s hands splay out across the skin of her sides underneath her shirt, and her hips are pressing into azzi’s, and her mouth is doing that delicious thing where she licks into azzi’s mouth and slide’s their tongues together, and.

and azzi decides that this can be an exception.

she groans into the kiss, tangling her fingers in paige’s hair, and lets her press closer, relishing in the feel of paige all over her for the first time in too long.

the kiss is mean, claiming, and azzi knows without a doubt that paige is trying to remind her why she will always be the best azzi’s ever had.

it makes liquid heat pool endlessly in her stomach, and she lets out a strangled cry when paige shifts to press her thigh between azzi’s legs, letting the taller girl swallow her sounds and somehow press impossibly closer.

fuck.

it’s always so, so good with paige. it almost makes azzi angrier, and she lets her hands tug at paige’s hair a little rougher, bites into the kiss a little meaner.

paige must be aware that they’ve only got a few minutes before people get suspicious, because she’s sliding a hand under the waistband of azzi’s shorts and boxers after only a minute or two of making out.

which makes the fact that azzi’s completely soaked all the more embarrassing.

she breaks the kiss to gloat, rasping out “you get this wet for charlie?” against azzi’s lips, and.

azzi’s completely forgotten about why he’s relevant. and then she’s yet again reminded of why paige is insufferable, because why did she have to bring that up. azzi figured the whole kissing furiously against a bathroom sink thing sort of implied charlie didn’t hold a candle.

however. azzi would never be the one to back down from what was clearly some version of a competition, and despite the fact that, no, she’d gotten nowhere near close with him, azzi locks eyes and breathes “yeah, you’re not special.”

her voice gets choked up halfway through because paige decides to slide two fingers down and circle the entrance of her cunt, because she’s a smug bitch, and. jesus christ. azzi is criminally wet.

paige knows that they’re both aware of this.

“is that right,” she taunts, the hand that’s not currently working lazy circles on azzi’s clit coming up to grip the base of the younger girls neck.

self-assured prick.

azzi only has the brain capacity to gasp out “uh huh” in response, and paige smiles at that, wicked and. pretty, actually, even though she’s an asshole.

“want me to prove you wrong?” she pairs the question with the breach of a finger at azzi’s entrance, and.

god help azzi.

she whines out a “please,” before catching herself– this is a game, afterall– and adds “can’t hurt.”

somewhere in the back of azzi’s vodka-and-paige addled mind, it occurs to her that paige is being suspiciously forgiving, but she lets that thought go in favor of the approving kiss paige gives her, their mouths moving together in that delicious, all consuming way that quiets every part of her brain.

she has half a mind to protest when paige pulls away, slipping her hand out of azzi’s shorts and tearing their mouths apart, but before she can, paige is sliding down her body to be eye level with the tops of azzi’s thighs, knees cushioned on that horrible bathmat.

god.

azzi lets out a strangled whine when paige’s hands come up to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. the vision of paige below her is too much, and she has to close her eyes for a second.

“you wan’ it?” she asks, looking up at azzi like a fucking siren, eyes wide and pleading like she wants it just as bad.

and. azzi should say no, considering their entire team is on the other side of what is surely a very flimsy door, and getting eaten out on a bathroom sink that isn’t hers is probably a little distasteful.

unfortunately for said teammates, azzi is despicably wet and paige is between her legs looking like she’ll die if azzi doesn’t say yes, and, most of all, azzi is too drunk to give a single shit if someone hears them.

she chokes out a “yeah, need it” and is too focussed on paige’s answering grin to care about how desperate she sounds.

instead of tugging down her basketball shorts, paige rucks up the material around one of her thighs, and latches onto the inner most sensitive part, sucking hard. she’s merely inches away from where azzi desperately needs her, and the feeling lights azzi on fire, head thumping back against the mirror behind her as pleasure takes over.

paige works on the mark, intent on claiming, biting the sensitive flesh and then laving her tongue over it to soothe, and azzi feels drunk on not only the vodka but the pleasure too, whining quietly when paige presses a kiss to the darkened skin and pulling back with a smile.

and fucking then.

paige breathes “too bad,” matter of fact and smug, into the mark.

azzi’s confused as fuck at her words, has forgotten what they were saying, and then. and then paige just. stands up.

“should call charlie to deal with that, hmm?” she pouts, fake pity lacing her words, and then she fucking pats azzi’s thigh in mock consolidation and walks out of the bathroom.

azzi’s disoriented wail of “wait,” is too late, paige already out the door like she hadn’t been on her knees seconds prior, and azzi is suddenly alone with her muddled thoughts once more, breathing uneven, skin flushed, and rage bubbling up inside of her.

along with, like. intense sexual frustration.

what the actual fuck.

azzi should’ve known paige would be too petty to let that go, and she’s both furious at the blonde for setting a fucking trap, and herself for falling into it. but what an fucking self-inflated egotistical asshole.

god.

azzi wants to march right out of the bathroom, knee paige in the stomach, pour the remainder of her drink on top of her stupidly perfect head, and then maybe possibly lick off said drink from the dip in her collarbone. and the line between her breasts. and perhaps her bellybutton.

being mad at and being attracted to paige were two sides of the same coin on a good day, but on a drunk one? azzi wanted to solve their issues with bitemarks and bruises. which was entirely stupid and counterproductive and irrational, three qualities that seemed to follow azzi around almost as much as paige did.

she inhales, several times, trying to clear the fog from her brain and calm the racing of her heart, and tries to push away the lingering disappointment that she won’t be coming apart at the hands of paige tonight, or anytime in the future really, seeing as– due to most of their roommates not knowing and the fact that azzi was far too prideful– she couldn’t exactly drag paige back to her room and have her way with her.

this, coupled with the fact that it wasn't like she could just stroll in to paige’s room in two days time when they both inevitably got sick of the fight and wanted make-up sex because of the stupid fucking rules, meant that not only was azzi angry at paige for her little stunt, but she was also a little annoyed at her apparent disregard for their limited opportunities to have sex.

paige was wasting extremely precious time in which they were alone and drunk, guards lowered, and neither of them had had a singular orgasm.

what a fucking stupid bitch.

azzi checks her phone, happy to see that it was already past 11:30, meaning an acceptable time for her to feign exhaustion, and, with renewed anger, pushes herself off the edge of the sink and stalks out of the bathroom, intent on socializing for maximum ten more minutes before retreating to the solitude of her bedroom and getting herself off.

to the thought of paige.

which was something she’d unfortunately become quite familiar with ever since she’d had her awful, horrible, no good very bad idea to stop letting paige get azzi off instead, the much preferred but decidedly unavailable option.

whatever. at least paige would probably also die of sexual frustration, and then they could rot in hell together.

a/n: sorry to edge you (paige and i will make it up to you <3) as always pleaseeee tell me if you liked it and i will die of happiness and probably kiss you <3 i hope to have the second part put early next week!

#paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi smut #pazzi #i always feel like im forgetting tags but alas

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geminiwritten · 3 days ago

Text

en español ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: after joaquín returns from a two-week-long mission things feel different, then he convinces you to go undercover with him where tensions rise—only for him to leaving you wanting more... until he stops by your office for a very intimate spanish lesson

notes: danny ramirez, the man that you are, holy fuck... like this dude has me in a chokehold??? what i wouldn't do for him (there's nothing, absolutely nothing)... i really hope y'all enjoy this! it was inspired by few different things and i had a blast writing it, so please let me know what you think! (p.s. i highly recommend watching the papasito music video and anthony vs. danny hot ones before reading)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, sexual tension, probably some very incorrect spanish (i'm apologising in advance), mention of guns / weapons, italics, lots of pet names / nicknames, SMUT (dirty talk, f oral receiving, unprotected p in v, semi-public-ish sex) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 19998

You fall into your desk chair, careful not to spill your fresh mug of coffee as you fumble for your headset. You’re late—just barely—but if you’re lucky, Sam won’t notice.

You slide the headset on and quickly sort through the programs running on your computer, eyes flicking across several screens. Then you take a deep breath, adjust your mic, and open the comms line.

“How’s my favourite flyboy today? Still got all your limbs attached and your pretty face unscathed?”

“Careful, hermosa,” Joaquín says, his voice smooth in your ear. “Sam’s on the channel. He might get jealous.”

You smile to yourself, tracking their positions on your middle monitor. “Please. Sam knows who my favourite is. He’s come to terms with it.”

Joaquín chuckles. “You trying to make me blush?”

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “If I wanted to make you blush, Torres, I’d be using more than just my voice.”

There’s a beat of silence, the soft crackle of the open frequency filling your ears.

Then Joaquín clears his throat, loudly. “Mission. Flying. No dying. Need to focus.”

You laugh quietly, watching his heartrate spike on a screen to the left. “You better be careful, pretty boy. Can’t show you how much I’ve missed you if you don’t make it home.”

“Show me?” Joaquín echoes, grin audible. “How?”

“Come home in one piece and you’ll find out,” you say, voice low, teasing.

His heartrate spikes even higher, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs. “Can you two at least try to be professional?”

There’s another beat of quiet—only brief—before, at the same time, both you and Joaquín say, “No.”

You can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. “Why the hell did I let him convince me to hire you?”

You grin to yourself, eyes still flickering across your screens. “Because unfortunately for you, Cap, you’ve never met a more skilled analyst who’d rather work seven days a week than have a social life.”

“Joaquín is your social life,” Sam mutters. “I unknowingly hired the two most annoying best friends in the world.”

“You forgot talented,” Joaquín pipes up. “Two of the most annoying and talented best friends in the world.”

Sam groans—loud, frustrated—but he doesn’t argue. Because unfortunately, you’re both right. You’re two of the best people he could’ve found for the job, and despite the never-ending banter and insufferable tension, he’d be lost without either of you.

You met Joaquín in the Air Force. You were first stationed together at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to get close. At the time, you were both lower rank, training in field surveillance, comms, and tactical ops before choosing your respective career paths. But even across continents and during off-grid missions, you stayed close.

Joaquín contacted you a little while after he first met Sam, asking for help tracking a super-soldier anti-nationalist group in Munich. You didn’t ask questions—you just helped—and after it all came to a head, Joaquín couldn’t wait to introduce you to Sam.

Long story short, you were quickly recruited, given an office and a ton of cool tech, and now you’re their guy in the chair. Sam probably only regrets it a little, considering you’re actually very good at being in the chair—which makes up for all the unprofessional banter between you and Joaquín.

“Eyes up, Torres,” you murmur, watching the live feed on your main monitor. “Two heat signatures ahead. Could be guards. Could be raccoons. Either way, I’d keep your pretty face out of sight.”

Joaquín exhales, amused. “You must really miss me, hermosa—the way you keep callin’ me pretty.”

Your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your spine, because yeah—you miss him. Like crazy. They’ve been halfway across the world for two weeks now, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working for Sam.

To say you miss him is a gross understatement. But he can’t know that—not really—because whatever this thing is between you two, it’s fun. Playful. It isn’t serious or deep. It’s not soul-crushing or gut-wrenching like the paralysing crush you’ve been nursing for years.

And there’s no way Joaquín needs to find out about that. It could ruin everything.

“Can you blame me?” you ask, keeping your voice light. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. What else is a girl supposed to do besides fantasise?”

You can almost hear his grin. “You fantasising about me now, baby? Damn. This suit just got a whole lot hotter.”

Then Sam’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Can we please focus? The place is crawling with armed hostiles and I’m not dying in a building that smells like asbestos and cat piss.”

“Noted, Cap,” you say, eyes flicking to his heat signature on your screen. “But for the record, Torres—you’re my favourite fantasy.”

It’s not a lie—and it makes his heartrate jump again.

“Oh my God,” Sam groans. “Why do I even talk?”

“You love us,” Joaquín says, voice low and breathless as he inches toward a door, slowly cracking it open.

“No, I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

You watch the hallway clear, two red dots vanishing from the drone feed. “All clear ahead. Turn left at the next hall. Intel says the artifact is in the records room—bottom floor, east wing.”

“Copy,” Joaquín says, his voice dropping as he reins in his focus.

You lock in too—eyes fixed on the screen, breath held, fingers hovering over your keyboard. As much as you love your job, it’s stressful. Especially when the people in the field are the ones you care about most. So you’ve made it your personal mission not to let anything go unseen.

You watch closely as Joaquín moves down the hall, turns left, and starts down the fire stairs. Sam is still working the perimeter, keeping out of sight and watching for any hostiles that might be closing in on Joaquín.

It’s taken them two full weeks to find this place—after a discouraging series of dud leads. The artefact isn’t even being hunted, just protected. And for what? None of you know. But from everything you’ve gathered, it’s intel that could open the door to disaster.

So Sam made the call to find it before it became a hot item—before someone could sell it on the dark web and hand a new villain the keys to world domination.

What he hadn’t expected was for the mission to take two whole weeks. Fortunately, things have been quiet enough lately that they could afford the time—but that doesn’t mean it’s been fun. You’re pretty sure Sam is one more questionable pizza topping away from leaving Joaquín in Jakarta.

A heat signature two floors above the records room catches your attention. Your eyes track it, nerves creeping up the back of your neck. You’re just about to say something when—

“Holy shit,” Joaquín says, voice low and a little breathless. “It’s actually here.”

You lean in, fingers poised over your keyboard. “Confirmed visual?”

“Uh… yeah. Package secure?”

Sam’s voice cuts in, flat. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious, man. It’s just… sitting here. It’s actually here.”

You let out a slow breath, tension easing from your shoulders as you watch the heat signature double back—moving away.

“No traps, no alarms…” you say, scanning the feeds. “Someone’s either cocky or stupid.”

“Or both,” Sam mutters. “Let’s wrap this up. I’m ready to never think about this city again.”

Joaquín chuckles softly, his smirk practically audible. “Bet you’re smiling right now, hermosa.”

“Maybe,” you reply, despite the very obvious grin on your face. “But you’re not out of the woods yet, pretty boy. Stay focused.”

Joaquín laughs again under his breath. “Focused. Right. That’s what I am.”

Your eyes flick to his vitals. “I can tell. Your heartrate’s through the roof again.”

“Can you blame me?” he says. “Your voice in my ear, calling me pretty and saying all this smart stuff… this whole situation’s a little distracting.”

You roll your eyes. “You forgetting the part where Sam’s one bad mood away from killing you?”

“No. Just ignoring it.” He pauses at a corner, scans, then moves. “How mad do you think he’d be if I said I’m only doing this to impress you?”

You lean back slightly, grinning to yourself. “He’d pretend to be annoyed. But secretly? I think he’s just relieved you deal with me so he doesn’t have to.”

“Deal with you?” Joaquín echoes, voice soft and teasing. “Baby, you’re the reason I get out of bed every day.”

Your heart lurches, but you keep your voice steady. “Keep talking like that and I might start hacking into your home security system.”

“Do it,” he says. “I’d sleep better with your voice in my ear.”

Your cheeks flush, breath catching.

“Still here,” Sam cuts in. “Still sweating. Still regretting every life choice that led me to this team.”

You glance at his vitals and smirk. “Vitals are solid, Cap. No cardiac distress.”

“Yeah, well, if Torres drops anything on the way out, I’m blaming both of you.”

Joaquín chuckles as he heads toward the extraction point. “Relax. We’re good. We’re almost out.”

“God,” Sam sighs. “I cannot wait to get home.”

“Hope you’ve got a hero’s welcome planned, cariño,” Joaquín says.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You want a medal or a kiss?”

“Definitely the kiss,” he replies. “Medals are nice, but they wouldn’t taste as good as you.”

You choke on nothing, face burning, pulse thrumming as you watch him move through the building toward where Sam is waiting.

There’s a beat of silence—a loud, charged pause as you scramble for a comeback.

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “Think you broke her, Torres.”

“Nah,” Joaquín says, smug as ever. “She’s just thinking about all the ways she’s gonna show me she missed me.”

You draw a sharp breath, one hand gripping the edge of your desk, the other white-knuckling your coffee mug.

“Alright, flyboy,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “That’s enough. Just get home safe.”

“See you soon, princesa,” he says, voice low and warm in your ear.

The next twenty-four hours are the longest of your life—you’re sure of it.

You try to distract yourself with work while Joaquín sends updates on their journey home, but you just can’t sit still. You’re too excited. You feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, except the presents aren’t going to be there when you wake up. No—you have to wait until six p.m. for Joaquín to be back.

Once you finish work, you head home to your studio apartment—the one you spend less time in than your office—and put on a movie. Then another. And another. Because you’re too anxious to feel tired. Eventually, you drag yourself to bed and lie awake for a few hours before giving up at four a.m. and jumping in the shower.

You take your time getting ready for work—doing your hair, a little makeup, picking your clothes, having a long breakfast. Then at six a.m., you’re out the door and on your way back to the office.

Only twelve more hours to go.

You settle in at your desk and try to review data from Sam and Joaquín’s mission, double-checking every log, every report—anything to keep your mind occupied. It feels like hours pass, but when you glance at the clock, it’s barely been one.

So at seven a.m., you get up for a coffee, moving through the motions slowly and deliberately.

By now, the office is starting to fill up. It’s never packed—Sam keeps the staff lean—but a few government liaisons, data crunchers, IT specialists, and engineers have started drifting in for the day. You know them all, and usually you’d be happy to have a little chat in the kitchenette while your coffee brews. But not today.

Today, you’re stuck in your head—counting down the minutes until Joaquín walks through the door with that stupidly handsome grin on his face.

God. You feel ridiculous. Missing him this much when he’s just a friend.

Except, he’s not. Not to you—hasn’t been since the day you thought you lost him on a mission in Seoul. That was the moment it hit you. The moment you realised how much he meant to you—how in love with him you really were.

He turned up hours later, a little battered and bruised but very much alive. And you wanted to tell him how you felt. Wanted to just blurt it out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because it wasn’t worth risking what you already had. So you kept quiet, buried the feelings, and went on being his best friend.

That was years ago. And now you’re so deep in the friendzone—so used to the playful flirting and easy banter—you couldn’t climb out if you tried. You’ve come to terms with it, of course. Accepted it. And decided that having even a small piece of him is better than not having him at all.

You spend the next few hours sorting through analytics and going over maintenance logs from the mission—nothing major. Just a few software bugs and one broken ‘feather’ because Joaquín clipped a wing trying some fancy manoeuvre Sam explicitly refuses to teach him.

By lunchtime, you’ve fielded a few queries from the engineers and booked in a meeting with one of the legal advisors about Sam’s passport renewal. It never fails to amuse you how superheroes still have to deal with the same boring admin as everyone else.

The afternoon slips by faster than the morning, hours ticking past as you lose track of time in a haze of meetings and emails. You’re finally heading back to your office when your stomach grumbles—loudly—reminding you that it’s probably well past your five p.m. snack break.

You swing the door open, mentally halfway to your snack drawer, when—

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Joaquín says, sitting in your desk chair with that stupidly handsome grin. “And here I thought you actually missed me. Was it all a lie?”

Your heart lurches. Your lungs seize. And instead of flashing him a smile or a snappy comeback, you just freeze. Everything in your arms hits the floor—your tablet, your phone, a folder you don’t even remember picking up—all crashing down with a clatter that makes you flinch.

Because it’s not just that he’s handsome. No—he’s unfairly handsome. Criminal, even. Dangerous to your health, your peace of mind, and your goddamn ovaries. Joaquín Torres, sitting in your desk chair like he owns the place—with a freshly grown moustache and goatee—is nothing short of lethal.

“You okay, hermosa?” he asks, grin fading as he leans forward a little.

“I told him to shave it off,” Sam says dryly, stepping in behind you. “He looks like an Antonio Banderas knockoff.”

Joaquín scoffs. “Please. I’ve got way more charm than that guy.”

“Than Antonio Banderas?” Sam says, incredulous. “You’re delusional, you know that?”

“I prefer endearing,” Joaquín grins.

You still haven’t stopped staring at him—at the facial hair that’s apparently capable of triggering a full-blown hormonal crisis.

“Delusional and endearing are not synonyms,” Sam adds, seemingly oblivious to said crisis.

Joaquín’s eyes flick back to you, brows drawing slightly together. “You breathing, baby?”

Your heart kicks again at the nickname you should be used to by now—and somehow, that’s what snaps you out of it.

“Yeah—uh,” you clear your throat, “I’m breathing. I’m good. I—welcome back! But isn’t it early?” You glance at your wrist, searching for a watch that isn’t there. “Shit. Where’s my phone? Oh.” You crouch down and grab it from the floor. “Oh. It’s past six. Huh. That meeting must’ve run long. I didn’t even realise. I—”

“Breathe,” Sam says, laughing softly as he drops a hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.”

You inhale deeply, cheeks burning, and glance back at Joaquín’s stupidly gorgeous face again.

“So,” he says, mouth curling into a smirk that should be illegal, “you like it?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s… okay. Looks good, I guess.”

Sam snorts. “Oh, she likes it, alright.”

You turn around and smack him in the chest, shooting him a look that could kill—but he doesn’t flinch.

“Alright, then,” he chuckles, stepping back. “I’ll let you two get caught up.”

You roll your eyes and duck your head as you start gathering everything you dropped. You keep your gaze down, even when you hear footsteps and see Joaquín’s hands join yours, collecting papers that spilled from the folder.

When you’ve finally got it all, you stand and hug the pile to your chest, letting your eyes meet his again.

“So,” he says, still grinning as he holds out what he gathered, “about that kiss.”

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Forget it. You’re dreaming.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. But hey, I’m coming over tonight anyway.”

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

He leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Because my place has no food… and yours has food. And you.”

Your cheeks heat, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Maybe,” he says again, that grin going a little soft. “But you love it.”

You struggle to focus on wrapping up your work with Joaquín hovering around your office—ranting about the mission, touching your stuff, looking at you with that goddamn moustache on his face. What would normally take five minutes takes almost twenty, but by seven o’clock, you’re both in a cab on the way back to your apartment.

When you open the door and step inside, Joaquín walks in like he lives there too. He drops his duffel by the lounge and heads straight for the fridge, pulling it open to inspect the contents. You know him well enough by now to know exactly what’s coming next—he’s going to complain about your lack of ingredients, then insist on cooking anyway. And somehow, it’ll still be delicious.

“You know, cariño,” he calls, leaning deeper into the fridge, “most people throw milk out when it starts to smell bad. Let alone when it’s chunky.”

“I haven’t been home much lately,” you say, a little defensive. “My best friend was on a mission and I was busy making sure he didn’t die.”

“So you could kill me yourself with expired dairy products?” he asks, still wearing that ridiculous grin.

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile, choosing to ignore him while you kick off your boots. He keeps rummaging through the fridge while you make your way through the small apartment, closing blinds, turning on lamps, and queuing up the show you haven’t touched in the two weeks he’s been away.

“I’m going to shower,” you say, pausing at the edge of the kitchen.

He glances over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, brows raised. “That an offer?”

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “God. What was in the water over there? You’ve come back even worse than when you left.”

“Maybe I just missed you,” he says, stepping toward you.

The kitchen isn’t big—much like the rest of the apartment—but with Joaquín standing barely a foot away, it feels downright claustrophobic in a very specific, very dangerous way.

“You still haven’t given me my hero’s welcome,” he adds, eyes sparkling.

You tip your head, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Didn’t have time to get the medal minted.”

His grin turns wicked. “Guess you owe me a kiss, then.”

You don’t answer. You just step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it doesn’t matter at all—even though your pulse is in your throat. His brows twitch, surprise flickering across his face, but he doesn’t move. He holds his ground.

You tilt your chin up, rising onto your toes until your lips are just a breath from his.

His breath stutters, and you catch the sharp rise of his chest—like he forgot how to breathe. That cocky smirk slips away as your eyes linger on his mouth, then drop to that stupid goatee. Because of course he found a way to be even more ridiculously attractive.

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close that tiny gap and change everything.

But instead, your voice drops low—steady despite the way your nerves are buzzing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Torres?”

His pupils blow wide, cheeks flushing. You see it. You feel it—the flicker of nerves under all that swagger.

You drag your fingers lightly down the front of his shirt, watching him go still, revelling in the thrill that rattles up your spine.

His throat bobs with a swallow, and you know you’ve got him. For once, he has no comeback.

You smirk, dropping back onto your heels. “Didn’t think so.”

Then you turn and walk into your room, heart pounding, head spinning, but your steps still steady. You shut the door and fall back against it, covering your face with your hands to keep from screaming out loud because God, that was hot. And holy shit did it take every ounce of self-control not to just kiss him.

Eventually, you push off the door, strip out of your clothes, and step into the ensuite bathroom. You turn the shower on hot and wait while the water heats, wondering if Joaquín would notice if you took a little longer than usual.

Which... you do. Because that ache behind your hipbones is insistent, and if Joaquín is going to be here all night, you can’t just be sitting beside him horny as hell or you might end up doing something stupid.

So after a long, hot shower—and some quality time with the detachable head—you change into your pyjamas and emerge from your bedroom. The rest of the apartment smells like butter and garlic, and Joaquín is standing in front of the stove with a little crease between his brows as he flips what you assume is a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Grilled cheese?” you ask, leaning a hip against the counter.

He shoots you a sideways glare. “It’s the only thing I could think of with your serious lack of food. But it’s not just grilled cheese—it’s gourmet. With mozzarella—that I’m pretty sure isn’t off—garlic, caramelised onion, and basil.”

You lift a brow, nodding slowly. “I’m impressed. And hungry.”

He smirks. “And the tomatoes you had were too soft to put in the sandwiches, so I made a sauce.”

“Wow,” you say, turning toward the cupboard. “Sounds like I had plenty of ingredients for you.”

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as you get out a couple of plates and wine glasses, knowing full well that you might not have much food in the house, but you definitely have wine.

He finishes grilling the sandwiches and flips them onto the plates, garnishing them with something green that you hope is a herb and not something wildly out of date he found in the fridge. Then you pour each of you a glass of wine before taking your plate into the lounge room.

“Hopefully you won’t be able to tell how stale the bread is,” Joaquín says as he sits beside you, his knee knocking yours as he shoots you another pointed look.

You roll your eyes. “Please, sourdough doesn’t go off. Just gets chewier.”

He frowns at you, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s literally the definition of stale bread.”

You just shrug, taking a generous sip of wine before biting into your sandwich. And God, it’s almost inhuman how this man can make some of the best food out of the crappy ingredients you have.

“That good?” he asks, watching you with a smirk.

“It’s alright,” you mutter, mouth still full.

He chuckles. “That moan you just made says otherwise.”

Your eyes widen. “I moaned?”

He laughs a little harder, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches your cheeks turn pink. “Don’t be embarrassed, hermosa. I love the little noises you make.”

Your heart lurches and your eyes snap down to your plate.

“Wonder what other noises I could get out of you,” he mutters, low but just loud enough to catch your attention.

You swallow hard on the half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches on the way down your throat. You cough and reach for your wine, taking a long, burning gulp that only fans the heat spreading through your chest.

You cough again into your hand, struggling to catch your breath.

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín asks, light laughter in his voice.

“Fine,” you choke out. “I’m good.”

He laughs softly, clearly amused but too hungry to press you any further. You watch his profile as he takes a bite of grilled cheese, chews, and swallows—and damn if that doesn’t just deepen the wildfire of nerves and heat roiling through you.

Two weeks away from Joaquín, and every ounce of resistance you’ve spent years building up is gone. Shattered. Nowhere to be found. You feel like some virginal schoolgirl, wide-eyed and helpless, just watching his throat move as he swallows another bite.

His eyes flick toward you, brows drawn, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. You stuff the sandwich into your mouth and take a big bite to stop yourself from blurting out something dumb—like how insanely hot he looks when he eats, or how badly you want to know what that facial hair would feel like between your legs.

“Hear anything from the lab?” he asks, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods slowly. “Sam’s probably bugging.”

“Why?”

“Reckons it’s something big,” he says. “Something dangerous.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe something alien.”

“Nah.” You take another sip of wine. “It’s probably old data from some collapsed organisation. Looked more like a hard drive than an explosive.”

As if on cue, your phone lights up, buzzing on the coffee table beside your wine glass. You drop your sandwich and reach for it, tapping the answer button and pressing it to your ear.

“Doctor Chen,” you greet. “How’s it going?”

“The captain was right,” Maya—one of Sam’s lab techs—says. “This is dangerous.”

Your brows pull together as you lift the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker so Joaquín can hear too.

“What is it?”

“Old Stark tech. Data, to be precise,” Maya replies.

“Have you told Sam yet?”

“Not yet. You were my first call. I figured Joaquín was with you.”

Your cheeks flush. “Oh. Uh, yeah. He’s here.”

Joaquín meets your eyes and gives you a cheeky little wink, lips curving into a smirk.

“I’ll see you both first thing in the morning,” Maya says. “I’ll call Sam now.”

“Okay,” you reply, shoving Joaquín’s thigh with your knee. “Thanks, Doctor Chen.”

The line goes dead, the soft disconnect tone buzzing through the quiet room—Joaquín having paused the TV without you noticing.

“What kind of data do you think it is?” he asks, brow furrowed.

You shrug. “Who knows. Maybe something that’ll finally tell us how to shut you up.”

He scoffs, leaning in just a little. “Or maybe something that tells me exactly how to get you to kiss me.”

Your heart stutters, breath catching just loud enough for him to hear.

“Or,” he adds, eyes dancing, “I just keep saying shit like that until your brain short-circuits and you snap.”

You suck in a slow breath, trying not to smile. Trying not to give him the satisfaction.

“God,” you mutter, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re so fucking annoying tonight.”

He just grins wider and takes another bite of grilled cheese—completely unbothered, maddeningly smug. And of course, your traitorous eyes fall to the line of his jaw as he chews, which does nothing to help your situation.

“It’s not just old Stark data,” Sam says, standing at the head of the small conference table. “This hard drive contains preliminary code for the foundational architecture of Stark’s first AI.”

“As in J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Joaquín asks. “The computer that ran his house?”

“J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t just run his house,” you cut in. “He was integrated into the Iron Man suits, and he was part of Ultron and Vision. In the wrong hands, this data could be... catastrophic.”

“Right,” Joaquín nods. “So... we destroy it?”

“We can’t destroy it,” Milton—one of Sam’s more insufferable government liaisons—says. “Per federal protocol, all recovered Stark-origin assets are to be logged, quarantined, and transferred to a Level Four secure facility for presidential review and Congressional oversight.”

Sam sighs, visibly holding back an eye-roll.

“Quarantined for review?” you echo, incredulous. “Graves, this kind of data in the wrong hands could—”

“And what authority do you have to decide that?” Milton cuts in with his usual sneer. “Who’s to say you won’t use it to recreate this... jervis?”

Milton is easily your least favourite person in the office. He’s a stickler for rules, an arrogant idiot, and completely insufferable—but he does make a good target for your and Joaquín’s boredom-induced pranks. Like the time you rearranged his keyboard to spell something wildly inappropriate and watched him struggle to fix it for thirty minutes. Or when you convinced him that ‘Camo Friday’ was an official dress code.

Needless to say, he’s not your biggest fan. Or Joaquín’s. But unfortunately for him, you’re both basically Sam’s second-in-command.

“It’s Jarvis,” Joaquín says flatly. “J-A-R-V-I-S. Want help with the alphabet, or are you still stuck on the letter J?”

Milton’s lips curl, eyes narrowing—ready to fire back—when Sam steps in.

“We haven’t made a final decision about the drive,” he says firmly, glancing between Joaquín and Milton. “I’ll speak with the Department of Damage Control myself. Until then, it stays here, under full-time protection.”

Joaquín sighs. “Don’t tell me—”

“You’re not on protection,” Sam cuts him off. “I’ve got others for that. I need you somewhere else.”

Joaquín sits up straighter, head tilted. “Where?”

Sam glances at you and nods. You quickly plug your tablet into the display, and a second later, the intel you and the logistics team pulled together flickers up on the screen.

“Matías Navarro,” you say, zooming in on the mugshot of a stern-faced, middle-aged man. “Clean on paper, but deeply embedded in tech smuggling rings. Works through proxies, keeps his hands clean. No one knows where he gets the tech, and none of his buyers care. He’s been arrested a dozen times, but he always walks.”

You switch to a series of ledgers. “His name is tied to the building we found the hard drive in—not currently, but previously. He either sold it or abandoned it. Either way, he’s the last known owner.”

“So,” Joaquín says, “we find Navarro and… question him?”

You nod. “Exactly. He’s mostly dealt in weapons and arms. He might not have known what was on the drive—but if he did, or if he made a copy, we could be in serious shit.”

“Right.” Joaquín nods. “Where do we find him?”

“Club Calavera,” you reply, tapping your tablet until a picture of a dark brick building fills the screen. “It used to be a Latin dance club. Now it’s more like a networking spot for arms dealers and petty crime lords who like to salsa.”

“Navarro’s a regular,” Sam adds. “Every Saturday. Like clockwork.”

“Club Skull,” Joaquín snorts. “Subtle.”

“You should fit right in, then,” you say with a smirk. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a brick through a window.”

His eyes go wide. “Fit in? I’m going in? Like… undercover?”

You nod. “That’s right, pretty boy. You’re our distraction.”

“Distraction?” he echoes, brows shooting up.

“I need to talk to Navarro,” Sam says, “but I can’t just walk in—not with all the high-profile thugs that frequent the place. I’d be too easily noticed.”

“Hence,” you say, grinning at Joaquín, “our distraction.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between you and Sam. “Alright. What kind of distraction?”

Sam folds his arms, smirking. “It’s a Latin dance club, Torres. What do you think?”

“You want me to dance?” Joaquín asks, voice cracking.

“Oh, no, flyboy.” You lean forward, grin turning wicked. “We don’t just want you to dance, we need you to cause a whole damn scene.”

He swallows hard. “How?”

Sam chuckles. “Ever seen The Mask?”

“That movie with Jim Carrey?”

Sam nods.

“You want me to cause a scene in the middle of a club full of criminals big enough to distract every single one of them?” Joaquín asks, brows drawing tight. “I—I can’t. No one could. It’s impossible.”

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “You’re Joaquín fucking Torres. If anyone can cause a scene that big, it’s you. Plus, you won’t be alone.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You need a dance partner,” you reply simply, tapping your tablet.

The screen flickers before bringing up three headshots of three different women, each with a brief bio beside the names—abilities and all.

“Kate Bishop,” you say, enlarging the first photo. “Hawkeye-in-training. She worked with Clint for a while. Definitely has the social skills to work the room, plus charm and skill.”

Joaquín shakes his head. “No, she won’t blend in. Not in a Latin crowd, at least.”

“Okay,” you nod, moving to the next photo. “Ava Ayala, a.k.a. White Tiger. Fluent in Spanish and has the physicality to back us up if things go south.”

Joaquín considers it, tipping his head before shaking it again. “No, it won’t work. I’ve heard she prefers solo missions—might not adapt well to a cover role that requires dancing and mingling.”

You take a deep breath and move to the last photo. “Alright. Elena ‘Yo-Yo’ Rodriguez. She’s great at going undercover and knows how to stay cool under pressure. Plus, she can get you out fast if needed.”

Joaquín’s eyes flick from the screen to you, then to Sam, back to you, and then the screen again.

“I don’t doubt her skills,” he says. “But have you seen her operate in this kind of scene? Nightclubs and criminal networks require a certain… finesse.”

Sam sighs and pulls out a chair, dropping into it. “Well, you can’t dance alone.”

“I know,” Joaquín says firmly. “But I can’t walk into a club full of criminals and half-ass it with someone I don’t know or trust.”

“That’s the whole point,” you say, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “You’re supposed to go in, pick someone from the crowd, and make it look spontaneous. A big, passionate moment. If it’s too polished, too rehearsed, they’ll sniff it out.”

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I get that. But it still has to be someone I’ve got chemistry with. Someone I’m actually attracted to.”

You frown, glancing at the screen full of attractive women, then back at him—feeling your stomach twist, even if you don’t want to admit why.

“They’re all attractive. I don’t see the—”

“Sure,” he interrupts. “But what if there's no chemistry? This is a club full of Latinos. They’ll smell fake passion from across the dance floor, cariño.”

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair. “So what are you saying? You won’t do it?”

“Of course I'll do it,” he says, smirking now. “But I’ve got one condition.”

You look at Sam, deadpan. “He’s got conditions now.”

Sam chuckles. “This guy.”

You turn back to Joaquín. “Alright, pretty boy. What’s your condition?”

“You dance with me.”

The room falls silent.

You freeze, breath catching. “M–Me?”

He grins. “You, hermosa. It makes sense. We’ve got chemistry, and all you have to do is follow my lead.”

You glance at Sam, half-panicked. “I’m not a field agent. I’m not—”

“Actually,” Sam says, thoughtful, “it does makes sense. The two of you could sell it. No extra variables, no risk of another agent blowing the op.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re not serious. I—I can’t even dance.”

“You don’t need to,” Joaquín says. “You just have to let me lead.”

Your heart is pounding now, nerves sparking like live wires, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. You’re not built for this. You’re the guy in the chair. The one locked behind bulletproof glass and a million firewalls.

“Joaquín, I—”

“It’s the only way this works,” he says, his smile infuriatingly smug.

“Kid’s got a point,” Sam adds.

Your eyes bounce between them, wide and overwhelmed. “I’m barely trained for combat. If something goes wrong, I—”

“That’s why I’m there, cariño,” Joaquín cuts in, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty—which you already do—and follow my lead.”

You’re running out of excuses. And Joaquín is looking at you with those big, stupidly pretty brown eyes that always get him his way. You don’t want to say yes. But you really don’t want to say no. Not to that face. Not to Sam’s, either—especially when he’s looking this hopeful and just a little smug.

“Fine,” you mutter, glaring at Joaquín. “But if either of us die, I’m going to kill you.”

He just grins—impossibly smug, unfairly hot. A walking wet dream with tight sleeves and a killer smile, practically glowing with anticipation.

The next few days are a whirlwind of intel, training, and—to your immense displeasure—costume fittings. Because you can’t just wear jeans and a top. No. You have to look like a part-time salsa dancer and full-time prison groupie, which apparently means a sparkly dress with a hemline that barely covers your ass.

But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that Joaquín refuses to practice with you. He won’t even show you a few steps. Because, like you said, it has to look spontaneous. It can’t be rehearsed or choreographed, or someone might clock it for the distraction that it is.

So he won’t dance with you at all—which is not exactly something you ever thought you’d be begging him for. Not unless you’re talking about the horizontal tango—because in that case, yeah, you could definitely see yourself begging.

“Ouch,” Sam mutters, freezing mid-step. “That was my foot.”

You scowl up at him, arms stiff where they rest on his shoulder and in his hand. “I told you, I don’t fucking know how to dance.”

“Relax,” he chuckles. “You’re not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. You just need to get through one song without crushing Joaquín’s toes.”

“If he doesn’t want his feet stomped on,” you snap, glaring across the room, “then he should be the one teaching me.”

Joaquín rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, tapping something on his phone to lower the music blaring through the overhead speakers. You’ve taken up residence in Isaiah Bradley’s gym for the past few days, using the open space—and the crash mats—as Sam attempts to teach you the basics of salsa dancing.

It’s not going great.

“You need to move your hips more,” Joaquín says. “Feel the music. Don’t fight it.”

“‘M gonna fight you in a minute,” you mutter.

Sam laughs again, clearly amused, as Joaquín steps in behind you—close—his hands landing firmly on your hips.

Your eyes go wide. Your spine snaps straight. Your fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder.

“Ouch,” he murmurs, wincing.

“Shut up,” you hiss.

He bites back a laugh.

“Okay,” Joaquín says. “Let’s move through the steps slowly.”

Sam nods and starts moving. You follow, trying to count through the steps you’ve half-memorised. Then—

Joaquín steps in even closer, chest almost brushing your back, and without a word, he guides your hips into the right position. Your feet falter. Your heart stutters. His hands are big, steady—thumbs pressing lightly into the small of your back as he shifts your weight, encouraging a more natural sway from your hips.

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’ve gotta loosen up, cariño.”

Then his hands trail—slow and deliberate—up the curve of your waist, just high enough for his thumbs to graze the underside of your ribs. It’s a fleeting touch, but it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And then, like it was nothing, he steps back—cool, casual, unaffected.

Your breath catches. Heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks, your brain short-circuiting as your body fights to stay upright and not melt into a puddle of incoherent desire. Sam watches the whole thing unfold with an amused grin, clearly not missing the way your knees nearly buckle.

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re lookin’ a little pink there.”

“I’m fine,” you snap.

Behind you, Joaquín turns the music back up and says, far too casually, “She’s just tense.”

Sam snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem.”

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath through your nose, summoning every ounce of self-control you have to not to completely lose it.

“Okay,” you mutter, “let’s go again.”

You take it from the top twice more before Sam’s phone rings and he’s called away for a meeting with logistics. By that point, you’re tired, sweaty, and still wishing you’d said no, but according to Joaquín, your hips are moving much more naturally.

You try not to think too hard about him watching your hips while you dance.

While you stretch and cool off—which mostly just means lying on the floor scrolling through your phone—Joaquín starts boxing with Isaiah. And holy hell if that isn’t making you thirstier than two straight hours of salsa dancing did.

You try to focus on the video of a puppy eating raspberries currently playing on your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the gym. To him.

Joaquín’s in the ring—gloves on, shirt off, moving like a goddamn dream. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles flexing with every jab and pivot, the line of his back carved like something out of a museum. Even his hair is damp, dark curls falling over his forehead—and God, you want to run your fingers through it, tug it just a little to see what kind of noises he’d make.

You swallow hard, watching the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, light and fast. Isaiah swings, Joaquín dodges, and you’re embarrassingly close to moaning when he ducks and throws a clean uppercut that lands with a satisfying smack.

Your imagination fills in the blanks way too fast. What those hands would feel like dragging down your body. What that mouth could do if it wasn’t behind a mouthguard. You’re picturing him pinning you up against the ropes for a very different kind of workout when—

“Enjoying the show?”

You startle, eyes flying up to find Joaquín leaning on the ropes, gloves resting on the top strand, smirk wide and knowing. His chest is rising and falling, skin glistening, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s seen every second of you ogling him.

You blink. “Nope.”

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Come here.”

“What? Why?”

He grins, pushing open the ropes. “Get in the ring.”

You frown. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he says, stepping aside so you can climb through. “You’re going undercover. You should know how to throw a punch in case something goes south.”

“I did a combat course,” you say, slowly climbing up and stopping in the middle of the ring. “A few years ago."

“And I haven’t eaten a donut since Tuesday. Doesn’t mean I’m in peak condition.”

Isaiah laughs from the corner, tossing Joaquín a towel. “Have fun, lovebirds,” he calls, hopping down from the ring. “Try not to injure each other.”

“I make no promises,” Joaquín says with a wink, then turns back to you, holding out a pair of gloves. “Hands up, cariño.”

You roll your eyes, sighing, but slide your hands into the gloves anyway. “If I get hurt, I’m suing.”

He steps closer to tighten the straps on your gloves, and you try—really try—not to stare. But his chest is right there, slick with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. Your eyes flick to the constellation of tiny moles scattered across his collarbone and up the side of his neck, and your brain starts wandering where it definitely shouldn’t.

Like how warm his skin would feel under your mouth.

How he'd taste.

Whether that facial hair would scrape or tickle.

“You spacing out on me already?” he asks, smug.

You blink hard and force your eyes back to his. “No. Just visualising how hard I’m going to hit you.”

His smile grows. “Hot.”

You scowl, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says easily, stepping back and raising his hands. “Alright, let’s start with a jab. Front foot forward, hands up, aim for my shoulder.”

You shuffle your feet and throw the first punch. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely not impressive.

And he dodges it with infuriating ease. “Again.”

You go again—harder this time—and his face lights up.

“There we go,” he says, circling you. “Now try a cross. Pivot your back foot a little. Twist at the hips.”

He moves around you slowly, correcting your stance, touching your elbow here, your shoulder there. Every brush of his fingers lights you up like a fuse. You try to focus on your footwork, your form, anything other than the way he’s watching you—like he’s memorising every move.

And when you land a solid hit against his open palm, his smile turns molten. “Damn. Maybe I should be worried.”

“You should always be worried,” you mutter, blowing a lock of hair out of your eyes.

He steps in close, lowering his voice. “You’re better than you think.”

You swallow. Hard. Because now he’s too close, and you can smell him—sweat mixed with something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cedar, and something darker, something dangerous. His eyes flick down from your face to your body, not even trying to pretend he isn’t checking you out.

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless.

He smirks. “So are you.”

The space between you shrinks, and suddenly the air feels thick—too warm, too charged.

“You’re dangerously close,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart beats like a war drum.

He leans in just a little more, hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “Close enough to hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s fast.”

Your breath hitches, and you force yourself to look anywhere but at his lips.

“Careful,” you murmur. “I might start thinking you want to spar for real.”

He grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve got moves that don’t involve gloves.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “That a challenge?”

“More like a promise,” he says, eyes darkening with mischief.

He steps even closer, just enough for your bodies to almost touch, the heat radiating off him setting your skin alight. Your hands twitch, itching to reach out, to feel the solid strength beneath those muscles. But instead, you bite back the impulse, take a breath, and jab forward, aiming a quick punch at his bicep.

He’s faster—too fast—and his hand catches your wrist, grip firm. “Not bad,” he says, voice rougher now. “But you’re getting distracted.”

You glance down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—strong and warm—then back up at him. “Maybe I like being distracted.”

He chuckles, low and throaty. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.”

Your cheeks flush, and suddenly the gym feels smaller, the world reduced to just the two of you—the thud of your hearts, the quick intake of breath, the heat humming beneath your skin.

He leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. “One more round? Winner gets to decide what happens next.”

You bite your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back to his gaze. “You’re on.”

You throw yourself into the next round, fists flying, breath ragged—but he’s relentless, every move calculated to push you harder, closer. He’s not holding back anymore; his feet are quick, his hands even quicker. You feel like you’re flailing, only landing punches when he lets you.

Then, without warning, he ducks a blow and catches you from behind, one arm wrapping tight around your neck. Not enough to choke—just to claim. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in, pressing bruises into your flesh. Your pulse spikes as your body freezes, caught between wanting to fight and drowning in the heat of him pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as you recognise the undeniable length of him digging into your ass—heavy and hard. His mouth hovers just at your neck, warm breath teasing, lips barely brushing. “Careful, nena,” he whispers, voice thick with something dark and urgent. “You’re playing with fire.”

Your hands tremble, heart pounding in your throat. Every second, every shallow breath drips with desperate hunger. His fingertips dig into your skin, pulling you impossibly close—his hips grinding slow and deliberate against your ass.

You want to say something, anything, but the only sounds are your uneven inhales and the thump of your racing heart. Then—just as your resolve begins to crack—

The gym door swings open, and Sam bursts in. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Lunch or more sparring?” he calls out, completely oblivious to the heat hanging thick between you two.

Joaquín straightens, sliding his arms away with a slow, wicked grin, eyes sparkling with amusement and something more primal. He moves off to the side of the ring, turning away from Sam—no doubt hiding the bulge in his gym shorts.

You’re burning up, cheeks flushed crimson, every nerve screaming as you struggle to breathe normally.

Sam quirks his head, brows furrowed. “You alright? Is he pushing you too hard?”

God. Something is too hard.

You shake your head. “N-No. Just... sparring.”

“Right,” Sam says, not sounding fully convinced. “Well, go clean up. I’m starving.”

After a shower—a very cold shower—a quick lunch, and several meetings, you’re back in your office combing through security tapes from Club Calavera, scanning for any familiar faces that might compromise tomorrow night’s mission.

You’re midway through last Saturday’s tape when Joaquín pops his head in the door, grinning like he hadn’t pressed his hard dick against you just a few hours ago.

“Sam’s hungry,” he says. “Again.”

You clear your throat. “Already? It’s—” You glance at the clock, brows lifting. “Oh. It’s nearly seven.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “He wants wings.”

There’s nothing overtly threatening about the way he stands in front of your only exit—but it still feels dangerous. Being alone with him in this tight little four-by-four office, with nothing between you but a desk and a couple monitors, feels very dangerous.

You’re not sure what changed while he was away on that last mission—all you know is that something did. And now, the tension between you is almost impossible to ignore.

“Wings,” you echo, dragging your eyes back to your screens. “Got it. The usual?”

“Yep,” he nods. “Extra ranch.”

You smirk as you open a new tab—typing in only a few letters before the URL auto-fills.

Joaquín frowns. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. He just stands there, back against the door, watching you order the food with his bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth.

“There,” you say, clicking submit order. “Death wings for Captain America, and a baby batch for The Falcon.”

His eyes widen as he tries—and fails—to fight another grin. “I knew you were laughing at me. It’s not my fault I was born with a spice intolerance.”

You lean back in your chair, rolling your lips to suppress a giggle. “I wasn’t. I swear.”

“I’m brave in other ways,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest.

“I know.”

You stare at each other for a beat too long. The air thickens, tension crawling over your skin, heavy and charged. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sharp slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow beneath that maddeningly hot little moustache.

Your fingers twitch over your keyboard, itching to touch him. To grip his shoulders. Tug his hair. Wrap around his hot, hard—

Bang, bang, bang.

Joaquín startles as Sam shoves at your office door from the other side.

“Move your ass, Torres,” he calls, voice muffled.

Joaquín exhales a shaky breath and steps aside—and you swear you see him subtly adjust himself in his jeans.

“Wings ordered?” Sam asks, pushing the door open.

You nod. “Death by buffalo coming right up.”

He grins. “Good. Now get your asses to the conference room. Tactical support wants to run one last debrief.”

“Ooh,” you say, jumping to your feet. “Do I get any weapons?”

Both men whip toward you—eyes wide, brows drawn—and in perfect unison say, “No.”

You sit in the meeting, pretending to listen, while mostly ogling the way Joaquín is testing out his gear. Without the wings, he’s going to be packing an assortment of easily concealed weapons, and something about the way he handles everything with practiced ease has you squeezing your thighs beneath the table.

His hands are sure and precise—strong fingers wrapping around grips, forearms flexing subtly with each flick and pop. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he inspects every piece, the kind of focused intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, brows drawing together just enough to highlight the sharp line of his cheekbones. It’s like watching a master at work—every subtle motion deliberate, effortless. The way his muscles tense and relax, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in his stance… it all speaks of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and how much power he wields beneath that calm exterior.

You can’t help but admire the rhythm, the flow, the way he seems to command the weapons almost as if they’re extensions of his own body. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the sinew in his forearms, the curve of his wrists, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by those hands—steady, confident, and undeniably capable.

“You need a napkin, or are you just gonna keep drooling on the table?” Sam asks, startling you out of your daydream.

You whip toward him, brow furrowed, one hand swiping instinctively at the corner of your mouth while the other smacks his bicep.

He chuckles. “Wow. I could call HR, you know.”

You roll your eyes. “Do it.”

“Actually,” he says, tilting his head, “I think Joaquín should call HR, with the way you were eye-fucking him across the table. But the boy’s too stupid to notice.”

Your eyes snap to the front of the room, expecting Joaquín to still be there—but he’s not. In fact, it’s just you and Sam left in the conference room. Even the weapons have been packed up and hauled off.

“Oh,” you blink. “Is it over?”

“Been over for a while,” he says with another soft chuckle. “My wings here yet?”

Your eyes go wide. “Shit. The wings.”

You jump up and dart out of the room, jogging down the hall to the front reception where you told the delivery driver to leave the food. Thankfully, it’s still there—and when you pick up the bag, it’s warm enough that Sam won’t kill you.

With a relieved sigh, you carry the wings back through the building, past the now-empty conference room, and straight to Sam and Joaquín’s office at the very back—the one with the giant, obnoxious Captain America symbol frosted onto the window glass.

“Special delivery,” you say, walking straight toward the table surrounded by low blue lounges.

You pull out the Styrofoam containers and start sniffing each one to determine which is which. Sam appears beside you with three cans of beer, and Joaquín flops onto one of the lounges, grabbing the bag to pull out a wad of napkins—because you always ask for extra.

“Shit. They forgot the wet ones,” he says, glancing up at you.

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, “we’ve got enough wet wipes to stock a preschool.”

Joaquín chuckles as you cross the room toward Sam’s desk, opening the middle drawer of the cabinet and pulling a fistful of wipes.

“God, I’m starving,” Joaquín groans.

You turn back just in time to see him sliding one of the containers toward himself. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing, and just before realisation hits—before you can say anything—he opens it and lifts a wing to his lips.

“Joaquín—!” you yelp, eyes wide.

His gaze flicks to you, confusion creasing his brow—then it hits.

His cheeks flush immediately, sweat prickling at his hairline and sliding down the side of his face. His eyes go wide, his body locking up—the wing still caught between his teeth.

“That’s Sam’s!” you exclaim, rushing over. “Spit it out, you idiot. You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest.”

“Wait,” Sam leans forward, eyes bright. “Did he just—?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“One of mine?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit.”

“Joaquín,” you say firmly. “Spit the goddamn wing out.”

He does, letting it drop back into the container with a wet plop.

“Gross,” Sam groans, sliding the container away from Joaquín.

“You okay?” you ask, biting back a grin.

He looks like he’s been pepper-sprayed. Face red, eyes watery, lips puffy, breath coming and going in shallow gasps.

“Uh uh,” he groans, shaking his head slowly. “Burns.”

“I know, baby,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. “I’ll go get some milk.”

He nods slowly, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

You let out another laugh—louder this time—as you run out of the room and jog down the hall, pivoting into the kitchen. You yank the fridge open, pull out the bottle of milk, and retrace your steps.

By the time you return, Sam is grinning like a demon, face smeared with sauce, and Joaquín is full-on wheezing, fanning his mouth with his hand.

“What happened?”

“He drank the beer,” Sam says, clearly very entertained. “Made it worse.”

“My god, Joaquín,” you sigh, dropping the milk in front of him. “Didn’t you smell the hot sauce?”

He shakes his head, already chugging from the bottle. Milk dribbles from his lips and down his jaw, sliding down the column of his neck—and suddenly, you’re having thoughts. Filthy ones.

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot.

Jesus Christ. Even watching him drink milk is hot now?

“I just don’t understand how your tolerance for spice is so bad,” you mutter. “You’re half-Mexican for crying out loud.”

He stops long enough to gasp for air—then burps like a frat boy. “That’s racist.”

“It’s not racist,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve been to your house. Your mama’s tamales are hot. And delicious.”

“Ooh,” Sam smirks. “Tell me more about his mom’s tamales.”

Joaquín shoots him a slow, deadly look over the milk carton as he continues drinking.

“His mom makes the best food,” you say, finally opening your own container of wings. “The rest of his family can handle heat just fine—but this pretty boy always gets a custom serving. Mild.”

“Wow,” Sam snorts. “Way to let the ancestors down, Torres.”

Joaquín finishes the entire bottle of milk—though it was only half full—before he’s finally able to breathe normally again. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp, but at least he no longer looks like he’s about to explode.

“Better?” you ask, smirking behind a half-eaten wing.

“You know,” he says, leaning forward, that stupid, smug grin back in place, “might help if you kiss it better.”

You raise your brows. “Your mouth?”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Probably a couple of places you could kiss that’d help.”

Your eyes go wide, pulse spiking. Across from you, Sam chokes on a mouthful of chicken.

“No,” he says between coughs. “Stop it. Both of you. I am not sitting here while you do your weird flirting shit. Leave me out of it.”

Joaquín just grins, completely unaffected, and opens his container of mild buffalo wings. It shouldn’t be sexy, the way he sinks his teeth in and tears the meat off the bone. Or how his tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Or the low, satisfied groan he lets out, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week.

But God, when it comes to Joaquín Torres, you are well and truly screwed—just not in the way you want to be.

Your heart is in your throat. Your hands are trembling. Your back is sweating.

Every step you take deeper into Club Calavera brings you one step closer to puking.

The inside of the club is soaked in red light and velvet, thick with smoke and perfume. Velvet booths line the walls, half-hidden in shadow, crowded with people who look like they have knives in their boots and secrets in their smiles. The bar glows low and warm on one side of the room, casting amber light across bottles arranged like trophies.

The music is bass-heavy, slow and deliberate, and the dance floor pulses with bodies moving close—too close. Everything sparkles—sequins, sweat, the occasional flash of a watch or the glint of a gun tucked just out of sight.

It’s the kind of place where everyone’s watching, everyone’s working an angle, and no one’s here by accident.

You feel completely exposed without so much as a headset or earpiece, but Sam insisted—strictly no comms. It’s too risky in a place like this.

Teddy from logistics is ‘in the chair’ tonight, doing what you’d usually be doing—watching live feeds, monitoring heat signatures, keeping an eye out for trouble. You all know the signals. The procedures. Where to meet if it all goes sideways. But none of that is making you feel even remotely safe in this den of criminals.

You take a slow, deep breath and continue weaving your way through the crowd, keeping your chin up—confident, not cocky. Your movements are measured. Deliberate.

You know where you’re going. You’re not nervous. You fit in.

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone murmurs beside you.

You offer a small, coy smile, then duck away, putting several bodies between you and whoever that was—for good measure.

The club is crowded enough to disappear in. You just have to make sure you don’t move too fast. Don’t draw too much attention.

Not that this goddamn dress is making it easy not to draw attention.

It’s gold and slinky, catching the light with every step, made from a breathable stretch-knit lamé mesh—fine metallic threads woven into silky, weightless fabric. The outer layer is a sheer gold sparkle mesh, densely packed with glittering micro-sequins that flash like fire under the club lights.

It’s cut obscenely short—the hem grazing your upper thighs—with a scooped neckline just low enough to tease, and long flared sleeves that shimmer from shoulder to wrist. It doesn’t cling—but it follows your shape with a sleek, deliberate grace that leaves no doubt it was tailor-made for you.

Beneath all that glitter, the bodice is reinforced with a discreet layer of ballistic fabric—a Kevlar-knit that’s thin and flexible enough to contour to your body, but strong enough to slow a small-calibre round or deflect a blade. So, as long as any would-be attackers aim for the dress and not your legs, you might just have a shot at making it out alive if things go sideways.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, voice low as you squeeze between two people who were definitely not excusing you.

You pop out of the crowd at the edge of the dancefloor just as the music shifts. It pulses low and slow at first, a sensual rhythm driven by a deep reggaeton beat. Then a plucked guitar winds through the bassline—sharp, teasing, almost flirtatious—while maracas and other percussion add a soft shimmer beneath it all, like heat rising off pavement.

There’s a slinky sway to it, like hips rolling in time with every beat. The tempo is deliberate, confident, impossible to ignore—each note coaxing movement, inviting bodies closer. It’s the kind of music that wraps around you like smoke, warm and heady, and refuses to let go.

You don’t see him at first—just feel it. That ripple in the air. A subtle shift in energy that tells you someone is watching.

And then you spot him.

Joaquín steps through the crowd like it’s parting just for him. He’s traded his usual tactical black for loose tan trousers that hang low on his hips, a gold chain draped from the belt loops. A crisp white shirt is thrown over a fitted tank, sleeves rolled up like he’s halfway between saint and sin. His hair’s slicked just enough to look intentional, a single curl falling over his brow, and there’s a glint of gold at his throat that catches the light every time he moves.

He doesn’t just look good—he looks dangerous. Not in the gunmetal, locked-and-loaded way you’re used to. This is softer. Smouldering. The kind of danger that tempts instead of threatens. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your knees weaken.

And he’s looking at you.

Head tilted, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been thinking about this all night. All week. About you in that barely-there dress. About what’s underneath it. About how many people are in this room—and how little he cares.

Your stomach flips.

Your whole body hums with anticipation. And you haven’t even touched him yet.

You're still catching your breath when he reaches you.

No words. No warning.

His hand slides around your waist, the other catching your wrist, fingers brushing the underside of your arm like a question. Your body answers before your mouth can—yes. Whatever this is, yes.

The music throbs through the soles of your feet as you move deeper onto the dancefloor. His hand drops lower, finding the curve of your hip. He steps in—chest to chest—warm breath grazing your cheek.

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re working. This is work. Just a distraction so that Sam can get to Navarro.

But right now, with Joaquín’s fingers splayed across your lower back, guiding you into the sway of the beat, your focus is wrecked.

And this doesn’t feel like work.

His body moves against yours with practiced ease—hips rolling slow and sweet. The rhythm is deep, deliberate, and he follows it like it’s stitched into his bones. His thigh slides between yours as he guides you, hand firm at your waist as you pivot together—tight, fluid, seamless.

You loop your arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, and his mouth is suddenly very close to your ear.

“Hola, mi vida,” he murmurs, “estás espectacular.”

You might not know much Spanish, but you’ve spent enough time around Joaquín to know exactly what he just said.

You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “So do you.”

He laughs under his breath—low, dangerous—and dips you. Hard. Your spine arches, body bending back over his arm, one hand clutching his shirt for balance. His mouth drops to your chest. Breath ghosting over your skin—warm, damp, too much.

He lingers there. Like he's waiting for permission.

Then—

His tongue darts out. Wet heat against your chest.

You yelp—then freeze.

The crowd around you stills. Heads turn. All eyes on you.

“Showtime, cariño,” he mutters, low and smooth, just for you.

He pulls you up again—slowly. His hand drags from your spine to your waist, fingertips digging in like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And if it weren’t for his grip, you’re not sure your knees would hold.

He doesn’t even glance at the crowd. He just smirks.

Because this was his plan all along. This is why he hasn’t practiced with you all week. Why he refused to rehearse.

Because Joaquín Torres knew exactly how he was going to play you—just like he’s about to play this entire room full of criminals.

The music builds again, deeper, filthier. That slinky reggaeton rhythm thickens with every beat, and Joaquín takes the cue. His hands slide down your waist, anchoring you as he rolls his hips into yours, slow and smooth—grinding to the beat like he’s got all the time in the world. Like no one else is here. Like the two of you don’t have an entire operation riding on this moment.

Your hands grip his shoulders, then slide up to the back of his neck. The world narrows to the heat between your bodies, to the heavy pulse of the music, to the way he leans in close and breathes against your skin.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just like we practiced.”

You snort—soft, breathless. “We didn’t practice.”

“Exactly,” he smirks.

He spins you suddenly, one arm looping around your middle to keep you close as your back hits his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you flush against him, and he starts to move again—grinding up behind you in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Filthy. Hypnotic. Perfect.

Someone in the crowd whistles.

You tilt your head just enough to meet Joaquín’s eyes over your shoulder. He’s looking down at you with heat, with purpose. Selling it for the crowd—but that look doesn’t feel like an act.

Your gaze flickers past him, scanning the shadows—and there. You spot Sam slipping through the crowd, unnoticed, just as planned.

Good.

You drag your eyes back to Joaquín and grind back into him, slow and intentional. He groans—quiet, but real—and dips his head to the crook of your neck. His lips skim your skin, his breath hot and shallow.

“Still working?” he murmurs.

You bite your lip.

“Because if this is just a mission…” He trails off, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw. “You’re the best actress I’ve ever met.”

You laugh—shaky, hushed, raw. “Shut up and dance.”

So he does.

He drags one hand down your thigh, slipping briefly beneath the hem of your dress, just high enough to make your breath catch. Then he spins you again, facing him, and pulls you back into his chest with a practiced flourish—showy enough to earn a cheer from the sidelines. The lights flicker like heat lightning across his face, casting gold in his eyes, sweat glinting at his hairline.

The air between you crackles.

Then—he leans in, voice low, mouth ghosting yours. “Tell me when this stops being a game.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because you’re not sure it ever was.

“Confía en mí, mi amor,” he murmurs—trust me, my love—and you barely have time to register the words before he spins you out with a flick of the wrist, one hand still gripping yours.

Your body twirls away from him, dress shimmering beneath the lights, the crowd around you gasping at the drama of it—and then you’re pulled back in just as fast.

He catches you tight.

One hand at your back, the other sliding low as he grabs your thigh and lifts—hitching it high against his hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. Holding you there. Staking a claim.

Your breath punches out of you, caught between the sudden closeness and the weight of his grip. His eyes are dark, gleaming with heat and purpose, and you’re not sure which part of this is still the performance.

His lips are inches from yours, breath warm, tension thick between you as the music pulses around your locked bodies—sweat, sequins, heat, and hands, everything glittering under low crimson light. And still, the crowd watches. Spellbound.

So you decide to give them something to watch.

You swallow hard, gather what’s left of your composure, and let your hand slide slowly down his chest—fingertips tracing the line of his sternum, dragging over warm fabric, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You sway your hips with the music, then pivot—smooth and deliberate—until your back is flush to his chest again.

His breath catches. You feel it.

You roll your hips back into him, slow and sinful, and his grip tightens on your hips.

Your hand snakes up behind you, into his hair, curling tight just enough to make him tilt his head. Then, with a smirk tugging at your lips, you twist to whisper against his jaw—soft, breathy, just for him.

“Papacito… ay, qué rico tú.”

You feel the way his whole body reacts—his inhale sharp, his fingers flexing against your skin, his composure cracking for just a second. Just long enough for you to feel victorious.

But then—he snaps.

He grabs your hand and spins you back around to face him, hard and fast. His grip is sure, his eyes burning. He’s flushed now, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like he’s trying to get a grip—but losing it. On you.

And then he drops.

Not suddenly—deliberately.

His hands trail down your sides as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours. Not until his breath hits your chest, lips ghosting over your damp skin.

His mouth moves lower—hot, open, dragging over the glittering fabric until it settles just below your navel. The pressure is maddening. More suggestion than kiss, but it sets your nerves on fire.

He rests on one knee. His breath is hot through your dress. His grip, searing.

You feel his nose graze along the line of your panties, the heat of him soaking through the fabric. He lingers—mouth parted, exhale shaky—and you know that if he moves even half an inch lower, you’re going to moan out loud.

Your knees almost buckle.

So you do the only thing you can—you throw your arms up, eyes fluttering closed, and let the music carry you. You sway to the rhythm, pulse thudding in your ears, hips shifting just enough to brush against his mouth again.

And when you dare to look down…

He’s still there. On one knee. A hand branding the back of each thigh.

Looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth getting on the floor for.

And God help you—you want him to stay there forever.

But after a few beats, Joaquín lifts his head slowly, mouth brushing over your dress on the way up, trailing heat with every inch. His hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, gripping tight as he rises.

You meet him halfway.

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your body moulds to his. Breath mingling. Lips so close—so heartbreakingly close—you could count the seconds before they meet. You can feel the heat of him, taste the want on his breath.

His mouth hovers over yours, a whisper away. The music fades. The crowd vanishes. It’s just him. Just you. Just this.

Then—he pauses.

His eyes flicker. Something cracks beneath the surface—heat, hesitation, hunger.

And he pulls back.

Not far. Not fast. Just enough to tear the moment in half. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and steady, full of something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or a warning. You’re not sure which—only that it leaves you aching.

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You blink up at him, dizzy, throat thick, trying to smile like it hasn’t cost you something.

He leans in again, lips grazing your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “Sam’s clear.”

You nod—barely, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the music.

Then he steps back, slow and sure, every muscle coiled like he’s holding something back.

You follow his lead, putting just enough distance between you to play the part. You sway with the rhythm—two agents, two dancers, nothing more.

But your body still burns.

And the ghost of his mouth still lingers, like a secret you’ll never know.

Eventually, Joaquín leads you off the dancefloor and toward the bar, his hand warm and steady at your lower back.

Eyes follow you—hungry, speculative. You feel them trailing over your thighs, your back, the glitter of your dress. Men watch like they’re waiting for their turn, like they saw the performance and think it was an invitation. But you don’t care. You’re too distracted by the phantom of Joaquín’s mouth, the ache of something unfinished still pulsing behind your ribs.

At the bar, he flags the bartender down with a subtle nod and orders for both of you—something cold and sharp that might steady your nerves. You rest your hands on the counter, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel too much.

“Pretty bold dance out there,” a voice says beside you, too close.

You turn your head to find a stranger leaning in, all confidence and cologne, eyes skimming your neckline like he owns it.

“How about a private encore?”

Before you can respond, Joaquín shifts. Not aggressively. Not even visibly angry. But his body angles between you and the guy with a quiet finality, one arm draping casually across the bar behind you.

“She’s not available,” he says, voice low but pointed.

The stranger laughs like he’s not threatened—like he hasn’t realised the mistake he's made. “Didn’t look like that a minute ago. Looked like she was auditioning.”

You barely see Joaquín move. Just the way his jaw tenses, the slight twitch of his fingers curling at the bar, the heat rolling off him in waves. But it’s enough.

You touch his arm gently. “We should go.”

He doesn’t look at you right away, not until the guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath as he fades back into the crowd. Then Joaquín turns, his gaze softer now—but his hand is still tight on your waist.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let’s go.”

Getting out of the club, into the night, and down the street is all a blur. Your feet move, but your mind is still back on that dancefloor—on Joaquín’s wandering hands, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes burning.

Your chest aches at the memory of his mouth hovering over yours. Close enough to taste. Close enough to make you believe. He could’ve kissed you. He should have. He was going to. But he didn’t.

And you can’t stop asking yourself why.

By the time you reach the van parked a few blocks away in a shadowy side street, you’re grateful one of you is paying attention, because you don’t even remember the walk.

Joaquín opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re breakable—like you’re something valuable that needs securing. He reaches across and buckles you in, knuckles brushing your thigh in the process, lingering just a second too long.

Then he’s gone again—door shut, around the van, into the driver's seat. He jams the key in, turns the engine, and starts reversing slowly out of the alley. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just nearly shatter years of friendship in a single, heated moment.

You stare out the window while he drives, lost in your thoughts and the lingering warmth of him on your skin—sweat, spice, and something that feels specifically made for you. Something that makes your heart race and your knees weak.

“Where did you learn that?” he asks suddenly, voice low and rough.

You frown, turning to face him. And God, is it a sight. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp skin, eyes glittering even in the dark.

You clear your throat. “Learn what?”

“What you said to me,” he says, glancing at you before turning back to the road. “When we were dancing.”

“Oh.” You shift in your seat, dragging your gaze away from him. “Just one of those songs you always play.”

“Right,” he mutters. “Do… do you know what it means?”

There’s a beat. Only the soft hum of tires on asphalt fills the silence.

Then you murmur, “Daddy, oh, how delicious you are.”

His breath hitches. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel.

You wait another beat before adding, “That’s right, yeah?”

He nods. “Right.”

He shifts in his seat—subtle, but telling—and you don’t dare let your eyes drop to his lap.

He clears his throat. “The—uh—the pronunciation was good. Accent could use some work.”

You snort—sharp and dry. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to pencil in some extra Spanish practice.”

“Let me know if you need a tutor,” he says, smirking now.

Your heart thuds—heavy, too hard. You want to tease back. You want to slip into the familiar rhythm, the easy banter. But you can’t. Because now you’re confused, and a little wrecked, and everything feels off.

“Oh, you don’t have time for that these days, Falcon,” you say, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “I’m sure Gabe or Ceilia would be happy to give me lessons.”

Two of the engineers you’ve often heard Joaquín arguing with in lightning-fast Spanish.

“Gabe or Ceilia?” he repeats, tone unreadable, eyes fixed on the road.

You don’t answer. You’re not sure what you could say.

So you just turn your head back to the window, watching the quiet city blur by, willing yourself not to cry. Not yet.

Not until you’re alone.

You wake up to a bright streak of sun slashing across your face.

Your eyes are sticky—thanks to all the tears—and your body aches. You stretch your legs out and roll onto your back, careful not to slip off the couch cushions you curled up on last night.

After regrouping at the office, both Sam and Joaquín offered to drive you home. You declined them separately—telling each you’d already agreed to leave with the other. It took some careful phrasing and a few weirdly timed trips out the front door, but it worked. And eventually, you were left alone.

You stripped out of your dress and showered—because of course Sam has a shower at the office—before changing into a spare set of clothes you keep in case of emergency. Which, as it turned out, meant an old pair of loose gym shorts and one of Joaquín’s worn Air Force shirts.

Then you settled in front of your computer and worked until it felt like your eyes were bleeding. You filed mission reports, checked maintenance logs, combed through security footage, and even tried digging deeper into Matías Navarro. But by four a.m., you were in Sam and Joaquín’s office, curled up on the low blue lounges and crying yourself to sleep.

Partly from exhaustion.

Partly from heartbreak.

Mostly because you have no idea what to do about Joaquín Torres now.

The sound of your phone vibrating against the table forces you to sit up. You rub at your eyes, yawn widely, and reach for it, flipping it over to see Joaquín’s goofy caller ID photo lighting up the screen.

You stare at it, gnawing on lower lip until the call ends. Then a notification pops up—missed call from Joaquín—followed by a flurry of texts asking how you are, where you are, and if you want to hang out today.

It’s Sunday. Which means usually, you’d be dragging him to a market or a movie—something sickeningly wholesome, the kind of thing real couples do on their days off. But you’re not a real couple. You never were. And you really need to remember that.

So you slip the phone into your pocket without replying, deciding to do it later—when you’re less raw.

With a heavy sigh, you push off the couch and head for your own office, pausing only to start up the coffee machine on the way. You wake your computer, rubbing at your temples as the screen flickers to life. While you slept, it’s been classifying intel, parsing Navarro’s comms for patterns, links, anything actionable. And surprisingly, it’s found some.

Good. Now you have something to show Sam so he doesn’t kill you for working all weekend.

You skim the new data for a few minutes before deciding that no amount of international weapons trafficking can be dealt with without caffeine. You’re halfway out your office door when—

The alarm blares.

You flinch. “Fuck!”

Then you jog down the hall, push through the doors into reception, and swing around the desk. You punch your code into the alarm panel and silence the sirens—leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears.

The system has been glitching for weeks—tripping randomly, resetting itself, spamming your phones with false alerts. But still, you drop into the chair and run a security check just in case, scanning for any open doors or tripped sensors.

Once you get the all clear, you sigh and head back to the kitchen—now in desperate need of that goddamn coffee.

You spend the next half hour glued to your screens, sipping coffee like it’s oxygen and stretching your sore back every five minutes. You’re so deep in the data that you don’t even hear your office door open.

Not until—

“Did you sleep here, cariño?”

You jump, knocking your chair back a couple inches and sending your coffee mug clattering across your desk.

“Shit, Joaquín,” you mutter, reaching for the tissues.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, stepping in and snatching the box before you can.

Luckily, the mug was nearly empty. There’s only a small puddle to mop up—which he does for you, dabbing at the spill with a clump of tissues, careful not to let anything touch your electronics.

“There,” he says, tossing the wad into the bin. “Now, are you gonna answer me?”

You frown. “Answer what?”

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of your desk, invading your space and flooding your senses with the sharp, fresh scent of his cologne. He’s clearly just showered, and God, it’s almost rude how good he smells.

“Did you sleep here?”

Your cheeks burn. “Maybe.”

His smile fades, eyes narrowing. “You told me Sam was taking you home.”

“And I told Sam you were taking me home.”

“So you lied.”

You shrug. “Embellished.”

He groans, tipping his head back. “Por Dios, me vas a matar algún día.”

You squint up at him, lips pursed. “Something about God and dying?”

He looks back at you, amused now. “You really need those Spanish lessons, mi amor.”

“Well,” you sigh, dragging your eyes back to your screen, “I’ll try to squeeze it in, but I’m a field agent now. My time is valuable.”

He chuckles again, low and warm, and shifts on the desk—just enough for his body to inch closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough to make your skin heat and your heart race.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” you ask, forcing yourself not to look at him.

“The alarm went off,” he says, holding up his phone. “Then I checked whose code turned it off and saw that you’re working. On a Sunday. You know Sam’s going to kill you, right?”

You frown at your screen. “So if you figured I was working… why are you here? To watch me type?”

He pauses, eyes fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, even as you refuse to meet his gaze. He knows something is off. He’s not stupid. He probably knows you better than you know yourself—and this? This isn’t normal. Not your usual rhythm. Not your usual banter.

“Actually,” he says, sliding off the desk. “I’m here for your Spanish lesson.”

That gets your attention.

You glance up, brows pinched. “What are you talking about?”

He moves toward the small whiteboard on the wall beside your desk and plucks the marker from the tray.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, spinning in your chair to face him. “I don’t want a Spanish—”

“Ah,” he cuts in, brow raised. “En español.”

You give him a deadpan look. “I don’t know it en español.”

He smirks. “Then it sounds like you really do need a lesson.”

You exhale hard and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms and then your legs. “Go on, then. Maestro.”

His eyes light up. “Muy buena, cariño. Now you’re getting it.”

You don’t reply. You just stare at him, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line.

He turns to the whiteboard and scribbles a phrase. You try not to look at his forearm as it flexes with each stroke of the marker—but God, it’s hard not to.

“Alright,” he says, turning back with a smirk. “Go on.”

You squint at the words, digging through years of memories—listening to Joaquín talk, watching him text his mother, the cheeky little notes he used to write in your birthday cards.

“Estás... muy... guapo... hoy,” you say slowly.

He chuckles, stepping closer. “It’s not ‘ess-tass.’ Loosen your tongue, cariño. Eh-stás. More breath. Less bite.”

You roll your eyes, but try again. “Estás muy... guapo... hoy.”

“Don’t chew it,” he says, folding his arms—and Jesus, do his biceps have to be so distracting? “It’s not gwaah-po. It’s cleaner. Crisper. Guapo. Let the ‘g’ glide. The ‘o’ is round. Like your mouth when you—”

He stops—and laughs quietly, eyes gleaming.

“Never mind. Try again.”

You scowl at the board, determined not to let his arms—or his mouth—throw you off.

“Estás muy guapo hoy.”

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you. Then that slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face.

“Eso, mi amor,” he says. “You’re getting it.”

Your lips twitch, but you don’t let him see it. You roll them together and raise your brows instead—quietly daring him to give you the next one.

He turns back to the board and quietly writes out three more phrases. Each scribbled letter winds the tension tighter, threading the air with heat and anticipation—but you don’t know why. Not yet. You recognise some words, sure, but you can’t piece together the full sentences.

“Me vuelves loco,” he says, overpronouncing it like a smug high school Spanish teacher.

You sit up a little straighter, arms still folded tight across your chest, and echo, “Me vuelves loco.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Bien. De nuevo.”

You know he’s just told you to say it again—more from the look on his face than his words.

“Tell me what I’m saying first.”

He grins, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You drive me crazy.”

Your breath hitches, pulse spiking—but you manage to keep your cool.

“Me vuelves loco,” you repeat.

He nods. “Very good, cariño. Next one?”

You drag your gaze away from his stupidly handsome face—ridiculous facial hair still perfectly intact—and squint at the next phrase. You don’t recognise it.

“Ponte… de… rodillas?”

He chuckles—low, throaty—and steps forward, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s not a question, mi amor. Say it like you mean it.”

Your brow furrows as you look past him at the board.

“Ponte… de rodillas.”

He moves closer, voice dropping. “The ‘r’—you’re swallowing it. It should roll. Just a little. Ro-dí-llas. You’re saying it too flat.”

You try again. “Ponte de… rodillas.”

He tsks. “Softer on the ‘ll’. It’s not rod-ee-yas, it’s ro-dee-yas. Let it melt. Let it glide off your tongue.”

You give him a look. “If you think I’m going to get turned on by grammar—”

“Not grammar,” he smirks. “Just me.”

You roll your eyes—but he’s stepping even closer now, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that same reckless hunger he wore last night.

“Say it right,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll listen.”

“Listen?”

He nods once. “Maybe I’ll do what you’re telling me to do.”

You’re breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling beneath crossed arms. Your legs feel heavy, unsteady—too tense to stay crossed—so you shift in your chair, uncrossing them as Joaquín watches every movement like a predator tracking prey.

“Look me in the eye,” he says softly. “Say it again. And mean it.”

You clear your throat and meet his gaze. “Ponte de rodillas.”

There’s a beat—one, long charged second where he just stares.

Then—he sinks to his knees.

His hands slide up your thighs as he settles between them, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He looks entirely too pleased with himself—and something else. Something darker.

“See?” he murmurs. “Estoy de rodillas por ti, mi amor.”

Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding like a war drum. It fills your ears, thrums beneath your skin. Every nerve ending burns where his hands rest—just above your knees—like he's branding you.

“Next one,” he murmurs, leaning in.

Your voice catches before you can speak. You’re frozen, eyes locked on him as he lowers his face between your thighs, gaze fixed at the apex.

You force yourself to look away—back to the board—blinking until the letters come into focus.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Just try it, baby,” he says, breath hot against the tender skin inside your thigh.

You swallow, voice shaking. “N-Necesito… sentirte… adentro.”

He draws a sharp breath, jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands slide higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts.

Your whole body tenses.

“Joaquín, I—”

“Uh uh.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to make you ache. “Dilo de nuevo.”

You blink down at him. “What?”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, dark eyes dragging up to meet yours. “And I’ll reward you.”

Your head spins. He’s still there, between your legs, looking at you like you’re something holy and wreckable all at once. This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real.

But the heat is real. The ache. The want.

“Necesito,” you say slowly, breath shaky, “se—sentirte adentro.”

He groans low, sliding his hands higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your panties.

“Better,” he mutters. “But I know you can do it right, cariño.”

You clutch the arms of your desk chair, grounding yourself, trying not to move. Trying not to beg.

“Necesito sentirte… adentro.”

His hands move again—slow and sure—one hand pushing your shorts aside, the other tracing down your centre, teasing along the fabric of your panties. He lets out a deep sigh before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, moving higher with each wet press of his lips.

“Better,” he mutters against you. “But it’s not ‘sen-teer-teh’—you’re flattening the ‘i’. It’s sentir—longer. Feel it in your throat. Let it roll.”

His thumb drags gently along the crease between your thigh and your core, teasing the elastic.

“You want it?” he whispers. “Say it right.”

Your grip tightens on the arms of your chair. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and try again—voice lower now, weighted with need.

“Necesito… sentirte adentro.”

A sound escapes him—almost a growl—and he dips lower, mouthing you through the fabric. You gasp, hips twitching. The heat of his breath, the shape of his mouth—it’s overwhelming.

“Good girl,” he says softly, lips dragging over you. “Almost perfect.”

You whimper, your body arching involuntarily. “Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me how to say it.”

He chuckles against you, the vibration sharp and sinful. “You’re rushing it. Slow down. Let me hear you want it.”

His hands are steady on your thighs now, anchoring you open as his mouth hovers just above your pussy. Breath hot, cheeks flushed, dark eyes locked with yours—waiting.

You draw a breath, forcing your voice to steady, and say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

“Sí,” he groans. “Eso es todo, mi amor.”

Then his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and shove it aside. His mouth is on you just as quick, tongue hot and slick and merciless as he finally rewards you—lapping at your wetness like a man starved.

You break—letting out a broken cry. One hand flies to his hair, threading through the curls, while the other grips the edge of your desk. Your hips lift into him as his broad tongue licks a slow stripe from entrance to clit. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine.

Your thighs shake, breath coming hard and fast, but Joaquín doesn’t let up. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles around your clit—just light enough to drive you insane, just heavy enough to make you twitch with every pass. Then he flattens it and licks up again, long and firm, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking—slow, purposeful, obscene.

“Así,” he growls into you, voice low and ruined. “Así me gusta verte.”

Your hips buck. Your fingers tighten in his curls.

“Joaquín—”

He slides one hand higher, fingertips trailing over your inner thigh before gliding straight to your entrance. He drags two fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, torturous—coating them in your slick, collecting the wetness, then finally pushes in. One knuckle, then two, sinking deep into your heat, his breath catching as he feels how ready you are.

You gasp—sharp and high-pitched—and he groans into you like the taste is making him drunk.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “Mierda.”

You whimper something incoherent, every nerve in your body screaming, and he curls his fingers just right—hooking them inside you, hitting that spongey spot that makes your thighs spasm and your mouth fall open.

And still, his tongue doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and flicks, lips wrapped around your clit like a prayer, and when he groans into you—low and wrecked—it sends a full-body shudder straight through you.

“Say it again,” he pants, fingers pumping deep and slow. “Say it. Dímelo otra vez.”

You’re half gone—hips jerking forward, body sliding closer to the edge with every wet, filthy sound echoing between your thighs.

You choke on your breath, trembling as you manage to say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

He growls—honest-to-God growls—and his fingers speed up, curling faster, thumb brushing your clit just as his lips close around it again.

“Buena chica,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you cum with my mouth, with my fingers—todo lo que me pidas.”

Then he sucks—hard. One long, deep pull with tongue and fingers working in tandem, filthy and focused and fucking lethal.

You cry out, hips bucking, the hand on his hair holding him against you as you grind on his mouth.

He groans into the mess he’s made, lapping it up like it’s sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue traces lazy, hungry circles.

Your body shakes. You grip his hair like a lifeline, breath shattered.

“Joaquín,” you pant, tugging on his curls. “Joaquín, I need—I need—”

“Gonna cum, baby?” he murmurs, curling his fingers again. “Gonna cum on my tongue?”

You let out a strangled moan as he licks you again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as his fingers pump in and out with an obscene squelching sound.

“Joaquín,” you say again, firmer this time.

His eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“Necesito sentirte adentro.”

He freezes. Everything stops. His fingers stop mid-thrust and he just stares at you, lips glistening, eyes wide.

“Joaquín Torres,” you say, breathless, chest heaving. “I need you inside me. Right fucking now.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up at you like you’ve broken something in him—something sacred.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he pulls his fingers from your body and rises to his full height.

You whimper, aching at the loss, feeling hollow.

His face is flushed. His lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked, staring down at you now with wide eyes and an expression so raw it makes your chest tighten.

“Are you sure, cariño?” he asks, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to. I—”

“I’m in love with you,” you say, rising from your chair to stand in front of him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “And I’d really like it if you fucked me right now.”

He just stares. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Brows drawn like he’s trying not to cry or laugh or do both at once.

Then, slowly, his lips curl into that familiar grin. The one you know too well. The one you love more than anything else on Earth.

“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Oh, did you now?”

He nods, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why do you think I just gave you the best head of your life?”

Your brows lift, and a laugh bubbles from your throat despite yourself. “Of my life?”

He nods again, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze dipping to that stupid moustache—still glistening with your slick, making your thighs clench. “I didn’t even cum…”

His grin drops, and he growls. A deep, guttural sound—low in his throat and hot on your skin—as his hands flex around your waist. Then in one fast, fluid motion, he twists your bodies and slams you back against the desk.

You gasp, hands flying to grip the edge for balance. But before you can speak, his mouth is on yours.

And fuck.

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s years of holding back, years of wanting, all pouring out in one searing, breath-stealing kiss. His lips crash against yours, tongue demanding entry, teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’s angry he waited this long.

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between you but heat and desperation. He kisses like he wants to devour you—like he’s trying to rewrite every second you spent not doing this.

His hands fumble at your waist, tugging at your shorts, pulling them down as you shift your hips to help. Once they fall to the floor, he starts yanking at his belt with shaking fingers.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long—”

You reach down to help, fingers brushing his as you undo his fly and push his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking against his stomach.

Your hand wraps around him on instinct—hot, hard, pulsing in your grip—and he curses again, burying his face in your neck.

You stroke once. Twice. Just enough to hear him moan against your throat.

Then—he pulls back, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he grabs the base and drags himself over your still-covered core. Nothing but the soaking wet scrap of lace left between you.

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what you do to me.”

He pushes again, the thick head of his cock dragging over your clit through the soaked fabric, the pressure maddening. Your hips jerk, mouth falling open.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the tip down your slit again. “You’re so fucking wet.”

Your hand grips the desk, the other tangled in his curls as you breathe out, “Joaquín—please—”

He looks at you like a man on the verge of losing control. Then he nudges your nose with his, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes blazing.

“Say it again,” he breathes. “One more time. Necesito sentirte adentro.”

Your breath shudders as your eyes lock on his, your voice barely more than a whisper—raw, pleading. “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

He groans—low, filthy, possessive—and grabs your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the desk so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. Then his hands are under your shirt—palms searing as they skim your stomach, over your ribs, until they find your bra.

Without hesitation, he shoves it up—then your shirt—baring your breasts. He groans, deep and guttural, eyes locking on you. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice reverent and wrecked.

His mouth latches to your chest, hot tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips wrap around it and suck—hard. His other hand is already at your soaked panties, pulling them to the side again, and you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance.

“Please,” you gasp, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his bare back. “Joaquín—now.”

He lifts his head, eyes burning, forehead resting against yours again.

“You want me?” he asks, cock dragging along your folds. “You want every inch?”

You nod, breathless, trembling. “Yes. I want you to fill me up. I need to feel you inside.”

He curses under his breath, grips your waist, and thrusts forward.

All the air leaves your lungs in a strangled cry as he slides inside—slow, thick, relentless. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, your bodies pressed tight, his mouth open against your throat.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. So warm. So tight. So perfect around me.”

You whimper, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper—closer. He starts to move, hips rolling forward, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before driving back in with a filthy, wet sound that echoes in the office.

“Fuck,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Not until you scream my name. Not until everyone in this damn city knows you’re mine.”

His hand slides up again, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as he pistons into you—faster, deeper, every stroke hitting that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges.

“You’re gonna cum for me now,” he pants, “and I’m gonna feel every second of it. You hear me?”

You nod—wild, breathless—but it’s not enough.

He thrusts hard, dragging a moan from your throat. Again. And again. Every push deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your head tips back, your hands scrambling for purchase—on the desk, on his shoulders, anywhere.

“Fuck, Joaquín—” you gasp, already so close.

But suddenly, he stops.

Buried to the hilt and breathing like he ran a marathon, he stills, chest heaving.

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand catching your chin and forcing your gaze to his. “I said look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, dazed and wide, vision blurred.

“I fucking love you, cariño,” he says—raw, desperate. “So fucking much. You feel that?” He rolls his hips, just once, dragging a broken sob from your lips. “That’s what love feels like. Me, inside you, losing my fucking mind.”

You whimper, thighs trembling around his waist, and he doesn’t wait. He starts to move again—deep and punishing, hitting every spot that makes you see stars.

“Tell me you love me,” he growls, one hand sliding up under your shirt again to squeeze your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you're writhing. “Tell me, baby. Say it.”

“I love you,” you gasp, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Fuck, Joaquín—I love you—I love you—”

“That’s it,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours, fucking you like he means it—like he needs it. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

His mouth crashes to yours mid-moan, swallowing the sound as he pounds into you, the desk rattling beneath your ass, every stroke sending shocks of heat down your spine. You can feel it building—tight and dangerous—coiling deep in your core like a spring about to snap.

“You gonna cum for me, mi amor?” he rasps, lips dragging along your jaw as his thrusts start to stutter. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”

Your entire body is shaking, one hand in his curls, the other clawing down his back as you choke out, “Yes—yes, I’m so close—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked. “Not until I feel you lose it. I want it all, baby. Cada maldita gota.”

His hand slides down your torso, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles in perfect rhythm with his hips. The pressure hits you like lightning—sharp, electric, blinding.

“Oh my God, Joaquín—"

You break.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm hits with devastating force, tearing through you in waves, pulsing around him as he groans—loud, low, carnal. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills inside you with a harsh, broken shout of your name, spilling deep as he holds you close like he’ll never let you go.

You’re both panting, chests heaving, grinding slowly to ride out the high and clinging to each other in the aftershock—sweat-slicked, breathless, totally undone.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses a soft kiss to your temple and stays buried deep inside you.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts,” he whispers.

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half disbelieving—and tip your head up to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you stupid. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you murmur.

He grins, still inside you, still pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest.

“Good,” he says, smug and a little dazed. “Means I did my job.”

You smack his shoulder, giggling now, and he catches your wrist—pressing a kiss to your palm, then the inside of your elbow, then the curve of your jaw.

“You’re such an idiot,” you say, fingers carding through his curls while his lips assault your neck.

His nose nuzzles into your skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m your idiot.”

“God help me,” you mumble, smiling into his shoulder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression so open it makes your stomach flip. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and sincere. “Not just physically—I mean, really.”

You nod, heart suddenly so full you feel like it might burst. “Yeah. I’m better than okay.”

His smile softens. “Good. Because I’m not pulling out until I get at least one more necesito sentirte adentro.”

You bark a laugh, head falling back. “You’re insatiable.”

He shrugs, hips shifting just enough to make you gasp. “And you’re going to be fluent soon.”

You tip your head forward, looking at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Necesito sentirte adentro.”

“God,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “Vas a ser mi muerte.”

He rolls his hips again, and you suck in a breath—he’s still hard, still thick and hot, dragging through your slick with maddening pressure. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair as you lift your chin and kiss him—hard and soft all at once, pouring everything into it.

But then—

You stop. And pull back.

That sharp little ache flares behind your ribs, reminding you why you were in this office on a Sunday in the first place. Why you cried yourself to sleep. Why you weren’t even sure you could look at Joaquín today, let alone fuck him.

He blinks, brow creasing. “What’s wrong, mi vida?”

“Last night,” you murmur, eyes dropping to where your hand is fisted in his shirt. “Why didn’t you kiss me?”

He gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “On the dancefloor?”

You nod slowly.

“I didn’t kiss you on that dancefloor in front of a hundred criminals because I didn’t want our first kiss to be undercover,” he says softly. “Didn’t want you thinking it was just for show.”

“Oh.” Your lips twitch into a smile.

He chuckles, soft and low. “Is that why you were upset? Because I almost kissed you and didn’t?”

You nod again, slower this time. Cheeks burning, heart thudding.

“Oh, mi amor,” he sighs, voice warm with laughter. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Well,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter in his hair, “you could start by fucking me again.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His lips are back on yours in a second, hips rolling forward, his hard length pushing into you with the most delicious stretch. You moan against his mouth, hiking your legs up higher around his waist to feel him deeper.

His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, searing fingerprints into your skin—marks you know will make you squeeze your thighs every time you see them.

And then—

Ping!

The sound of your phone cuts through the soft whisper of skin on skin. Neither of you can help but glance at it, sitting screen-up on the desk right beside where Joaquín is fucking you slowly.

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

“Just a motion alert,” you reply. “I set it up a while ago when I was working a lot of weekends because Sam would come in and scare the crap out of me.” You look back at him, eyes trailing over his face so close to yours. “Doesn’t help though. I didn’t see the notification when you came in.”

He frowns. “So it alerts you when someone enters the building?”

“Yep.”

“Right.” His eyes flick to the phone, then back to you. “So... someone just entered the building?”

Your eyes go wide. “Fuck.”

You grab the phone and unlock it with shaky fingers, bringing up the security system app and quickly flicking through the camera feeds until you find movement.

Your breath catches. “It’s Sam.”

“Shit,” Joaquín hisses, pulling out so quickly it leaves you winded.

You let out a pathetic little whine, and he can’t help but chuckle as he fumbles with his pants.

“Later, baby. I promise,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But Sam is going to be here in a few seconds, and he’s going to know what just happened in here if we don’t—”

Knock, knock, knock.

“You in there, kid?”

You both whip toward the door, seeing Sam’s blurred silhouette through the frosted glass.

“Quick, cariño,” Joaquín whispers, helping you off the desk.

You scramble into your shorts, yank your bra and shirt into place, then turn to Joaquín, raking your fingers through his wild curls—both of you stifling laughter like love-drunk fools trying to clean up a crime scene.

Knock, knock, knock.

“I can hear you.”

You clear your throat, nod at Joaquín, and step around the desk toward the door. As you grab the handle, you glance back—and spot a little pool of evidence on the desk.

“Joaquín,” you hiss, pointing at it.

His eyes go wide, and he quickly sits on it, trying to look casual—as if he hadn’t just been buried inside you right there thirty seconds ago.

Then you yank the door open, plastering on your most innocent smile.

“Hey, Sam!” you say, probably a little too brightly.

His hand was poised to knock again, but he drops it slowly, eyes narrowing as they bounce between you and Joaquín.

“Hi,” he says, slow and suspicious, stepping into the room.

You shuffle back toward the desk, sliding in beside Joaquín, praying to any god that might listen that Sam can’t read the Spanish on the goddamn whiteboard.

“What are you two doing?” Sam asks, brows raised.

“Working,” you both say, in perfect unison.

Sam cocks his head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? On a Sunday?”

You nod. “Yep. I was running data on Navarro all night and found a few leads. He frequents this deli in Washington Heights, owned by—”

“Why does it smell weird in here?” Sam interrupts, sniffing the air like a police dog.

“Weird how?” Joaquín asks. “I came straight from the gym, so if it’s sweat, that’s probably—”

“Did you two have sex in here?” Sam exclaims, eyes wide—locked on that fucking whiteboard.

“No,” you say quickly. “I was learning Spanish. Joaquín was teaching me—”

“I know what that says,” he cuts in, pointing at it, brows drawn and lips pursed like he’s trying not to gag.

“I was just being funny,” Joaquín says, tone light. “Nothing happened.”

Sam raises a brow. “Oh, okay. So if I check the security footage, it’s not going to show anything?”

Your heart lurches, your cheeks burn, and you turn toward Joaquín, burying your face in his chest with a groan.

You hadn’t even thought about that stupid little security camera in the corner of your office.

“I knew it!” Sam cries. “I can’t believe you two. This is a place of work,” he goes on, already climbing onto his high horse. “You just violated my trust—and the trust of everyone on this team. This is an environment for professionalism, not sex. I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless, so—”

“Didn’t you bring a date back here the weekend after we started operating?” Joaquín asks suddenly, brows raised.

You lift your head, blinking. “Oh my God. You did! What was her name—Kylie? Casey?”

Sam freezes. His expression drops.

“You know,” Joaquín continues, turning to you, “we could probably find the footage from that night. I think I remember the date.”

“Wouldn’t take long,” you add, grinning now. “Could scrub through it before we erase ours.”

“Okay!” Sam blurts, throwing up a hand. “Okay. You heathens win.”

Joaquín grins, wide and smug, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

“Go through the cameras,” Sam instructs, already backing toward the door. “Delete the footage. Both incidents.”

“No offense, Sam,” you mutter, grimacing, “I really don’t want to see that.”

“I’ll do it,” Joaquín says cheerfully. “I’m actually a little curious about how Captain America—”

“Enough,” Sam snaps, pointing at Joaquín—but the twitch in his lips betrays him. “Do it. Go home. Take tomorrow off. Hell, take the whole week if you’re going to be all over each other like this. Just don’t defile any more government property.”

Then he’s gone. Out the door and down the hall, muttering something about kids these days.

Joaquín hops off the desk and wraps his arms around you, smiling like a sinner who just got a free pass to heaven.

“You think we should keep a copy?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “I bet it’s hot.”

Your thighs clench instinctively, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Oh, definitely. And Sam’s too—for blackmail. Just in case.”

Joaquín laughs. “God. Could you imagine if Captain America’s sex tape got leaked?”

“Might boost his approval rating,” you snort, moving to slide into your chair.

He stands behind you while you pull up the security system app, his arms around your shoulders, lips brushing over your hair again and again.

He murmurs it at first—I love you, I love you, I love you—until the words melt into Spanish, growing filthier, hungrier. You can’t understand all of it, but it doesn’t matter.

Because you’ll make him teach you.

Slowly. Thoroughly.

Between your legs. All fucking night.

END.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #danny ramirez #danny ramirez x reader #joaquin x reader #captain america: brave new word #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #oneshot #marvel #ca:bnw #the falcon #falcon #falcon x reader #imagine

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wintrbears · 2 days ago

Text

Cradle Robbers: The Second Trimester | JJK

Summary: You're too busy attending baby prep classes and shopping for furniture together to focus on the significant changes living together and regularly hooking up has introduced into your relationship with Jungkook, although, it doesn't seem like either of you mind all that much.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Pregnancy AU, Childhood Friends to FWB to Lovers, Slow-Burn, Smut, Fluff, Crack, Angst (barely, you have to squint to see it)

Word Count: 20.2k+

Warnings: pregnancy, crying, anxiety, panic attack, cursing, blood, swelling, talks of miscarriage, ultrasound, medical tests, doctor's office, mention of childbirth, mention of vaginal tearing, speeding, drinking, bowling, jacuzzi, parental expectations, IKEA, shopping, stealing, lying, jealousy, brief mention of death, video games, cats, dogs, pet names (baby, babygirl, bambi/bams), baby prep classes, Lamaze class, mild skin burn. SMUT: kissing, cuddling, titty sucking, dry humping, big dick jk (you already know), unprotected sex, oral sex (both receiving), titty fucking, coming on boobs/skin, cream pie, coming untouched, missionary, mention of vibrator, ANAL!!, rim job, ass eating, anal plug, face fucking, cum eating, fingering, ok I think that's it!

Author's Note: chapter two is here lovelies! I am so incredibly thankful for all the love and support part one got and I'm so excited for everyone to see how their story continues in this chapter. we've got some wonderful sweet scenes, a couple of my favorites out of the whole fic, and also some filthy smut scenes. the end of this chapter is the angstiest part of the whole fic but it’s also a catalyst for what comes next, so I hope you enjoy the second trimester as much as I do and please lmk your thoughts :)

FOUR

Jungkook must’ve made a deal with the devil, because the way his tongue moves isn’t something a mere mortal should be able to accomplish. The precision with which he alternates between licking your slit and fucking his tongue into your hole is otherworldly, and you worry your best friend may secretly be an incubus.

At the present moment, his tongue is curling inside you to drink every last drop of essence leaking from your pussy while you struggle to breath on the kitchen counter.

It’s only eight in the morning and you’re certain your day has already reached its peak. It’s unfathomable to believe anything you experience within the next twenty four hours will be better than the feeling of him eating you out like you’re his favorite meal.

Jungkook moans into your cunt as he swallows your juices before moving upwards to tease your clit with the tip of his tongue. It’s brutal how little friction he gives you while circling the spot you need him most. When he finally sucks the nerve endings into his mouth and hums, it sends the most jaw dropping pleasure through your core. It forces a shuddering moan out of you and your hands reactively tug at his hair. His fingertips have a bruising hold on your thighs and the pressure on his scalp only makes him grip you tighter and shove his face deeper into your pussy.

“Taste so fucking good,” he grunts between licks. “Never wanna fucking stop.”

You whine and buck your hips at his praises, causing his nose to catch on your sensitive clit. Jungkook realizes the effect his button nose has on you when you moan enthusiastically and he begins moving his head of his own accord to keep the friction there. The combination of that along with his inhuman tongue makes your head spin like a carousel on the fritz.

“Koo, I’m gonna come,” you warn him breathlessly.

An affirmative growl comes from below and Jungkook moves away to spit on your hole and fuck his saliva into you. You gasp and yank his hair hard enough for him to grunt against your folds as he moves his tongue in and out of your cunt like a man on a mission.

He’s borderline ravenous when he changes tactics and repeatedly flattens his tongue over your clit to force you into a climax. It works wonders, and soon enough you’re screaming and falling back onto the counter as you come in his mouth.

Like the demon he clearly is, Jungkook doesn't cease his behavior even as he hears you crying softly above him from the overstimulation. He just continues to abuse your pearl with his mouth, sucking and biting on the sensitive skin as tears roll down the sides of your face and you whimper something that sounds reminiscent of his name. Eventually, his wet muscle leaves your clit to lap up your cum instead, making your hand clutch weakly onto the strands of hair still in their grasp.

“You're fucking delicious, Bambi,” Jungkook whispers on your wet skin. “God fucking damn.”

“Jungkook.”

“One more, please.”

Jungkook is begging you even though he's the one in control, and you both know damn well you're not going to stop him.

He makes out with your cunt like a highschooler at prom, as if his parents are going to catch him any moment and he has to do everything he can before they do. Your pussy is weeping essence into his mouth and you wish you had to strength to lift your head and watch him work.

Your second orgasm ramps up at the speed of light, riding the coattails of your first and making your legs convulse and clamp around Jungkook's head. The man below you doesn't care in the slightest, in fact, it sounds like he enjoys the suffocation when he moans endlessly into your folds.

Jungkook slows down dramatically post orgasm number two, gently slurping the cum along your slit until you finally push him away due to oversensitivity. He whines pathetically when you do so, and it’s so fucking sexy your desire nearly returns with a vengeance.

Allowing your soul to slowly return to your body, you keep your eyes closed and inhale as deeply as possible. The feeling of Jungkook over you makes you open them, and it’s just in time to see him leaning down to kiss you. You clutch his jaw as you return his kiss and happily allow him to push his tongue into your mouth to taste yourself.

He helps you upright, holding your lower back and bringing you into his chest. You rest your head on his shoulder while you continue to settle from the high.

“You alright?”

“Mmhmm,” you assure him.

You feel his lips on your cheek before his presence moves away from you. Hoping off the counter, you take a large swig of the orange juice still on the table from breakfast.

“I gotta get going, Bams,” Jungkook tells you as he runs his hands through his hair to make it presentable again. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

You briefly hug him goodbye and hand him his phone from the counter. He thanks you with a succinct bow before heading towards the door while Bam follows him eagerly, hoping to join his dad on his adventure. Jungkook bends down and gives him a quick head pat, and repeats the gesture for Usagi who’s asleep on the couch.

He leaves with a final wave that you happily return as his figure disappears from your field of vision and the door shuts with a soft click.

Throwing your head back with a groan knowing you need to leave for work, too, you pour yourself some tea and collect your bag by the door. Today should be easier since your insatiable hormones are quelled, but you’re also going to spend the entire day thinking about Jungkook’s mouth on you.

You’ve been repeatedly hooking up since the night you joined him in bed, but there hasn’t been a single conversation between you about it.

To be fair, it only occurs if you initiate something or if Jungkook can tell you need sexual relief via your antsy behavior and the drool which collects on your chin when you so much as glance at him. He also never allows you to pleasure him in return, which means he only gets to come if it’s during intercourse and always after he’s successfully gotten you off first.

It isn’t what you want for your relationship. You despise him sending you deep into the throes of pleasure without being able to return the favor, but the whole point of you hooking up is to assist with your pregnancy-induced sex drive.

You don’t want things to stay the way they are.

A couple nights ago after he practically fucked you through his mattress, you unilaterally made the decision to become actual friends with benefits rather than whatever you are now. Singular, friend with benefits?

You’re planning to cook his favorite dishes tonight to celebrate his latest accomplishment at work and present the idea over dinner. You know it doesn’t need to be some grand announcement or proclamation, but it kills two birds with one stone.

Work serves as nothing more than a distraction from the ever growing to-do list in your head as you dutifully prepare for motherhood. The pregnancy is still under wraps at the office since your bump is concealable and you don’t feel close enough to anyone to share the news. Your belly is definitely bigger, especially upon entering your second trimester, but not enough for strangers or acquaintances like coworkers to notice. Only someone close to you would be able to clock the difference between this and your usual weight.

When you’re home free from your corporate imprisonment, both Usagi and Bami enthusiastically greet you at the door with meows and strong tail wags. You spend a solid ten minutes giving them all the love and affection they deserve before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.

Jungkook is an aggravatingly better cook than you, and he sometimes cooks dinner, but he always makes breakfast and lunch on the weekends, and since you normally get home before him on the weekdays, dinner is your forte.

While video calling your mothers as you cook, you update them on minor details like your morning sickness finally passing and how your cravings are only getting worse.

Three nights ago Jungkook made you a ham and peanut butter sandwich upon request. The poor thing gagged the entire time as he smeared peanut butter on top of the cold lunch meat.

They question whether or not your relationship status has changed nearly every time you communicate. Unfortunately, the eager women got their hopes up when you moved in and the pair of frowns which appear every time you answer in the negative are beginning to eat you up inside.

You always feel guilty because although your relationship hasn’t changed, you’re actively sleeping together. So, it tastes like a lie when you swear up and down you’re still just friends. You can’t speak openly to them about it because they wouldn’t understand how having sex changes nothing between you. Aside from the first time, you never sleep in the same bed or cuddle, and you don’t kiss outside of bedroom activities, either.

Alternatively, your friends are aware, and not a single one of them is surprised. Jimin said, quote, “You’re pregnant, you’re living together, and now you’re sleeping together. Fork found in kitchen.”

Jungkook comes home with impeccable timing, just as you’re plating the food and turning off the stove. His face lights up upon recognition of the familiar scents wafting through the air and your feet end up a couple inches off the ground before you even register it. You screech and brace yourself on his shoulders as he scoops you into his arms and spins you in a semi circle.

“Koo!” You scold him, despite secretly adoring it.

“Ah, I love you so much, Bambi,” he ignores your faux indignation.

“It's the least I could do.” He sets you down and you ruffle his styled hair as he giggles. “You work so hard, Koo. You deserve it.”

He smiles bashfully and steals the plates from the counter before you have the chance to bring them to the dining table yourself.

Between recapping your respective workdays and discussing upcoming plans, you eat alongside Jungkook’s happy food noises and his endless compliments of your cooking skills. You fail to broach the topic of becoming friends with benefits and instead wait until you’re across from one another on the couch.

The pair of you are sitting side by side horizontally so Jungkook can massage your feet, a routine he gladly partakes in due to them giving you immense grief from how swollen they are.

They’re not the only body part swelling exponentially, either. Per expectations, your literal mommy milkers have transformed you into a living, breathing anime character. Not only are they bigger, but they’re sore and oversensitive most days. Jungkook has repeatedly offered to add boob massages to his daily routine alongside the foot rubs, but you’re fairly certain that deal is more beneficial for him than you.

Humming gratefully as Jungkook digs his palm into your heel, you look up from your phone to begin the conversation you’re eager to have with him. He notices your attention shift and looks over at you expectantly.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” you state. He nods his head to show he’s listening, “I think we should be friends with benefits, like, officially.”

“Is that not what we are now?”

“No,” you respond. “You don’t get anything out of the current arrangement.”

“I can assure you, Bams, I get something out of it,” he argues.

“Sure, but I don’t want it to feel like you’re doing me a favor,” you explain. “I want it to be equal and for you to be able to fuck me whenever you want and not just whenever I want.”

The corner of Jungkook’s lip quirks up.

“Bambi, if you let me fuck you whenever I want you’re never leaving the goddamn bedroom.”

“Koo.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I hear you,” he says. “I think that’s a great idea. Happy to enter into an official friends with benefits arrangement with you.”

You clap excitedly at his approval and Jungkook chuckles before removing your legs from his lap.

“I actually have something for you, too,” he tells you.

Jungkook stands and your eyes track his movement towards the dresser against the wall. He pulls out a small, recognizable, turquoise bag from one of the drawers and your eyebrows dramatically shoot up your forehead.

“So, do you remember when we talked about why you were upset at your first gyno appointment?”

You nod at him, still thoroughly confused what that has to do with the gift in his hands.

A few weeks ago, Jungkook asked why you had such a sour expression in the waiting room that day and you explained the jealousy and imposter syndrome you felt in comparison to all the pregnant wives with their pretty wedding rings. Honestly, you never thought about it again after that conversation.

“Jungkook, what’s in that bag?”

He scratches his nape with a hesitant smile, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as he hands the bag over. You stare him down momentarily before slowly opening the gift. Once the tissue paper is gone, you see a velvet box nestled at the bottom of the bag. Biting your lip in anticipation, you reach in to pull it out before opening it to reveal what’s inside.

“Holy fuck, Koo!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not proposing!”

The most gorgeous ring you’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on sits between the cream fabric of the jewelry box. It’s got an oval shaped diamond in the middle, with smaller accent stones on the band made up of aquamarine and sapphire gemstones.

“Jungkook,” you look up at him with tears threatening your waterline.

His smile is undeniably charming as he approaches and sits beside you, wrapping his hands around yours which are still holding the jewelry box open.

“This isn’t supposed to be some pity gift or to make you blend in with all the other pregnant women around. I just thought that, you know, those spouses gave them a ring because they love each other and they want to spend their lives together. And well, I love you more than anything, and it’s already a given we’ll be together for the rest of our lives, even before the baby. So, why shouldn’t I give you a ring, too?” The tears break past their barrier and Jungkook reaches out to shoo them away. “I figured since the baby’s due date is in April there’s a good chance their birthstone will be a diamond, and then I added the aquamarine for your birthday and the sapphire for mine. If for some reason the baby is born in a different month, I can always get you another one with their actual gemstone.”

“Koo… I don’t know what to say,” you cry.

“You don’t have to say anything, Bams,” he assures you. “Can I put it on you?”

Upon your approval, Jungkook removes the ring from the jewelry box and delicately slides it onto your finger. Once it’s snug against your knuckle, he presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand.

Your body moves without notifying your brain first, shoving the gift wrapping away from your lap and tugging Jungkook by his shirt until his lips crash into yours. The action produces a noise of surprise, but it only takes him a second to recover before he’s clutching your waist and pulling you into the seat of his lap.

You kiss him feverishly, tilting your head to gain more purchase over his mouth and force his lips apart. His fingertips dig into your sides as he responds in kind, kissing you with fervor and tracing your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. A hand sinks into your hair and pulls your face down harder against his, making you hum amorously while your tongues dance together in the confines of your mouth.

It’s the first time you’ve kissed outside a sexual encounter, but you’re too busy devouring each other to worry about what that means.

Jungkook can’t seem to get enough, repeatedly pecking your lips even as you’re pulling away. You giggle at his attempts of chasing after your mouth, but soon enough he succeeds in getting you to kiss him again.

“Will you always kiss me like that if I buy you stuff?” He muses.

“Probably, yeah,” you respond.

“Then don’t be mad when I turn you into my sugar baby.”

Your forehead meets his when you laugh and he smiles at the sound.

It’s not certain why you kissed him rather than thanking him like normal friends do, but whether it’s gratitude or hormones or a secret third thing, you don’t care. The only thing that matters is the man in front of you and how much you utterly adore him.

“I love you so much, Jungkook. I’m so, so lucky to know you. You’re the most amazing person, man, friend, baby daddy, I don’t even know what else. I swear, you’re nothing short of a gift to this earth,” you tell him earnestly.

He pulls you closer for another kiss rather than replying right away.

“I’d do anything to make you happy, Bambi. I’m so glad you like it.”

“Like it? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

“You should look in the mirror then.”

Jungkook smirks, his head tilting with pride over his flirtatious remark. You smack his arm playfully before pulling him in for a hug, inhaling his scent while you bury your face in his neck.

The next time you visit your childhood home, you hide your left hand and spend at least five minutes explaining that it’s not what they think, so there’s no reason to freak out. Even after your extensive lecture, both your moms jump around as though they won the lottery when you finally reveal your hand to them.

That weekend you show it off to your friends when wine night rolls around again. It’s at Jihyo’s house this time, which is always the best because she has a hot tub. The girls unanimously decide to drink virgin mocktails tonight in solidarity with you and you all find recipes online and spend the first half of the evening concocting and tasting the drinks.

Once the experimenting is over with, you change into your swimsuits for a dip in the jacuzzi. The girls squeal in delight when they see you in your black bikini with your small bump showing.

Nayeon is infectiously smiling and she places her palm on your abdomen after asking permission.

“I can’t believe your baby’s in here, I could cry!” She says.

“You sound like Jungkook,” you state. “He’s constantly caressing my baby bump so he can say hi to his little sweet potato.”

“Sweet potato?”

“That’s how big they are.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man more ready to be a dad than JK,” Jihyo says.

“No, definitely not. He’s so obsessed,” you concur.

“No shit. He made that plenty clear when he put a freaking ring on your finger,” Tzuyu says as she holds your left hand to admire the ring again.

“Also, can we take a minute to admire how hot you look in this? I mean, look at your tits, babe!” Mina says.

“Isn’t it insane? It’s like I walked out of a freaking hentai,” you reply.

“And that, is reason number two why you have a ring,” Tzuyu notes.

Rolling your eyes with a laugh, the five of you travel with drinks in hand to sink into the hot tub and begin your standard routine of catching up. All the girls are doing well, even Mina, who’s slowly getting back on her feet after the break up. When it’s your turn, you mentally prepare yourself for the slew of inquiries you already know are incoming.

“Okay, so explain this to me,” Jihyo starts. “You’re pregnant with his kid, you live in his house, you’re sleeping together, he gave you a diamond ring and told you it’s because he loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you, and yet you’re still just friends.”

“Don’t forget they made out afterwards,” Mina notes.

“Oh yeah, and then you made out afterwards!”

“We didn’t make out. We just kissed… a couple times,” you defend.

“Bitch!”

“Listen, I get it, alright? I know it seems bizarre from the outside, and honestly, it’s a little bizarre from the inside, too, but I don’t know, it just works.” You sigh and put your drink down. “I know that our friendship has all the aspects of an actual relationship, but it's like I've said before, I don't want to hold his hand, cuddle him, or go on dates. Maybe that's naive of me, but the things I felt in my past relationships, I don’t feel with Jungkook.”

“Maybe because you feel more?” Nayeon responds. “You've known each other all your lives, it only makes sense you don't feel all that early relationship giddiness. What would be the point of going on a date when you know him better than you know yourself?”

“Have you asked Jungkook how he feels?” Mina asks.

You shake your head.

“We don’t really need to talk about stuff like that,” you state.

“Don’t need to? Or don’t want to?” Tzuyu questions.

“What’s gonna happen when you want to date other people once the baby is born? Are you just gonna tell your partner you live with your best friend/baby daddy and when they’re ready, they can move in, too?” Jihyo asks.

“I honestly haven’t thought about that,” you admit.

“Yeah, because you already know deep down you’re never going to want anyone but him,” Nayeon tells you.

You grab your drink again and take a sip while their comments permeate your mind.

“You guys are probably right, I can admit that,” you say. “But right now, I have so many more important things to think about than romance. Jungkook and I are happy and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Just don’t put it so far in the back of your mind that you forget about it, okay? Especially because Jungkook might have it at the front of his mind, and I know you would never want to hurt him,” Jihyo responds.

Nodding as you absorb her advice, you offer her a grateful smile before sipping from your glass again.

When you arrive home afterwards, Jungkook is playing a video game on the couch, Bam lying comfortably on his left and Usagi curled up on the right. It brings a smile to your face as you remove your jacket and hang your keys on the hook by the door. Jungkook merely waves as you enter so he can focus on whatever final boss he’s fighting. Taking a seat in the armchair beside him, you curl your knees to your chest and rest your head in your hand.

“How was it?” He asks without looking away from the screen.

“It was really nice. I took a picture for you,” you tell him.

“A picture?”

“Yeah, the girls said I looked hot in my bikini and that you would be upset if you didn’t get to see it,” you explain.

“Well, they would be very correct.”

You admire him for a moment, chuckling when his tongue presses on the inside of his cheek as he focuses on his endeavor.

The conversation earlier tonight rustles around uncomfortably in your mind and eventually eats away at your resolve. There’s truly nothing you fear more than unintentionally hurting Jungkook, and if he does want more, you’ll give him your heart without hesitation, regardless of your own feelings. His happiness is the most important thing in the world to you.

“Koo?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you happy?”

Jungkook’s eyebrows pinch together, and he’s quick to pause his game and put the controller down so he can give you his full attention.

“What do you mean?”

You chew on your lip as you struggle to properly vocalize your feelings.

“Are you happy with our relationship, with what we are to each other?” You ask nervously.

Jungkook looks at you curiously and with slight concern coloring his features due to your line of questioning.

“Yeah, I am,” he answers. “I don’t know what the future has in store for us, and it would be a lie to say I’m not curious, but I’ve never been happier in my life, Bambi. Why do you ask?”

“We were talking about it tonight and I just… I don’t know. It seems obvious, doesn’t it? We should be a couple by anyone else’s standards, but my brain just doesn’t see it that way,” you explain.

Jungkook hums intuitively and sits back against the cushions, running his hands through his hair as he mulls over your explanation.

“Sure, maybe it’s obvious to others, but they’re not us. They weren't there while we stood by one another through thick and thin all these years. I don’t think other people can even begin to comprehend our bond.” He reaches his hand out for you and you join him on the couch. “I don’t need a label, Bams. Friends, fuck buddies, lovers, partners, I honestly don’t care. You’re here beside me and that’s all I care about.”

Your forehead meets his shoulder in relief. It’s precisely what you were expecting him to say, but it’s comforting nonetheless to hear the words from his own mouth.

"What about you?" He asks.

"Hmm, I think fuck buddies is pretty hot."

Jungkook pulls you into his lap before you can register it and attacks your waist with lively fingers. The tickling sensation makes you screech and laugh maniacally, your voice filtering inbetween the sounds as you beg him to cease his torment. It’s the normal, mundane behavior you always partake in and even though you’re genuinely suffering, you wouldn’t trade moments like this for the world.

Maybe one day things will change between you, but for now, you don’t need anything more than this.

The following morning, Jungkook's sitting on the edge of your bed when you remember to show him the photo taken of you last night. When you do, his head snaps back as he groans regretfully.

“You’re fucking joking, Bambi,” he grits through his teeth.

“What?” You ask innocently.

There's a sly grin on your face as pride swells in your chest because of his reaction.

“This is unfair. This is… cruel and unusual punishment!”

“How?”

“Because you looked like this and I didn’t see it!”

“Jungkook, you could see me naked right now if you wanted to,” you argue.

Jungkook’s pout disappears and his head twists like a confused puppy, as if that possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. Before you have the chance tease him for forgetting about your little arrangement, he’s pulling you down the bed by your ankles and crawling over you. You giggle as he bends down to kiss along your thighs and hips during his ascent. He pauses over your baby bump, pulling your shirt up and kissing your belly gingerly.

“Sorry, little one, Mommy and I have some important business to attend to,” he whispers against your skin.

An endeared smile appears on your lips, but Jungkook is kissing it away once he reaches you. You moan into his mouth as he slips his tongue between your teeth. His hands skim along your waist as pulls your shirt over your head before beginning to unbutton your jeans. After he’s successfully stripped you down, he goes to massage your tits and you whine at his touch.

“Sensitive, Bams?” Your only response is a whimper as he continues to fondle you. “Does this help or no?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “Please don’t stop, Koo.”

He obeys and continues to play with your boobs through your bra, pushing them together and squeezing them tactfully with his large hands. He admires your swollen mounds for a while before kissing across the tops of them, letting his tongue drag along your skin until you squirm beneath him.

“God, I’m really gonna miss these after the baby’s born,” he notes.

As if to prove his point, he gently bites down on the supple flesh.

“They’ll be bigger than normal afterwards, but not this big,” you tell him.

His thumb absentmindedly traces over one of your nipples until it pokes against the fabric of your bra as he hums in acknowledgment.

“Can I fuck them?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Can I fuck your tits, Bambi?”

He’s sporting the most hopeful look imaginable and you already know you’re going to allow it before your brain reaches that conclusion.

“Sure,” you reply, unhooking your bra and removing it from your body. “You gotta take your shirt off though. I need a good view while you do this.”

Jungkook smirks while rising to his knees to pull his shirt over his head with one hand. You genuinely despise how wet you get just from the one motion alone. He stands to remove his pants and boxers and you eye him hungrily when his cock comes into view. Jungkook goes to stroke himself, but you shake your head and beckon him to you with your pointer finger.

His eyes are alight as he hurries to join you on the bed, settling his knees next to your hips so you can reach him.

Spitting into your palm, you move your hand languidly along Jungkook’s shaft to get him hard. He moans softly, his head tipping back and giving you an ideal view of his throat.

“Shit, Bams,” he curses.

His hand descends to your head, holding himself steady between the strands of your hair. While you jack him off, he hovers over the valley of your breasts and allows drool to drop from his lips. You stare wide-eyed as he removes your hand from his cock before placing himself directly in the middle of your tits. Jungkook coats his searing hot skin in the saliva, slowly running his dick along your cleavage and making your mouth drop open in awe.

You squeeze your boobs together by pushing against them with your upper arms, creating a perfect tunnel just for his pleasure. He groans and kisses you in gratitude, the hand in your hair tugging to make you whimper.

Jungkook begins leisurely, pulling his hips back and staring with unbound intensity as his cock leaves the warmth of your tits before slowly returning again. The sight of his shaft disappearing into your swollen breasts forces his eyes to roll.

“Oh, fuck, Bams, you have no idea how good this feels,” he tells you.

His tempo gains speed, but not by much, he's still too mesmerized by the gorgeous vision of you beneath him, his cock stuffed between your plump breasts. The same ones which are only full because he fucked a baby into you. The possessiveness of the act has him growling under his breath.

"Yeah? If it feels so good, you should fuck 'em like you mean it," you taunt.

Jungkook’s doe eyes blink out of existence, turning him from prey to predator in a split second. He holds the wicked eye contact as his fingers scratch at your scalp and he readjusts his grip before thrusting into your cleavage with a fury.

You gasp at the change spurred on by your words, but automatically push harder on your flesh to suffocate his cock with your breasts. Jungkook groans at the tightness and you can't peel your eyes away from him as he throws his head back and the veins in his neck pulse.

“God, Jungkook, you’re so fucking sexy.”

Jungkook's moans are melodious as he pumps his cock back and forth and he looks to be experiencing pure bliss, but honestly, so are you. You weren’t prepared for the feeling of his dick sliding along your skin or his balls slapping against the underside of your breasts to feel this euphoric.

"Me? Fuck, Bambi, you have no fucking clue what you do to me," Jungkook responds breathlessly.

The brat inside in you awakens upon hearing his words, wanting to drive him even crazier in response.

You stick your tongue out while tilting your head down, and a monstrous growl comes from Jungkook’s throat when he realizes what you’re doing. You lick and suckle on his cockhead every time it greets you, and Jungkook makes sure to momentarily hold his position between thrusts to allow your lips to work their magic on him. The more efficient glide caused by the fusion of your combined drool makes everything so much more sensual.

Jungkook must grow restless, or at least hungry for more, because his cock disappears from your chest only for him to shove himself into your open mouth instead. You gladly accept the intrusion, moaning in ecstasy as your lips stretch to accommodate him.

“Fuck, good girl,” Jungkook grunts as his hips continue their pursuit.

His strokes force his cock deep into your throat while you lick the underside of his shaft and make the whole thing debilitatingly sloppy. You’re drooling only a few moments in, the liquid rolling down and soaking his balls which slap against your chin with every thrust. Jungkook is extremely appreciative of your efforts, yanking your hair and incoherently praising you with his head towards the ceiling.

To be quite frank, you would suck Jungkook off every second of the fucking day if he so allowed.

The sensation of our lips around his thick cock and his tip abusing your esophagus is hands down one of the best feelings to ever be discovered by the human race. Even as you violently gag and struggle to breathe, you’re borderline obsessed with sending Jungkook to his grave via your sweet mouth.

“Shit, babygirl, don’t fucking stop.”

Jungkook feeds more of his cock to you one thrust at a time until your nose is buried in his pubic hair. Once he’s entirely nestled in the confines of your throat, he halts and holds your head in its position. You force yourself to breathe through your nose and moan as loud as possible so he can feel your throat constrict around his shaft.

His movements reignite after he chokes on air at the feeling of your tight muscles clenching on his cock. You lick along his velvety skin as he fucks your mouth, wanting to provide the most pleasure to him as possible. After a particular loud gag when you deep throat his tip, Jungkook’s hips stutter and his grip on your hair turns deadly.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, his eyes watching you like a wild animal. “Can I come on your tits, Bambi?”

You moan affirmatively and nod your head as best you can with his dick stuffed between your lips. He resumes his strokes and you grant him complete control, letting him use your mouth however he pleases.

When his abs clench before your eyes and you feel his balls tighten, you assist his fall from grace by suctioning your lips around him. As soon as you do, Jungkook cries out and removes himself from your warm mouth. You desperately inhale to replace the oxygen you lost while he fists his throbbing cock and aims at your tits.

The feeling of his warm cum splashing against your breasts brings your attention downward. Your gaze sharpens with hunger when you see Jungkook squeezing his cock to send his seed all over your fatty flesh. He paints the sexiest picture imaginable on your skin, the white liquid landing sporadically across your chest before he rubs the essence in with the head of his dick.

“Oh, Koo, holy shit,” you moan as your head falls back against the pillows.

Jungkook switches gears almost instantaneously once his cock is devoid of semen, clutching your boobs in his hands and kissing them so he can lick his cum away.

The vision of him eating his own seed off your shiny tits almost makes you climax yourself. His tongue works in circles to swallow every last drop, the warm muscle tracing over your skin diligently as he makes provocative eye contact with you.

“Jungkook, you’re gonna make me come, too, if you keep looking at me like that,” you tell him honestly.

“Really? Should we try it?”

The smirk appears in his eyes before ever gracing his lips, and he continues kissing your breasts without restraint as he moan into them. It's only when he rolls his hips and his semi-hard cock grinds against your pussy that you realize he's being serious. You whimper when his actions force your lace underwear to rub your clit and try grabbing his shoulders to cease the torment, but Jungkook just steals your hands and pushes them into the mattress on either side of your hips.

"Koo, please," you whine.

He's still making filthy eye contact with you while sucking on your spit soaked tits, and your cries only spur him on to dry hump you harder.

You want to say the reason you come entirely untouched in under two minutes is because of the pregnancy, but deep down you know he'd be able to pleasure you just as successfully without the baby in your womb.

Jungkook kisses you messily once you've come down from your high and your tongues dance together until you’re sharing in his taste.

“That was s’fucking hot,” he mumbles against your lips.

You nod in agreement and lace your hands in his hair, tilting your head to create a better angle so you can kiss him with more intensity. His lips mirror your movements while he caresses your outline and pulls you in by your waist.

Jungkook’s idea of an appropriate thank you for surrendering your body to his need is to pull four more orgasms from your battered pussy, the climaxes split equally between his tongue and his cock. Afterwards, when you genuinely believe you’ve become one with the mattress, he happily reminds you his original goal of giving you five orgasms has finally been achieved, and to prepare yourself to enter double digit territory very soon.

FIVE

When your pregnancy reaches the halfway point you and Jungkook decide it’s finally time to complete the necessary shopping and subsequent decoration of the nursery. Since the baby’s gender is a mystery, you plan to design their bedroom with gender neutral colors and you choose an animal theme to honor your existing children, Bam and Usagi.

Before actually heading to the store you lie in bed scrolling across endless websites looking for inspiration.

Throughout your years, whenever you imagined this moment with your future partner, you never thought they’d be so animated about tasks such as this. You assumed, like many men, they would let you make all the decisions and nod in approval at your choices. Jungkook is nothing of the sort, which you should’ve predicted given what you already know about him, but it still makes you swoon when his face lights up over a hanging mobile that looks identical to Bammie.

Once you’re physically present amongst the multitude of baby items, the labyrinth of aisles and example nurseries overwhelms you. The baby section of IKEA is like an expecting mother’s version of The Shining maze. It’s impossible to see everything even if you come back religiously to shop. Jungkook’s loose grip on your hand is doing nothing for your nerves, and even he seems to be dazed by the endless display of trinkets.

“How the fuck are we gonna do this?” He whispers beside you.

On one hand, he means perusing through the infinite options, but on the other, you know he’s also talking about resisting your unbridled desire to splurge on everything in sight.

There’s a list on your phone which becomes your saving grace so you can stay organized as you enter the labyrinth together and pray you exit unscathed and with money still in Jungkook’s bank account.

Honestly, you can’t take either of you anywhere, because despite the daunting shopping list, you fool around in nearly every section.

Jungkook decides the best way to choose a diaper table is to lift you onto them while you smack him as quietly as you can to bring you back to earth. He giggles incessantly every single time he does it, and eventually you allow him without retort to grab your waist and drop you on the tables one by one. For rugs, which hang down from the wall and can be flipped through like a book, Jungkook pulls you against him and wraps the thick fabric in a cocoon around you both while you screech about losing oxygen. When you get to the lamp aisle, you join in his antics as you reenact the Pixar intro together.

There are pillows thrown, blankets smushed into faces, toys juggled until they fall to the floor with a loud crash, and many more childish activities occurring between you. Hopefully, no one is watching you, because if anyone saw your immature behavior they’d probably call for eugenics.

At some point, you part ways because Jungkook remembers his need for some new kitchen utensils. While he heads towards the home and appliances section, you continue your search for the ideal bookshelf.

After about ten minutes, you begin meandering through IKEA to collect your best friend so he can help you decide between two pieces of furniture. When you find him, he’s staring with a crease in his brow at the shelves which contain various sizes of mixing bowls. Before you’re able to grab his attention, two women appear behind him, and you recognize the hungry gaze in their eyes immediately.

You’ve dealt with this behavior around Jungkook all your life, women flock to him as though he possesses some unseen force specifically designed to lure them in. This is different, though, because you’re no longer his wing woman, you’re the person bringing his kid into the world.

You aren’t scowling at them purposefully, but you’re rightfully possessive of the clueless man still debating on buying a glass or steel bowl while he’s being ogled like a piece of meat.

“Koo,” you call, reaching your left hand towards him.

You wiggle your fingers as you outstretch your limb, making sure your pretty ring catches the light and sparkles directly in their line of sight. Maybe you also slightly push your jacket away and rest your hand over your protruding womb, just maybe.

Jungkook glances your way and is at your side in a moment, his hand automatically clasping around your digits as he searches your face for the reason you’re beckoning him over.

Satisfaction fills your system when the women frown and roll their eyes as they leave the aisle. Jungkook never took notice of them the entire time, and something about that knowledge makes you feel prideful.

One by one your list dwindles until there’s only one final item remaining. The crib section is the largest one yet, with row upon row of baby cradles stretching at least a football field wide. There doesn’t seem to be any organization to them, either, with more advanced ones sitting beside basic pieces that have most likely been here since the eighties.

“What’s the difference between all these?” Jungkook asks in exasperation.

“I have no clue,” you respond.

When your eyes meet, there’s a silent agreement made to split up and cover more ground. Jungkook goes left while you go right, and slowly, but surely, you traverse the area with motherly determination.

Some are super simplistic, while others have built in baby monitors and teething rings. You didn’t realize it was possible to design so many variations of the same thing.

Approximately halfway through your half of the room, one of the cribs catches your attention. It’s uncertain why, because truthfully, it looks identical to at least twelve others, but something about it calls to you and you pause to analyze the furniture further.

It has a decent amount of bells and whistles, but not too many that you fear getting lost in its sauce. You can tell your little one is metaphorically nudging you to choose it for their bed and the longer you stare, the more it just screams “baby Jeon” at you. Jungkook notices your stance before a particular crib from across the room and makes his way towards you. His hand on your lower back alerts you he’s there and you look at him expectantly.

“Do you like it?” You nod enthusiastically, hope brimming in your eyes. “Let’s see how much it is.”

Jungkook’s face falls after leaning over to check the tag, and you follow his line of sight to examine it yourself.

You gawk at the obscenely large number.

“Ok, no, nevermind.”

“Wait.” Jungkook stops you by grabbing your hand. “Do you love this one, Bambi?”

“Not that much!”

“No, you shouldn’t love anything for this much.” Jungkook sighs and looks around for any fellow shoppers. “But do you love it enough to, ya know, nab it?”

You stare incredulously, because there’s no way your filthy rich baby daddy just suggested stealing from IKEA.

“You want us to steal our baby’s future bed?”

“It would make for a good story, wouldn’t it?”

“Koo, no!”

“Oh come on, Bams, it’ll be just like old times,” he argues.

“Old times? Just because we’ve knicked some stuff from restaurants and department stores over the years doesn’t make us kleptos, Jungkook.”

“It’s not like IKEA’s gonna miss it!”

“You’re a millionaire,” you remind him.

“So? Doesn’t mean I like spending my money,” he retorts.

Scoffing and crossing your arms over your chest, you eye Jungkook from your periphery, and unfortunately for your conscience, he looks adorably eager to get an adrenaline rush while saving loads of money. Your eyes shut and you slowly inhale before reluctantly turning towards him.

“Alright, how do we do this?”

Jungkook explains his master plan in a low whisper as he scopes your surroundings for anyone looking to foil it. Since larger purchases are collected at the same time as checkout, Jungkook’s brilliant idea is for you to take the crib and lure someone into loading the box in the car while he pays for the non-stolen items. That way, whoever assists you will believe you’re a paying customer.

So, now you’re standing with a dolly containing the crib beside your car which you pulled around to the entrance. Waving down an unsuspecting employee, you smile graciously at him and dramatically stick your baby bump out so he knows how helpless and frail you are.

“Hi, could you help me load this in my car? My husband is still at the checkout,” you lie with siren eyes and point to Jungkook where he’s conversing with the woman scanning your items.

The employee doesn’t even think twice, and agrees with a massive grin as he lifts the heavy box into your trunk. You thank him repeatedly, giving him a full ninety degree bow before hopping into the driver's seat to park the car and wait for your accomplice.

Your hands anxiously rap against the wheel while you wait for Jungkook to join you in your getaway car. When he finally emerges from behind the large automatic doors, you breathe a sigh of relief and move to the passenger seat while he travels across the parking lot to you. He doesn’t speak at first, but he’s grinning from ear to ear as you buckle your seatbelts and pull away from the store with your stolen treasure stashed beneath the rest of our haul in the trunk.

Jungkook giggles cheerfully and wiggles in his seat once you’ve successfully pulled off your heist and are driving down the main road again. You roll your eyes, but a small laugh escapes you when you glance at the large box containing the expensive cradle.

“I can’t believe we did that,” you state.

“Was that not fun? Your little acting gig was so cute,” he says adoringly. “I liked the husband part, too.”

He winks and all you can do to hide the evident blush appearing on your face is shake your head at his antics.

“I wanted to come off as pure and innocent as possible,” you explain.

The conversation shifts away from your morally questionable actions until you’re pulling back into the garage and Jungkook turns to you with a proud smirk.

“Bams, do you know what this makes us?” You shake your head. “Cradle robbers.”

You suffer a horrendous stomach cramp from how hard you laugh.

Jungkook recounts the events of your infamous shopping trip with full animation to your friends the following weekend when you gather at the bowling alley. You’ve reserved a large table and two lanes for the eleven of you, but haven’t started bowling yet since you’re waiting on the pizza and drinks to be delivered to the table.

The conversation circles around the entire table as everyone provides updates about their current situations. Of course, they’re all eager to hear baby updates, so you and Jungkook go last to keep them on their toes.

You explain how announcing the pregnancy at work went and about the little celebratory lunch your coworkers threw you. Honestly, the sole reason you told people at your office is because your bump is too conspicuous to hide anymore.

Which is precisely why Jungkook is so ecstatic to come down the stairs each morning. He absolutely adores your baby bump and will leap at any opportunity to caress or kiss your womb. After wishing you a good morning, he always bends down to greet your unborn child, too. On the couch together he’ll absentmindedly massage your skin and if he’s feeling rambunctious he’ll attack your belly with kisses and make you squeal with laughter. While cooking or washing dishes you often feel his hands holding your stomach from behind and then his voice will filter into your ears as he says hello to your little one.

The various moments of affection make your heart leap from your chest and you worry about your survival upon seeing him actually interact with your child once they’re born.

Jungkook tells the table about the newest game he’s designing and you watch with a gentle smile as his eyes light up while talking about his hard work.

“How’s Y/N coming along?” Taehyung asks him.

“Um, what?”

“He means the game version of you,” Jin answers you.

You glance at Jungkook expectantly, but he’s chugging his drink to avoid answering. When the beverage is entirely gone, he clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck.

“You guys weren’t supposed to say anything, you know,” he scolds his friends. “They’re talking about a character I’m designing in the game.”

“That you named after me?”

“Yeah.”

“Jungkook, I didn’t even know you knew my name,” you say.

He smiles and messes with your hair affectionately.

“Of course I know it, Bambi!” You shove his hand away with a giggle. “Every single game I’ve ever made has a character named after you, or at least, some variation of your name.” Your eyes turn into saucers. “This is the first time I’m using your actual name, though.”

“He gave you huge tits, Y/N,” Jimin tells you.

Jungkook slaps Jimin’s arm in retaliation.

“Clearly, it’s because Jungkook strives for accuracy,” Chaewon comments.

The pizza arrives and stalls your conversation, but the words remain at the forefront of your mind. The thought of Jungkook weaving you into his work all these years makes you feel infinitely warm and fuzzy, and you find yourself grabbing his hand without realizing. Placing a couple chaste kisses to his fingers, you hum contently before resting your cheek against his knuckles. He responds by leaning over to kiss your forehead, letting his lips linger there as he inhales the scent of your shampoo.

“Can you show me them when we get home?” You whisper so only he can hear.

“‘Course, Bambi,” he replies, his eyes disappearing from how broad his smile is.

Once the food is essentially demolished, you begin bowling, splitting your group in half per your usual rules. It’s always a five/five split with an even amount of girls and guys. Then, designated team captains play rock, paper, scissors over who gets Jungkook. It’s almost a guarantee the team he’s on will win, and one time he single-handedly beat all ten of you, so it’s paramount to have him as an ally.

Unfortunately, Jimin loses to Yoongi and Jungkook becomes public enemy number one. You, Eunchae, Jimin, Hoseok, and Namjoon bowl on one lane while the other team bowls on the twin lane beside it and you’ll compare the total scores of both teams at the end.

Bowling is already your villain origin story, but your pregnant belly, aching back, and swollen feet don’t aid you in the slightest. It’s a struggle to even hold the bowling ball correctly because your fingers are too swollen to use your regular size and the larger ball is too heavy for you.

After your third gutter ball in a row, Jungkook takes a sip of his drink and jogs across the lane to join you for your turn.

His entire team hollers in anger, but he’s quick to turn around and scold them.

“Nuh uh, mother of my kid here, I’m helping,” he tells them.

“You would help me even if I wasn’t pregnant, Koo,” you retort.

He pushes his pointer finger against his lips and you giggle in secret.

Jungkook grabs the bowling ball from the rack while you get into position. When you indicate you’re good to go, he holds it up so you can place your fingers in the holes. He keeps a loose grip on the ball just under your own hands and guides your movement of stepping back before underhand throwing it down the lane.

Your team cheers when the ball rolls precisely down the center of the lane and seamlessly knocks over every pin for a perfect strike. The friends on the opposing team all groan, even though they’re still miles ahead of you score wise. Your feet repeatedly leave the floor as you do a victory dance before turning around to thank Jungkook with a hug.

Even with Jungkook’s assistance, your team still loses by a landslide, but luckily, you don’t have to partake in the punishment fireball shot due to the little ear of corn growing inside you.

Jungkook was slightly less pleased with the size comparison this time around, arguing through a pout that it isn’t a cute enough shape to describe his little one.

There’s a second round with the same teams and you embarrassingly get your asses handed to you again. Once your teammates are done with their second fireball shot of the evening, everyone disperses to enjoy the arcade machines nearby. You and the girls head straight for the photobooth, but return to the table immediately following the impromptu photoshoot to talk instead of wasting your money on gotcha games like the men.

You catch up on the more feminine details of life while the guys are gone, covering all the topics you can’t amongst the full friend group. When the girls question you about your newfound sex life with Jungkook, you take a languid sip of your drink before leaning in to divulge all the details.

“It’s honestly been fucking insane, I genuinely think Jungkook is part demon,” you explain. “He can just go for like… hours.”

“God, I’m so jealous. The last guy I dated came in less than two minutes and I had to get myself off in the shower afterwards,” Yunjin complains.

“At least he let you do it yourself. I went on a date last month with a guy who was determined to make me come from oral and I had to literally beg him to get off me because he was so bad at it,” Eunchae counters.

Everyone grimaces at her story and Chaewon passes her a shot across the table.

“I’m glad you’re getting your shit rocked, though. You deserve it!”

“That’s honestly an understatement and oh! I almost forgot to tell you.” You scooch across the seats to whisper your next words to them. “We tried anal last week.”

The gasps from your friends are astonishingly loud and you have to shush the three of them before someone overhears your not-safe-for-the-bowling-alley conversation.

“Shut up!” Chaewon yells.

“Did you like it?” Yunjin wonders.

Rather than verbally responding, you allow the motion of your eyes rolling back into your head to be your answer.

The memory is still fresh in your mind as if it happened only ten minutes ago.

Jungkook’s facial expression is one of pure determination as he reads the instructions for assembling the changing table you bought. You watch the way his brow creases in confusion while Usagi purrs aggressively from her spot on your lap. Your best friend refuses to accept assistance because he believes he can build it all by himself, even though you can already see the screws coming loose in his brain.

After a long while of dissecting the instructions, Jungkook begins putting pieces of the white furniture together and it slowly takes shape.

In the meantime, you sort through the hand-me-down books from your parents and place them in alphabetical order on the bookshelf Jungkook built the day prior. About an hour later, you hear him sigh dramatically from behind you and look over your shoulder at him.

“Can we take a break, Bams?” He asks through a huff.

“Sure, what do you wanna do instead?”

An enticing smirk appears before you and you struggle to resist rolling your eyes. Even so, you stand to take his hand and lead him into his bedroom across the hall.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Jungkook is pressing you against the wood with your hands held hostage on either side of your head. His knee parts your legs as he pushes his muscular thigh against your cunt so you can feel it flexing. You whine for more and Jungkook obliges by grinding into you.

“You know, sometimes I worry we’re gonna hurt the baby from how often we do this,” he whispers.

You simply chuckle in response.

“We’re not gonna hurt the baby, Koo. They’re all the way up here,” you say while pointing to your womb.

“Yeah, but I am pretty big.” You teasingly slap his chest and he captures your lips with a smooch. “I was just thinking, maybe we should try something else.”

“Something else?”

You pull back and rest your head against the door.

“Mmhmm.” He cradles your cheek with one hand and you nuzzle your face in his palm. “Like, letting me hit it from the back.”

Your brow scrunches at his audacity, immediately removing your face from his grasp.

“Are you talking about you sticking your dick in my ass?” Jungkook nods with a boyish grin. “Jungkook, you just mentioned how big you are, and now you’re saying you want to stick that monster in the tightest hole on my body?”

“That’s right, yeah.”

“Get off me!”

“No, wait, Bambi.” He snatches your hands as you attempt to pry him away. “Listen, if you really don’t want to, that’s fine, but I have toys to get you ready and everything. I would never hurt you, you know that.”

“Have you ever done it before, do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I have, yeah, a few years ago.”

You theatrically cross your arms over your chest while you ponder the idea. Honestly, it’s something you’ve always wanted to try, but you never imagined doing it with someone as well endowed as Jungkook. Then again, there isn’t anyone you trust more than him.

“We’ll go slow, right?” Jungkook nods enthusiastically as he watches your mental fortitude crack. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Jungkook kisses you briefly before heading to his closet to rummage through his collection of sex toys, which you only found out existed when he pushed a vibrator against your clit while eating you out a couple weeks ago.

You swing your legs back and forth on his bed to distract from the raging anxiety pooling in your stomach. You know your nervousness is completely unfounded, because every intimate moment you’ve shared with Jungkook so far has been the most enjoyable sexual experience of your life.

When he returns to you, there’s a purple anal plug between his fingers which he wiggles to show off to you. Facing your palms up, you watch him drop it into the cradle of your hands for you to examine. It’s unironically cute. The toy is dark purple with a slight shimmer and the base is actually a big, faux diamond.

“You’ve never used this on anyone else, right?” You ask curiously.

“Nope,” he answers with a pop.

“Alright, so how does this work?”

“Get undressed and I’ll show you.”

You follow his instructions and strip naked before his eyes while he mirrors your movements. Once your clothes are strewn together in a pile on the floor, you sit so Jungkook can stand between your legs.

He grips your chin with two fingers and tugs. Your jaw drops open immediately upon his wordless command and you gaze up at him with big, innocent eyes. Jungkook’s stare turns dark and his eyes glaze over with lust while he analyzes the pretty features of your face. He slowly pushes the toy between your lips, letting you soak the material with your drool. You maintain eye contact with him as you suck on the silicone and swirl your tongue around it inside your mouth.

“Good girl,” Jungkook praises, grabbing your chin again and making you release the toy back into his other hand. “Now turn around.”

Scooting across the bed, you maneuver to all fours once you’re somewhere in the middle. You feel the mattress dip as Jungkook joins you and his warmth slowly closes in on you.

Without warning, you hear him spit and wetness instantly meets your puckered hole. The unfamiliar sensation causes a strained gasp, but it morphs into a moan when Jungkook presses his thumb against your rim and slowly works you open.

His other hand traces along your folds, making you shutter from the featherlight touch. Your essence begins to collect on his fingers before his hand disappears from your pussy entirely. Initially, you make a noise of confusion, but then you hear slurping from behind you and realize he’s sucking your juices off his digits. You arch your back to silently beg for more of his touch, and he chuckles around his fingers at your neediness, spanking you harshly with his other hand. You’re still moaning from the sting when his fingers return to circle your sensitive nub.

The dual sensations have your mind spinning in tumultuous circles.

“Fuck, Koo.”

“Feel good?”

“So fucking good,” you whimper.

“Just you wait,” he brags.

Jungkook pleasures you slowly, mirroring the pace with both hands. Eventually, the tip of his thumb sinks into your tight hole and you mewl, your head falling forward and meeting the mattress below. It takes time, but after a while of Jungkook playing with you like you’re his favorite toy, his thumb goes in past his knuckle and he starts fucking it into you.

The feeling makes you keen and grip desperately onto the sheets. Soon enough, both his hands leave you and you’re left wanting until you feel his tongue tracing your hole.

“Holy shit,” you gasp.

His hands spread your asscheeks apart and he squeezes them in his big hands while he eats your ass.

You genuinely believe you’re going to have to be placed in an asylum. It feels like your very soul is on fire and Jungkook’s tongue on your puckered hole is straight gasoline.

Your eyes roll so deep into your skull you worry they’ll get stuck there.

Jungkook licks over your hole before fucking his tongue into you and the feeling of his wet muscle inside your ass is mind boggling. He works with expert tact, forcing his tongue inside and using the drool falling from his mouth to wet the area and then kitten licking you.

His tongue is warm and sopping wet on your rim and you never could’ve predicted it would feel this good.

He gives your right asscheek a hard smack only to bring his hand to your pussy so he can finger you, too. His fingertips tease along your slit without ever going where you really want him. You whine disapprovingly, but he pacifies you a moment later by rubbing your clit in tight circles and forcing a cry from your throat.

His movements on your clit are harsh in comparison to the languid strokes of his tongue. The stark contrast splits your mind in half and your body isn’t able to keep up with all the pleasure it’s receiving. Before you know it, hot tears are rolling down your face and wetting the sheets beneath you.

“Jungkook, oh my God,” you weep desperately.

You’re so overstimulated you can no longer comprehend what he’s doing to you. The combination of him pressing on your pearl and his tongue sinking into your ass is simply too obscene.

When his mouth leaves you with a single, sloppy kiss, you involuntarily whine at the loss of contact and Jungkook shushes you as he massages the flesh of your ass with one hand.

After a moment, you hear Jungkook spit and feel the wet tip of the anal plug pressing against your asshole. You chuckle when the realization hits you that he was always going to need to relubricate the toy, and coating it with your saliva was merely a display for his pleasure.

You tense as soon as the plug begins to sink further into you.

“Relax, babygirl,” he coos. “Take a deep breath.”

You listen attentively and fill your lungs with air just as he’s finishing pushing the toy into you. Rather than an exhale, it’s a strangled moan that exits your lungs.

“Holy fuck, Jungkook” you cry.

“You’re okay, Bambi. I’ve got you,” he reassures you. “Does that feel alright?”

You nod repeatedly, pushing your ass back against his hands in a silent plea for him to do something before you go crazy. The only reply you receive is a melodious, baritone chuckle.

Jungkook tilts your hips to give him better access to you. The movement makes the plug press deeper into your hole and you whine at the novel sensation. You feel his tongue lick all the way up your cunt a couple times before he starts making out with your leaking pussy from behind.

His lips move in sloppy circles while he eats you out and then he’s spitting on you so he can make it even messier. The feeling makes you delirious and if he wasn’t still firmly holding your hips you’d surely fall flat on your face.

As his tongue fucks into you, the muscle presses against the toy in your ass from within your velvet walls and you nearly rip his sheets as the fullness overwhelms you. You’re sobbing hysterically as he switches between kissing your cunt and flattening his tongue over your clit.

He moves his face back and forth on your nub before sucking and letting his teeth scrape the sensitive flesh. You scream bloody murder and cry his name into the linen.

“Jungkook, I can’t —”

“You gotta come, babygirl,” he tells you.

“Koo,” you sob as your forehead presses into the mattress.

“You can do it, Bams.” He places a wet kiss on your clit. “Come for me, baby.”

He licks you at an obscene pace, curling his tongue to lap up your essence before baby birding it onto your clit so he can massage your nerve endings with his tongue. Your orgasm is unbelievably powerful, forcing your hips forward as you wail incoherently into the bed. Jungkook continues to drink your cum until your cries settle into soft whimpers.

Once the high simmers and your body is shaking with aftershocks, Jungkook gently presses on the anal plug. You keen and arch your back as it sinks further inside you.

“You think you can keep going?” Jungkook moves your hair to one side so he can kiss your shoulder, his lips lingering there while he continues. “It’s alright if you can’t, Bambi.”

“I… I want to, Koo.”

He hums proudly in your ear.

“That’s my girl.”

Jungkook kisses your cheek before rising to his knees again. Your asscheeks are forced apart by his warm hands so he can drip more of his saliva around the toy. Then, he bends down to bite on your fatty flesh and you giggle at the comparably sweet affection.

“I’m gonna take the toy out and slowly push in, alright?”

“Mmhmm, I trust you.”

Just as he said, Jungkook holds onto the base and slowly removes the toy from your hole. The feeling makes your jaw drop as it spreads you open again upon its departure.

The emptiness only lasts a mere moment before you feel the head of Jungkook’s cock at your entrance as he guides the tip into your tight hole.

“Oh fuck,” you whine.

You bite on your hand to relieve the pressure building within your body. Even with all the preparation, the movement of Jungkook’s cock entering you inch by inch is heart stopping.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” Jungkook says.

You shake your head aggressively. No words will be passing through your lips for some time, every motor function in your body is focused solely on the pleasure of being stuffed full by Jungkook.

Every vein of his cock is pulsing against your impossibly tight walls and the further he travels inside of you, the better it feels. You’ve never felt so full in your life and even though he’s only in your ass, you swear you feel him everywhere.

There’s a cooling sensation which accompanies the slide of his shaft and the realization that he applied lube before pushing in makes you feel eternally grateful. You’ll have to thank him for being so considerate once you’re no longer non-verbal. When his hips meet your ass, you exhale the air trapped in your lungs from his descent into your tightest hole. He’s fully sheathed inside you and it’s exponentially better than you ever could’ve imagined.

Jungkook gives you a moment to adjust as he caresses your spine and kisses your shoulder blade a few times.

“How does it feel, Bams?”

“So, so fucking good, Koo,” you answer breathlessly. “I feel so fucking full.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook palms your asscheek before spanking you. “You want me to fuck your tight, little hole? Split you apart on my cock?”

“Please.”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice, and within a second he’s pulling back until only his tip is inside before thrusting his entire cock into you all at once.

The scream that rips from your throat isn’t a sound a human should make.

Hips slamming against your ass and balls slapping against your cunt, Jungkook fucks you like he’s trying to tear you to shreds. Your hole struggles to stretch around him as he continually leaves your warmth and returns again at a debilitating pace.

The feeling of his cock throbbing inside your ass is so euphoric you see a vision of the entire milky way at once. Jungkook and his insane body are the sole proprietors of your mind as you cry ceaselessly and drool all over yourself from how much you’re whining and panting. There’s an unrelenting blaze lighting up your veins and searing your bones, but you want them to just burn, and burn, until you can’t take the heat anymore.

“Fuck, Bams, this feels so fucking amazing,” Jungkook moans. “You’re so tight, babygirl.”

You mewl from the effect his praises have on your mind, your back arching automatically so you can meet each of his thrusts.

Jungkook turns his cadence absolutely deadly, the fierce clapping sounds reverberating off his walls and shaking the bed frame. With his increase in speed, he pushes your shoulder blades down and forces your face into the sheets, keeping his hand there to steady himself. It sends his cock even deeper into you and you mirror each other’s noises of ecstasy at the new angle.

“Jungkook, please don’t stop,” you beg.

“I wasn’t planning on it, Bambi.” He starts rolling his hips in time with his strokes and it makes his heavy balls smack perfectly against your pussy to bring you even more pleasure. “Gonna fuck you until my cum is leaking out of your hole.”

His words pierce your soul and make you whimper with wanton need. You have an insatiable urge to allow him to ruin you completely. Hold his cock within you long enough that your body can only remember the shape of him.

Jungkook’s moaning gorgeously from behind you, his hand now holding your hair like reins so he can keep you exactly where he wants you.

“I’m so close, Bams,” he warns.

You force your hips back against him to push him closer to the edge. He slaps your ass in return before gripping the soft flesh between his fingers.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him.

“Fuck, please.”

He releases your hair so both hands can bruisingly grasp your hips and make his cock penetrate you like it’s his dying wish.

The pace is so lethal you worry he’s causing permanent damage, but you truly cannot bring yourself to care. His huge cock spearing you repeatedly is so jaw dropping you think he’s soiled you for any other partner. It’s impractical to believe another man’s dick could ever bring you this much pleasure. He stretches you apart like you were made for him and you know he feels it, too, with the way he tirelessly rams into you.

As Jungkook chases your highs, the moans meeting the fabric of his sheets sound nothing like you. Meanwhile, he’s growling and groaning inhumanly behind you and it only confirms your suspicions that he’s originally from the pits of hell.

Your climax simmers in your gut and spills over externally with only a few more pistons of Jungkook’s cock into your ass, having his length buried deep within you far too heavenly a sensation to hold back even a second longer. Voice cracking and body shaking in his hold, you scream his name in a prayer-like chant as your orgasm blinds you and shuts down your nervous system.

Jungkook whines and his rhythm falters as the pulsing of your cunt tightens your walls around him. He gasps crudely, his hand dropping to the bed next to your face as he comes, stuffing his seed into your ass and fucking you so full you fear you’ll burst. You feel absolutely filthy as his cum warms the tunnel of your ass and drizzles out around his cock. The essence pours out of you and down his balls as he continues to fuck you through both your orgasms.

You no longer have the wherewithal to hold onto anything, your energy sufficiently drained, making Jungkook’s movements force you further and further across the bed as though you’re just a lifeless husk wrapped around him.

“You alright, Bambi?” He asks through shaky breaths.

All you can muster is a nod as your upper body meets the mattress, your arms lying limp in front of you and ass still in the air where he’s holding you up.

There’s a loud squelch when he finally pulls out, his cum excessively dripping out and leaking all over your pussy and thighs. Once his grip is gone, your lower half falls and you groan at the soreness throughout your body.

“Bambi?”

“I’m alive,” you whisper. “I don’t know for how much longer, though.”

Jungkook chuckles and soothing rubs your back.

“How was it?”

“Fucking amazing. It’s a shame I won’t be able to walk for three days.”

“It’s okay, I’ll carry you,” Jungkook tells you.

You smile weakly, already halfway to dreamland as you acknowledge his promise.

Jungkook diligently wipes away the mixture of body fluids coating your skin before rolling you onto your back. When his handsome face enters your vision, your hands reach for him and he welcomes himself into your embrace to give you kisses along your jaw and neck. A hum of satisfaction comes from your throat as your eyes close and you fall asleep to the repetitive feeling of his lips on your skin.

Your friends’ jaws are practically through the floor by the time you finish reminiscing about your most recent sexual experiment with Jungkook, and you have to refrain from giggling at their expressions of awe.

The men return from their adventures not long after, with Jungkook notably missing. Just as your lips part to question where he is, the man himself appears in your line of sight.

“Bams, look at the stuffed animals I got for our little one!” He cheers happily as he lugs an entire haul of plushies between his arms.

“Koo, where are we gonna put all those?”

“In the nursery, duh.”

He drops the children’s toys unceremoniously onto the seat next to you before running his hands through his hair and scanning the area for an employee so he can ask for a large trash bag to take them home in.

“Jungkookie went a little crazy on the claw machine,” Hoseok informs you.

“Yeah,” you say as you pick up a little bunny plushie. “I can see that.”

Jungkook does, in fact, receive a trash bag from an employee so he can transport the goodies home after saying goodbye to your friends. Upon your arrival, he rushes upstairs to the nursery and meticulously places them around the half decorated room. Luckily, there’s a hanging storage hammock for the wall which will be arriving along with some other decorations in a few weeks.

After changing into comfier clothes and washing up for the night, you drag Jungkook by the hand to the living room so he can show you all the characters he’s named after you.

The next couple of hours are spent on the couch, your feet resting comfortably in his lap, while Jungkook plays through the games to present the animated versions of you he’s crafted over the years. They’re all equally adorable, some human and some not, but regardless of their design, every single one makes your heart thump faster in your chest.

SIX

Usagi is purring like the little engine that could in your lap, her head resting comfortably against your baby bump. You absentmindedly comb through her fur as your other hand holds a book between your fingers. Normally, you’re a fantasy girl, but with motherhood on the horizon you figure it’s about time you dive into the parental advice genre.

Jungkook descends the stairs in his gym attire, about to head to the garage for a workout because the pouring rain outside makes his trek to the actual gym less than ideal. Bam, who’s sleeping soundly in his bed across the room, feels the familiar rumble of his dad’s footsteps and instantly perks up. The Doberman quickly leaps up to greet Jungkook, who is positively elated to see him and bends down to scratch behind his floppy ears.

When Jungkook glances your way, his head tilts in confusion. He gives Bam a couple more rubs on his head before stealing the seat beside your legs on the couch.

“What are you doing, Bams?” He asks curiously.

“Reading,” you answer while shaking your book to show him.

“Yeah, I see that,” he laughs. “I meant, why are there headphones on your stomach?”

Peering down at your now well-rounded baby bump, your mouth forms an O in recognition of the action in question. You honestly forgot about the old school headphones you placed on your belly when you first laid down.

“Well, this book says babies can start hearing around this time and it helps their growth by listening to soothing sounds in the womb. They recommend reading to them, too, as the due date approaches,” you explain.

“What soothing sounds are you playing for our baby, then, huh?” Your teeth clamp around your lower lip as Jungkook brings the headphones to his ears. You watch with nerves pounding as his eyes shift through confusion to recognition before landing on sentiment. “Is this… is this my mixtape from college?”

You slowly nod your head, still anxious for his reaction.

“If our baby is going to listen to anything, I figure it should be daddy’s voice.”

Jungkook’s smile is utterly breathtaking when he hears your response, his eyes glossy with unspoken emotion. His hand caresses your bump reverently before he lowers his head to kiss all over your swollen skin. You giggle at the sensation and tousle his hair with your fingers.

“I should probably sing live for our little one, don’t you think?”

His eyes are sparkling beautifully when he asks from his position above your belly.

“Really?” Jungkook nods wholeheartedly. “But you don’t like singing anymore, besides karaoke.”

“It’s different when it’s for our baby,” he states.

Giggling excitedly, you place the book and headphones on the coffee table and recline into the couch as you wait patiently for the serenade.

Jungkook’s practically a vocal prodigy, and during your childhood his pretty voice was always surrounding you. In the car, across your backyard, escaping from the shower, anywhere and everywhere was his stage. His process for consoling you was to sing familiar tunes until your cries subsided. On sleepless nights, he would send you voice memos covering your favorite songs. He eventually made the mixtape in question which you stashed away for safekeeping over a decade ago.

The melodies ceased towards the end of your college careers, the final chapters of your time there being particularly tough on Jungkook and causing him to fall out of love with the craft. You haven’t heard him sing live other than into a karaoke microphone ever since.

You’d never say it outloud for fear of creating unnecessary guilt, but you desperately miss the sound of his voice and the comfort it brings.

“Alright, but you have to close your eyes, I’ll get too nervous with you looking at me,” he says.

Accepting his terms, you shut your eyes and place your hands atop his which remain on your belly. Jungkook clears his throat before humming to align his pitch, which is mostly for show given that he has perfect pitch.

A wondrous smile forms on your lips the very second his tender, buttery voice filters into your brain.

Jungkook sings as close to where your baby resides within you as possible, his warm breath tickling your skin as he sings an old, Korean lullaby to your little eggplant. Whether it’s hearing him sing acapella again or the gut wrenching display of love for his unborn child, you aren’t sure, but you’re positively beaming as you rest against the cushions.

You automatically frown when his beautiful tone disappears as the song ends, but before your eyes can blink open, Jungkooks is kissing the grimace away and eliciting a noise of surprise from your throat. Your recognition is quick, and within a moment your arms are pulling him on top of you so you can adequately return his affection.

Twin smiles peak through the kiss and cause your teeth to scrape together, but you recover the proper motions and your lips gradually mold together again. You moan happily while combing your fingers through his hair and he wraps you in his arms to caress your waist.

You lazily make out for some time without it leading anywhere, but neither of you question the act. Besides, you already know precisely what Jungkook is trying to tell you by allowing his tongue to dance endlessly with yours.

Sometimes you still rest the headphones on your tummy to play the mixtape for your baby, but it slowly becomes routine for Jungkook to sing to them whenever you’re lounging around the house.

Aside from the parenting books, you and Jungkook also register for two classes in preparation for the arrival of your newborn. First up is the infamous Lamaze class, the purpose of which is to practice breathing techniques meant to help ease the strain of childbirth. It’s supposed to be both relaxing and educational, and your two mothers swear it’s mandatory.

You arrive hand-in-hand ahead of schedule and the instructor introduces herself in a calm, lighthearted tone. She points you to a pair of yoga mats in the back corner and you weave your way around the already situated couples to take your seats.

Jungkook’s curious eyes survey his surroundings and he nods approvingly at the soothing atmosphere.

The room is filled to the brim with fellow expecting couples, some consisting of men and women and others of two women. Everyone’s bellies differ dramatically in size and some of them make you thankful you’re not carrying that much extra weight on your spine. It’s comforting to be among others in your situation even when they’re strangers, and you can tell Jungkook feels the same as he smiles and makes eye contact with the other future dads in the room.

The pregnant woman of the pair beside you leans over and grabs your attention.

“Hi, my name’s Suzy, this is Erica,” she introduces herself and her partner. “Is this your first time?” You nod in tandem and she giggles at your synchronization. “How long have you two been together?”

“Um —”

“A long time,” Jungkook saves the day. “I’m Jungkook, this is Bambi.”

“Koo,” you scold him. “My name is Y/N, he just calls me Bambi.”

“That’s so cute!”

“How long have you two been together?” You volley her question.

“10 months,” she replies warmly.

You refrain from saying yikes out loud. Judgment isn’t usually your forte, and truthfully, the two women look adorable together, but you cannot comprehend having a child with someone you’ve known for less than a singular rotation of the sun. It’s been just short of three decades for you and Jungkook and you still feel unprepared.

“That ring is gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh! Thank you,” you say while wiggling your left hand. You receive compliments almost daily, and initially, you were worried about it not being an actual engagement ring, but the true meaning behind the piece of jewelry means exponentially more to you than a proposal ever could. “He’s definitely got great taste.”

Jungkook smiles graciously at the compliment, his hand rubbing along your back before catching around your waist.

“When’s the wedding?”

Your face pales at the inquiry, which you know is totally valid given the item she’s complimenting and the purpose of the class you’re in.

“You know, we haven’t really gotten around to planning it yet with the baby on the way and all,” you explain.

“Preach,” she cheers.

The instructor entering the room effectively cuts off your conversation with Suzy. As she moves towards the front of the room, you and Jungkook steal a glance, eyebrows rising identically in anticipation of how this will go.

It begins like any standard yoga class, except your legs remain crossed and you focus solely on the breathing aspect of the artform.

Jungkook makes it fairly difficult to focus on said breathing when he does everything in his willpower to force laughter out of you. Throughout each exercise, your best friend decides to ruin any chance of success by making the most ridiculous faces imaginable, causing you to constantly stifle your mouth with your hand to prevent from disturbing anyone else. Upon his third attempt at thwarting your education, you shove your elbow into his ribs and he acts like you fatally wounded him, falling completely over and dramatically grasping his side.

The man is astronomically lucky you’re well hidden in the back or you would be beating his ass right here in front of everyone.

After the warm up ends, the instructor goes over labor and delivery. It isn’t the first time you’re hearing the gruesome details, since your doctor explained the overall process to you both during your last appointment. Frankly, the ordeal terrifies you and you find yourself avoiding any and all conversations about it when you’re able.

“So, for those of you who don’t know, you’ll be pushing along with your contractions. The contractions are your body’s reaction to the dilating of your cervix so the baby can be pushed out. When you push with the contraction, it not only makes birthing easier, but also lessens the risk of tearing,” the instructor explains.

“Tearing?” Jungkook says in horror beside you. “What tearing?”

“My vagina can rip, Koo, and then they have to sew me back up,” you tell him.

He looks at you in absolute terror, his pupils shaking as his eyes observe your bump.

“I never would’ve put a baby in you if I knew that!”

“Well, you didn’t exactly plan on putting a baby in me, now did you?”

The instructor is continuing before you can speak further on the subject.

“The Lamaze breathing techniques help with both the pain of contractions and the effort it takes to push,” she states.

The woman stands to accommodate everyone’s viewpoint as she thoroughly explains each movement and posture.

It’s identical to the motions you’ve seen a million times in film, but when you actually do it yourself, it’s more difficult than you predicted. The technique is unnatural in comparison to your regular cadence of air intake and you only accomplish it after a couple attempts.

The instructor has everyone complete the exercise, even though technically only one of you requires the knowledge. She explains the purpose of both parents learning the technique is because it’s easy for the mother to forget while she’s bringing life into the world and her partner can remind her if they hone the skill as well.

Practicing the breathing style doesn’t go very well for you, because Jungkook does it so aggressively beside you that your laughter is blocking your airway. You make ample efforts, but everytime you only inhale three small puffs of air before you're bending over and cackling into your palm.

“Koo!” You angrily whisper as you slap his arm. He beams delightfully at your indignation, far too elated about making you laugh to worry about the consequences. “If my labor is hell because I didn’t get to learn this shit, I’ll kill you.”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” he whispers genuinely. “I’ll stop now.”

He complies immediately and you continue practicing uninterrupted for the remainder of class.

Upon the conclusion of the course, the two of you follow behind the herd of couples as the instructor comes to stand near you.

“You know, I usually don’t like disruptive couples, but you two are so adorable that I didn’t mind. It’s so obvious how much you love each other,” she tells you sincerely. You instantly go bright red and feel Jungkook squeeze your hand a couple times. “I can always tell when a couple is going to last a long time, and I hope to see you back again in a few years.”

The second class you attend is very different, but just as essential for you to learn. It’s meant to cover the basics of caring for a newborn and although you both have plenty of babysitting experience, it never hurts to have a refresher.

You're currently sitting side by side at a long table surrounded by other expecting couples. There’s two fake babies, diapers, bottles, and a couple other miscellaneous items lying haphazardly between you. Jungkook, whose very existence prevents him from staying still, is fiddling with the various trinkets and examining them as though he’s an alien encountering them for the very first time. When the instructor starts the lesson, you smack his arm to force the pacifier he’s holding out of his grasp.

The class begins with an overall introduction of the precise care required for newborns and infants. From there, it divulges into the appropriate expectations to have for the first few months of parenthood. After the overview, you’re told to pick up the baby dolls so the instructor can walk the class through each lesson.

Jungkook hands the fake baby to you by its leg, and you have to hold your breath to keep the giggle in your chest from escaping. You surely hope he doesn’t carry your actual child like a used rag.

The art of changing diapers is up first and the instructor begins by informing the class about the differences between changing a boy and girl’s diaper. Jungkook nods along as though he’s listening intently, but when you catch his eyes from your periphery, they’re completely blank. Not a single thought in that pretty head of his.

Nudging him with your elbow, you gesture towards the diaper with your eyes as a silent order for him to practice. Jungkook rolls his eyes, but proceeds to follow the written instructions on the board without verbal complaints.

When he finishes the process with utmost accuracy, resulting in a near perfect diaper, he leans back into his chair with a confident smirk, looking stupidly attractive as his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. You have to stop yourself from wringing his neck.

The instructor continues with bottle feeding and explains the importance of milk temperature, the right bottle size, etc. Upon instruction, everyone rises to practice heating a bottle of milk so you understand the feeling of the proper temperature.

You and Jungkook stand in line behind all the other couples, which is convenient because he ends up tickling you while you wait and it would probably disturb your classmates to watch you elbow him in the stomach. He merely giggles in response to your irritation before squishing your cheeks with his fingers and mockingly cooing at you.

When you’re finally up to bat, Jungkook goes first and you immediately click your tongue as you watch him.

“That’s gonna be too hot, Koo,” you tell him.

“Nuh uh,” he argues.

He yelps only a second later when the milk squirts onto his forearm and it's scorching hot. Rolling your eyes, you move past him to heat some yourself. After completing the task, you squirt the liquid on your own arm before gently grabbing Jungkook’s uninjured limb to show him the example of the ideal temperature.

“You’re already such an amazing mother, Bams,” he sighs.

You fight against the smile threatening your lips, but it’s useless, and you end up showing your gratitude with a squeeze of his hand.

As you’re leaving, one of your heels is already outside the door frame when the sound of Jungkook’s name makes you both turn over your shoulder.

When you locate the source, you see a familiar redhead, although she looks vastly different from the last time you saw her, especially with the massive baby bump she’s sporting.

“Lisa?” Jungkook asks to clarify.

“Hi!” Lisa, one of Jungkook’s exes from the time immediately following college, steps forward and pulls him into a hug. When she sees you beside him, her eyes light up. “Oh my god! Y/N!”

“Hi, Lisa,” you greet her as you embrace.

You honestly loved Lisa, and was extremely sad to see her go. She treated Jungkook exactly how you always hoped he would be treated by a partner and he was never without a smile when she was near. Unfortunately, she accepted a job across the country and they inevitably decided to forgo long distance.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing you both here. I mean, I can believe it, but it’s just such a small world,” she states.

“What do you mean?” Jungkook asks, his hand finding your lower back and pulling you into his side.

“Well, this was always bound to happen, right? You two are like a match made in heaven,” she answers honestly.

Jungkook’s ears go red while you hold your lower lip hostage to prevent a bashful smile from creeping in.

“Thanks, Lisa. I’m sure you’re excited,” Jungkook says as he gestures to her stomach.

She wears a huge toothy grin and nods ostentatiously.

“I’m so freaking happy, you have no idea,” she responds. “I’m so glad you two are finally together. I always had my suspicions, and it’s really nice to see. You both look so happy.”

“Thank you, it means a lot.” you say to her. “I hope the rest of your pregnancy and everything goes well!”

“Thanks, you too!”

She hugs you both again before waving and returning to her partner’s side.

It must be divine intervention that causes every interaction you have, stranger or otherwise, to somehow end in compliments of you and Jungkook as a couple. Just the other day, a woman at the store watched Jungkook grab an item for you from the top shelf and kiss your hair as he dropped it into the basket and she hollered from across the aisle that you’ll be together forever.

All you can do is hope they’re correct, because you have an underlying fear you refuse to discuss with anyone that somehow being parents will ruin your friendship beyond the point of recognition. People who’ve been together for far longer than you divorce over issues involving their children everyday, and even without romance on the table, you worry what parenthood will do to your bond.

That worry will have to dwell in your mind for another day, because at the moment, Jungkook is doing everything within the realm of possibility to make your pregnancy easier and bring a smile to your face.

Kicking the door open with your foot, you place the groceries in your arms onto the floor so you can remove your jacket and shoes. When you stand to your full height, you spot Jungkook behind the couch, his hands pressing on his lower back. Your eyebrows shoot up as you examine the scene, most notably, the foreign object on his body.

“Uh, Jungkook, if you got me pregnant, then who got you pregnant?”

There’s currently a skin colored, faux baby bump strapped to Jungkook’s chest, making him look like a mirror to your present state.

“Psst, I did this all by myself. Step it up, Bambi.” Eyes rolling on instinct, you walk further into the home and greet your fur babies on the way to Jungkook. “I got it from the animation department. I guess they’ve used it when doing stop motion before.”

“Right, but why?”

“Well, I read the more you can understand what your partner is going through, the easier it is to be helpful to them.”

“You’re pretending to be pregnant to learn empathy?” Jungkook scowls when his efforts go unappreciated by you. “You know what, you’re right. Thank you so much, Jungkook. It must be so eye opening to endure the weight of pregnancy for a minimal amount of time while I’m carrying your kid around day and night for the better part of a year.”

He sighs defeatedly and unstraps the fake bump, sending it to the ground with a heavy splat.

“I thought that would make you laugh, but it didn’t and now I’m sad,” he explains.

You frown and step forward to caress his jaw.

“I’m sorry, Koo, that was too harsh. It was funny, you look utterly ridiculous while wearing that,” you assure him. “I‘ve just had a long day, is all.”

“Can I do anything to make it better?”

“Well, I can think of one thing…”

Jungkook is lifting you onto the kitchen counter and using his body to spread your legs apart within an instant. He kisses the air right out of your lungs, grabbing your face with both hands and smashing his mouth on yours.

Your conflicting, hectic schedules have made it impossible to spend any real time together lately, and this is the first chance you’ve had to be intimate in days.

The kiss acts as a lighting rod down your spine awakening every single one of your nerve endings. Gripping his shirt to press his heart to yours, you hum blissfully when your sensitive nipples meet his hard chest. His lips force yours open so he can push his tongue into your mouth and it only serves to make you infinitely more needy for him. You capture his hips with your legs and lure him in until his hardening cock is throbbing against your cunt.

Jungkook groans at the contact and pushes his hands into your hair, taking control of the kiss so he can worship your mouth. His hips subtly buck against your crotch and the friction makes you whimper for more. He appeases you by repeating the motion with more force, and before you know it you’re dry humping each other in your freaking kitchen.

You whine when Jungkook’s lips depart from you to kiss your neck instead, but you forgo your disappointment a minute later when he unbuttons your jeans and tugs them off. His hand sneaks into your panties and you moan exuberantly as he starts playing with your pussy, his fingers traversing your folds and swirling around your clit.

“So wet, Bams,” he whimpers.

Jungkook works his tongue along your throat as he fucks his digits into your pussy. Your head falls back in ecstasy until you’re making eye contact with the ceiling fan, forcing Jungkook to kiss along your collarbones and shoulder. He sucks a pretty bruise into your skin and you gasp, your fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt as an anchor to keep you above water.

His lips finally return to where they belong, but he only kisses you for another moment before descending to his knees and pulling your soaked underwear down to join your pants on the floor.

You wait patiently for the feeling of his lips, but they never come. Instead, his fingers retreat from your core and his other hand sharply squeezes your thigh.

“Koo?”

“Bambi, you’re bleeding,” he states through shaky vocal chords.

“What?”

Looking down from your spot on the counter, you see Jungkook’s eyes blown wide while his pupils shake with fear. He holds his hand up so you can see his two middle fingers are covered in dark red blood.

The sight utterly paralyzes you, shutting down every system in your body like a sinking ship, your nerves, veins, and organs all screaming “mayday! mayday!”

Your panic manifests in the form of tears rolling down your face, your lungs struggling to intake air, and your mind racing at the speed of light. Jungkook’s terror spikes when he sees your eyes lose their luster from his place on the kitchen floor.

“Bams?” He stands up while wiping his fingers on a nearby towel. When you don’t respond, he delicately cradles your face. “Bams, look at me.”

Jungkook’s gentle command rights the ship, pulling your consciousness from the dark water and bringing you safely back to land.

His eyes survey you to interpret your mental state, but you feel his own hands shaking where they reside on your cheeks. You desperately clutch his wrists, both as a signal that you’re alright and because you know you both need something to ground you.

“Jungkook,” you whimper.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here,” he assures you as he pulls you in.

You start sobbing the very second his arms wrap around you, shoving your face into his shoulder and muffling your shrill cries in his shirt. Jungkook holds you to him with a hand on your head, shushing you and attempting to comfort you as best he can when his own emotions are nearly getting the better of him.

“I’m so scared, Koo,” you whisper.

Jungkook lifts your head again, wiping away your tears with his thumbs as he caresses your cheekbones. He kisses you softly, granting you a momentary reprieve from your racing heartbeat and constricted airway.

“I’m right here, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Your mind is propelled into the past, to all the times Jungkook’s uttered nearly identical words as a steadfast assurance. He said them when you first told him about the pregnancy, and there are countless times prior to that, whether on the playground, in your basement, the university library, or your old apartment. He’s always there for you, always holding you whenever you need him without a second thought or regard for his own wellbeing.

There aren’t any words left, and time is of the essence, so Jungkook lifts you from the counter and lets you get dressed while he grabs his keys and jacket. You meet him at the door where he’s holding your own coat open for you to slip into. You make momentary eye contact once you're both ready, an unspoken promise passing between you. Afterwards, the two of you run down the stairs holding hands to reach the garage.

Jungkook never once stops talking the entire car ride to your doctor’s office, already knowing exactly what you need to remain calm. He tells you about his day at work and the mods he’s building from scratch for an older game. That leads him into a monologue about the first game he designed and how long it took him to figure out some of the most simple elements.

You regretfully hear none of it, only the sound of his voice filtering in through your senses and not the actual content of his phrases.

When you arrive in record time because Jungkook nearly reaches maximum speed in his Mercedes, you bolt from the car and run into the building together. Jungkook called during the drive to alert them of the situation, and he’s the one speaking to the receptionist at the moment because you can’t bring yourself to produce sound.

The world feels as though it’s spinning in the wrong direction. If it wasn’t for Jungkook’s hand on your thigh as he drove, you wouldn’t even be aware of your surroundings enough to comprehend reality.

Everything is veiled by a thick fog of despair, and you can no longer tell which way is up and which is down.

You’re taken to an observation room almost immediately, where they draw your blood, take both the baby and your vitals, and give you an ultrasound. Jungkook holds one of your hands between his palms the entire time.

During the ultrasound, your nerves go haywire and you finally break, stray tears rolling down your cheeks as you weep into your free hand. The examination of your womb is silent this time because they don’t want to worry you, and not being able to hear the heartbeat you adore is unbearable.

It’s the only time Jungkook releases your hand, so he can brush the tears away before kissing your forehead and whispering sweet nothings into your hairline.

The doctor visits you after the most grueling fifteen minutes in existence. She’s smiling at you when she enters, which you pray is a positive sign, but you don’t allow yourself to relax just yet.

“Hi, you guys. Your baby is doing just fine.”

When the relief born exhale leaves your lungs, it’s accompanied by a harsh cry as the crippling weight of your emotions bears down on you. Jungkook brings your hand to his lips while rubbing his thumb along your knuckles to soothe you.

“I know this was really stressful for you both, and I’m so sorry you had to go through it.” She takes a seat before continuing. “Unfortunately, spotting like this can be totally normal. It’s why some women don’t realize they’re pregnant at first. I’m glad you came in, though. If for whatever reason this happens again, just keep an eye on it and if the bleeding doesn’t stop or is abnormally heavy, then come on in and we’ll make sure you’re all good.”

“So everything’s fine? Me and the baby?”

“You’re both perfect,” she declares.

Your eyes flit to Jungkook, who nods affirmatively and kisses your hand again as tears well up in his eyes.

“Thank you so much, Doctor,” Jungkook says quietly.

“Of course, is there anything else I can do for you two?”

You shake your heads in perfect sync and your doctor smiles warmly upon her exit.

There’s a moment of silence once the door closes, but then the sound of Jungkook gasping over a sob meets your ears.

“Fuck,” he cries, his head dropping to his hands. “Is this what being a parent is? Just constantly being terrified something is going to happen to them?”

You comb through his black hair as he releases all the emotions he was holding in so he could stay strong for you. You gently shush him and reaffirm that everything’s alright, and when he lifts his head you return his earlier favor by wiping his remaining tears away.

“I think the love we receive from them makes the fear worth it,” you state. “But fuck, if that wasn’t the worst hour and a half of my life.” You count your inhales and exhales to bring yourself back to earth. “I don’t even know what we would’ve done.”

Jungkook ponders for a moment before licking his lips.

“If something does happen, if we…” He shakes his head, not wanting to say the words aloud. “We’ll be alright, because no matter what we have each other. I’m always going to be here, Bambi, until the day I die.”

“Until the day I die. I’m going first, remember?”

“No,” Jungkook chuckles darkly. “God will not want me here on earth the day I lose you, Bams. It would be too dangerous for everyone inhabiting it.”

You smile and reach out to hold his face, running your thumb along his cheekbone.

“Together, then?”

“Together,” he affirms.

A beat passes, and then your lips meet like magnets, as if they themselves came together without either of your knowledge.

Jungkook holds your face with ardor, kissing you so tenderly it steals your breath away, and you return his affection with an equal amount of devotion, moving your lips in slow circles as you appreciate every push and pull of his mouth. As you passionately kiss, you place your hands over his and squeeze his fingers.

“I love you, Bambi,” Jungkook whispers to your lips.

You brush your nose against his with a smile.

“I love you,” you reply ardently.

Jungkook is kissing you again the very millisecond he hears the final syllable of your phrase, neither of you wanting to be apart for even a single moment more.

You let your mouths talk where words can’t express the severe emotional rollercoaster you just went through.

Eventually, you part with swollen lips and leave the medical building hand-in-hand. Jungkook drives slower with the ordeal behind you, but his hand returns to your thigh, his knuckles absentmindedly running up and down your leg throughout the trip home.

As soon as you cross the threshold, Jungkook is lifting you into his arms and carrying you to his bedroom. You don’t question him because you already know the reason, and if he hadn’t done so himself, you would’ve lept into his embrace.

Your world was crumbling into ashes less than an hour ago and the sole antidote is each other.

You bury your face in his neck as he carries you through the house, his hands gripping you inexplicably tight as if he’s worried you’ll vanish.

Jungkook kicks the door shut with his heel once you make it to his room before kneeling on his bed and gently resting you both on the mattress. His body is completely covering yours as he nuzzles his face in your neck, and his weight on you provides blissful comfort to your soul. In return, you trace nonsensical shapes along his spine and he hums into your skin appreciatively.

His lips brush your neck tentatively, but after you moan in approval he cradles your face in one hand and exposes more of your throat so he can venerate you. You moan softly again, your nails reactively digging into the fabric concealing his body from you.

“I need to feel you close, Bambi,” he whispers. “I just… fucking need you.”

The feeling is mutual, and you’re immediately turning your head to capture his lips. You both mewl as your tongues begin a well rehearsed routine, the room quickly filling up with the sounds of your pleasure.

Jungkook’s hips roll into you and your legs wrap around his waist so your crotches are perfectly in sync.

“You have me,” you speak directly to his lips. “I’m yours, Jungkook.”

You don’t know what you mean exactly, you could be referring purely to your body or maybe you just gave your heart away, but perhaps it doesn’t matter. The lines have been crossed so many times now you’re unsure they even exist anymore.

Jungkook seems to get a kickstart from your words, his hands suddenly working overtime to undress you as fast as he can. You match his intensity, skimming your knuckles along his waist as you rush to pull his shirt over his head. Your lips meet again on the other side of the process, kissing fiercely as you unbuckle Jungkook’s belt and he undoes the buttons of your jeans.

You swap tasks when your pants reach your thighs, finding it more efficient to shimmy both your own garments off in one go. When your naked bodies meet, you grab Jungkook’s cock to stroke him fervently. He groans into your neck and bites at the skin of your shoulder while his fingers sink between your folds. His hand begins coaxing essence out of your hole with its ministrations so you’re wet enough to take him.

He leaves searing hot, open mouth kisses all along your shoulder and collarbones as you jack each other off. It makes you keen and squirm as his mouth and hand work together to bring you unfathomable pleasure.

“Shit,” Jungkook whines. “Could come just from this.”

You acknowledge his words by tightening your grip and moving your hand faster along his shaft, making him whine even louder.

His free hand is massaging one of your breasts, and he descends to take your neglected nipple into his mouth. He coats the nub in drool and tugs on it with his teeth to make you gasp. Once it’s pebbled and hard, he licks over your swollen mound and gingerly bites into the flesh. His pursuit continues downwards as he kisses over the entire expanse of your torso, making sure to pause at your baby bump to kiss your unborn child for a lingering moment.

His lips hypnotize you completely as they dance across your skin. The simplicity of them mapping you forcing all the worries from earlier right out of your head.

You tug on his hair to communicate you need him, and he languidly kisses up your body so he can return to your lips. As his tongue messily licks into your mouth, it’s perfectly in time with him pulling his hand away from your pussy to rub his cock along your slit and lubricate himself.

“I fucking love this pussy, Bams. Never gonna get enough of it, of you,” he tells you.

It feels like there’s an electrical current linking you together and lighting you both up like fireworks. All of your senses are sizzling as though they’re about to blow a fuse.

Your pussy squelches when Jungkook thrusts inside its warm walls, the otherwise silent room overflowing with the erotic sound. The moans you exude are high and unrecognizable as he rolls his hips to pull his cock out before completing the motion to push himself back inside. The initial glide of his cock into your hole makes you gasp from sheer ecstasy and dig into his shoulder muscles with your fingertips.

Jungkook’s elbows rest beside your ears, his body hovering so close above you that your peaked nipples brush against his chest with each movement.

“You feel so fucking amazing,” he moans. “You’re just fucking amazing, baby.”

His deep, honey voice sends your mind entirely out of orbit.

In response, you take your time kissing his neck, licking over the large vein pulsing beneath his hot skin. He moans and you feel his biceps flex beside your head as he firmly clutches the sheets.

“You make me feel so fucking full, Koo, it drives me fucking crazy.”

He chuckles above you in response.

“Good, love driving you crazy.”

“Well, you’ve been doing it since day one, so I suppose so.”

He giggles at your comment and it makes your heart beat out of time.

His pace is uncharacteristically slow tonight, but he’s pushing his cock in so deep it’s hitting your g-spot with every stroke and you swear you feel him in your guts. He’s not technically even thrusting, just dutifully rolling his hips over you to bring himself in and out of your cunt.

The sensation of him fucking you so reverently is heart stopping and you would do just about anything to ensure it never ends. You truly can’t imagine any amount of time with him will ever satisfy you completely.

Needing to feel more of him, you grab his sharp jaw and pull his face down to your lips for a searing kiss, the feeling of his tongue inside you mouth downright addicting.

“I want you all the time, Jungkook. Everything about you… you have me hooked.”

He smiles against your lips.

“Yeah, like you haven’t had me wrapped around your finger since the second you were born,” he retorts.

You responsively smirk and continue kissing him until your oxygen is depleted. Your bodies greedily connect over and over and eventually your own hips grind upwards to match his andante rhythm.

The distortion of your emotional landscape only serves to make the sex feel phenomenal. Every nerve within you is oversensitive after forcing yourself through all five stages of grief earlier, only for your heightened emotions to come crashing back down.

It feels as though you’re the only two people in existence. Although you’re alone, the pure intensity of your intercourse leads you to believe the bedroom is the only place left standing after a flood washed everything else away.

The combination of your lips chasing each other while you fuck and your pussy clenching around his cock causes Jungkook to moan into your mouth, and just the same, the feeling of him repeatedly splitting you open makes you parrot the sensual noise.

“Feel s’good, baby,” Jungkook groans. His lips take a couple slow laps around your visage before finally coming home to your mouth. “Take my cock so fucking well, like you were fucking made for it.”

You mewl at his praises, the words making you even needier for him.

An orgasmic high has been looming since the very moment Jungkook’s thick cock sunk into your walls and spread you apart, and you're borderline desperate to feel his warm seed inside of you.

“Cream my cunt, Jungkook. Make it yours, baby.”

Jungkook takes your demand to heart, his hands grasping yours and shoving them up beside your head so he can grind into you unhindered. The feeling of his dick’s thick, pulsing veins and the ideal curve sending him straight into your cervix have you seeing stars.

Even with the tempo change, the way Jungkook is fucking you is still undeniably more passionate than your past encounters. He’s chasing his high and yet it feels as though he’s trying to pour his soul into you along with his semen.

You can tell he’s close from the delicious throbbing sensation within your cunt, and you fuck yourself on his cock at the beat of his strokes to make him come.

He grunts repeatedly, his fingers trapping yours to the bed as his pace grows erratic with his end nearing. The sound of him groaning earnestly in your ear sends your eyes to the back of your head as his cum shoots into you and paints your cunt white.

“Fuck, Bams,” he gasps, continuing to push into you as he comes in waves of hot fluid. “Fuck, it’s so good.”

His orgasm triggers your own, the feeling of his cum spreading through you and dripping down your thighs sending you right over the edge. You whimper like a wounded animal, holding onto his hands for dear life as your hips gyrate through the come down.

“Oh, Koo,” you mewl.

Jungkook never stops fucking you vehemently even as your orgasms come and go, his cock diligently stuffing his cum deep into your womb with a sloppy, wet sound.

He remains buried deep within you while your bodies return to their normal state, both of you needing a moment to settle your nerves before relinquishing the feeling of being connected.

“That was… so fucking needed,” you pant.

“Tell me about it,” Jungkook concurs.

He kisses you gently once more, his tongue ever so slightly entering your mouth to pull a sweet moan from you.

His warmth leaves you to hunt for something to clean up with, and although the sun has barely gone down, you’re exhausted from the mental wave pool today threw you into.

Jungkook wipes you down before bringing your body into his embrace. You cuddle closer to his bare chest, inhaling his scent and humming contently. Legs tangling together beneath the comforter, neither of you question the actions which don’t normally occur after you’re intimate.

There’s a kiss placed between your hair strands while Jungkook massages your back in large, soothing circles. The repetitive motion forces your eyes shut and within moments, you’re falling asleep in his arms.

Taglist: @lovingkoalaface @starcandybby @junniesoleilkth @keylime4eva @kissyfacekoo @rpwprpwprpwprw @spideyjimin @jjeonjjk7 @joonlover1207 @annpeachy @rexana19 @heartwith0uthe @kosmos1307 @minyoongi7016 @magicalnachocreator @misschelliejeon @bubblyi3 @bhonbhon @polnaraffsrack @amarawayne @majesticjung-97 @kmpj9 @upo1313 @songbyeonkim @kikikaaa @glowjuli @avawants2havefun @hyeinwluv85s @someonegoood @kyljjk @lalaren @dna2723 @tteokbokibyjk @tatyhend @kookienooki @ana-marais98 @gimeow @importantflowersblog43 @minghaosimp @belleilichil @neurospicynugget @missdumpling190811 @jungkooksnerniemilk @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @kayswatanabe @fancypeacepersona @jeonsgf-97 @star-my @neg-l3ct @kelsyx33

The Third Trimester coming on 7/4/25 at 7:00 pm EST

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #army #jeon jungkook #bts jk #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts smut #ot7

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andraxicated · 2 days ago

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yacht sex with sylus purrrr

Summer with Sylus is always composed of luxurious trips and tiny designer bikinis that barely cover your skin. And him, looking like an absolute snack with his abs basking in the glow of the afternoon sun. He has sunglasses on, and yet he feels you checking him out before making a move on him. You climb to his lap like a kitten, and his arm naturally goes to your waist to secure you on top of his cock.

"Wow, someone's excited" You tease, slotting yourself perfectly for him to feel the throb of your pussy.

"I don't think I'm the only one who's excited, sweetheart" He removes his sunglasses and places it on the table. Caressing your face before tucking stray hair behind your ear. "May I check?"

"Thought you'd never ask" You whisper as your lips go for each other in a passionate kiss. He graces you with his tongue, and you let him in as he moves your panty to the side to feel the wetness. He groans as you immediately soak his fingers, entering his large finger and slushing more of your goodness. You pull away to take a breath, but he catches you with his lips, not letting you go as he adds another finger to the mix and moves with a fast pace. You squirm in his hold, feeling the high that builds up as you tighten your hands around his shoulders. You melt deeper in the messy kiss to ground yourself as you approach your high, but Sylus has other plans to make you cum. He pulls his fingers away and you frown, yet he only smirks and lets you watch him put his fingers in his mouth.

"Fuck me now."

"No kitten, let's watch the sunset. You said you wanted to watch the sunset on my yacht, didn't you?"

You furrow your brows and huff, "Yes, I did...but I want you right now too"

Sylus smiles and turns you to face the incoming orange glow in the sky. He nibbles on your ear, kisses your cheek, and whispers, "Why don't we watch the sunset together while you ride me, hmm? So we can fulfill both of my pretty girl's wishes?" He wastes no time untying the bra of your bikini, his huge hands cupping your pussy as he massages them before tearing the panty to the side.

You gasp, "Sylus! That was Dior!"

"You have plenty of Dior stuff, baby." He lines up his bulbous head to the entrance of your pussy and penetrates your walls, pounding you upwards as his thick thighs slap against your own. He has his grip on your waist like a steering wheel, guiding you to move your ass to his rhythm.

Obscene sounds come out of your mouth as he continues to drop you on his cock. He meets your body as he batters your insides up, relishing the feeling of your warm walls sliding on his cock. He throws his head back as you squeeze on him. Your whines music to his ears. He knows he's the only one who can make you feel this good. Sylus' cock is the only thing you'd bounce on, and he swore you shake your ass just for him, just like what you're doing right now.

"That's it kitten, move that body."

The sun is forgotten from his view, all his focus on the jiggle of your sexy ass and how his cock disappears into you. But you, who have the perfect view of the sunset, feel high in the sky with all the ecstasy you're feeling. You bounce as hard as you can, impaling yourself on his hard cock even if it tears you apart and your hips hurt. You cry out his name, and he shushes you with pecks. "You can do it, continue."

Sylus hurts so good, along with the butterfly kisses and bites he presses to your back to motivate you. Your gaze flutters at the setting sun, reflecting on the water beautifully, making you want to kiss him because the moment is perfect. But it's like your minds are linked because Sylus suddenly grabs your chin and kisses you like there's no tomorrow. He pistons in and out faster, creating wet sounds from your pussy, and you can already feel the incoming soreness tomorrow. Such a thick cock penetrating you always leaves you limping like a lamb. Sylus presses his head strategically against your sweet spot, targeting it like a game as you falter in his hold. You ended up letting him hit your womb while laying on his chest to lazily look at the view as he does all the work.

He chuckles, "Leaving all the work to me? That's not nice" Sylus repositions and manhandles you like a doll. His muscled arm hooks under both of your thighs, lifting your body close to him as he administers his final thrusts for you take it like a good girl "Your pussy is so tight, fuck"

You cry and bounce to help him climax, snaking your arm to the back of his head to pull him in for another messy kiss. He responds hungrily as his cockhead beats up your cunt a few more times before you pull away to scream into the sun, shaking and overstimulated by the release you just had. Your contracting walls and cum washing over his dick triggers his own high, groaning deeply into your neck as you caress his hair while warm sticky liquid floods your insides. You're so used to having him raw that the feeling of his cum adds to your climax and relaxes you. You don't even mind the mess he made between your legs.

Sylus stays inside and soothes your lower body with his massages, knowing they were dead after all the exercise you did. He calms you down and peppers kisses all over your face before landing on your lips. You look up at him and smile, hiding your face on his chest before staring at the sun going down the horizon.

"Round 2 in the shower?"

You ask and his dick twitches back to life inside you.

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zulashi-the-writer · 3 days ago

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Saja Boys (separate) 👹

Think fast I'm a random girl trend

Jinu👹

This boy would be straight up confused at what you are doing, you'd have to say it again for it to finally click in his head, he one of those guys who would do a major over reaction, first he pushed you over then showed off his terrible karate movies while making those noises before moon walking away from you his eyes looked to yours.

Then he'd come help you and hug you tightly because he feels bad for pushing you over his arms hold you close as you die of laughing but he's upset now for hurting you and your not giving him a straight answer if your hurt or not because your too busy laughing which confuses and frustrates him alot.

Abby💪

He knew you were filming it, he saw you set up the camera he just started flexing moving infront of the screen making sure you weren't seen which was making you laugh but his flexing soon got annoying because you want to see his reaction and said the line before moving in to kiss him, he changed up quickly from full douche to screaming like a girl and running away.

He demands you to never speak about the incident again and delete the footage no one can ever know he has a girlier voice then his girlfriend, he gets grumpy as he hears his scream over the speaker which makes you die of laughter.

Romance🌹

Romance pulled out a random spray bottle spraying you while hissing as you come near him, you paused blinking at him when you try again he yells 'look' before bolting away, his reactions would change everytime you try one of the times he tried (failing horribly) leaned against the counter slipping due to his sweater and muttering "hey baby what's your name".

He felt bad as soon as he saw your face and tried excusing himself and apologizing rapidly but you used this to your advantage and got him to give you a full spa treatment and even got him to get you snacks.

Baby👶

Baby would throw whatever he had in his hands at you and yell 'yeet' before running waving his lands like he was being chased by a murder before coming back with an amused grin on his face but it would soon disappear as he saw your expression and your messed outfit and floor you'd force him to clean it up, when cleaning the floor he'd do a terrible job but when it came to you he did an excellent job.

He'd take extra care and make sure to get giggles out of you as he did so before kissing your lips and apologizing for the mess which you happily took another kiss as payment as well as a bag of his hidden snacks which you know his has.

Mystery👀

He would freeze, he doesn't know what to do, you kissed him all over his face and he didn't budge he just stare at you as you giggled at his cluelessness, he'd ask what you are doing and when you show him some videos he makes a 'oh' face but he still doesn't get it.

When you try again he would just duck but not normally he would be super flexible and it would almost look weird as he moved away from you, he calls that move his women repellent (but it doesn't work on you)

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randomshyperson · 2 days ago

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classified love - wanda maximoff x kryptonian!reader

summary: wanda is new to the avengers, and learns the concept of a secret identity. or the one where kryptonian!reader has a secret, and a crush.

warnings: reader is superwoman; mild angst; mutual pining; nervous flirting; soft wanda; protective reader; fluff with feelings; light humor; superhero bureaucracy; canon divergence; minor ultron reference; mild language; happy ending.

a/n-> i'm going for my old drafts and this is from months ago when i was reading a bunch of supercorp fics, especially ones about lena learning about kara's secret identity. So i made my own with this two lovely dorkies. (nope, this is not related to the series with kryptonian!reader i'm working on).

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t know what a secret identity was.

Of course she did. She just hadn’t quite grasped the weight of it.

In her defense, the Avengers weren’t exactly the poster children for discretion.

Tony Stark made sure everyone knew he was Iron Man. Steve Rogers had been the star-spangled face of American propaganda since the forties. Natasha was arguably the most famous spy on Earth - and somehow still mysterious - and poor Bruce had his green alter ego splashed across news channels since his very first rampage. And then there was Thor. A literal god. No mask could hide that hair.

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t completely her fault when she leaned over during breakfast, bright-eyed and curious, and casually asked you,

“So… what’s your name, by the way?”

The room fell dead silent.

Wanda blinked, eyes flicking around the Avengers compound’s cozy living room. The sun spilled lazily through the tall windows, warming the hardwood floors and catching dust in the air. A pot of coffee burbled in the kitchenette, and the smell of waffles hung pleasantly in the background. But the atmosphere shifted like someone had cut the power.

Tony was the first to crack. He snorted into his mug, trying and failing to smother a laugh.

Wanda’s eyes widened further when Natasha silently reached over and handed him a crumpled five-dollar bill.

Your smile dropped. Just seconds ago, you’d been grinning at her, saying how nice it was to finally have someone around your age on the team. Now your expression shuttered. Calm, professional. Guarded.

“Uh… that’s confidential,” you said simply.

Wanda let out a short laugh, confused. She tilted her head, hoping she’d misheard.

“What?”

Your eyes flicked over to the group still half-watching from the couches. Clint was biting back a grin. Steve looked conveniently invested in stirring his coffee. You exhaled through your nose.

“I guess nobody warned you about the secret identity policy,” you muttered, not bothering to hide your disappointment. Your arms crossed over your chest - biceps straining slightly under the fabric of your suit - and Wanda was momentarily distracted by just how much muscle you were hiding beneath the armor. She didn’t think that was allowed.

“I’m not trying to be rude,” you added, your voice softer. “But I can’t tell you my real name.”

Her brows drew together. “But you know mine.”

From the couch, Natasha barked out a laugh. You shot her a look that was half glare, half plea, before turning your attention back to Wanda, a flicker less certain than before.

“I do,” you admitted. “But that’s because… everything about you is already public knowledge.” Your voice lowered a little, like you were offering her something real. “It’s nothing personal. It’s about safety. The only reason Ultron didn’t find my family was because I wasn’t in any of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. Not the Avengers’, either. Same way they kept Barton’s family off the radar.”

That explanation landed - she could feel the weight of it - but it didn’t soothe her. Not really.

Wanda forced a tight smile, but a bitter coil twisted in her stomach.

Of course, it still came back to Ultron.

She hadn’t fought beside you back then - hadn’t fought against you either - but that didn’t mean the past was erased. That didn’t mean trust grew overnight. Clearly, it hadn’t.

And suddenly, she was the one on the defensive. Because why should you get to know her when she was still in the dark about you?

“I don’t think that’s very fair,” she said, echoing your posture with a huff and crossing her arms. “You get to know everyone’s names, but we don’t get to know yours?”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in her tone. But it only lasted a beat.

Clearing your throat, you held your ground. “They know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

The offense hit her like a slap. She turned sharply toward the others, sending each of them a scandalized glare. They all conveniently found something fascinating to look at - the wall, the floor, the coffee machine.

Only Natasha had the nerve to smile into her cup.

“Hey, I don’t know either!” Sam piped up from the back, his voice light, trying to cut through the tension like sunlight through fog.

You cracked a small smile at that, grateful. But Wanda didn’t move.

Her arms stayed stubbornly crossed, a pout tugging at her lips, and whatever iron-clad resolve you’d been clinging to softened immediately.

“Hey, if it’s any consolation - for both of you,” you start again, your voice lighter, trying to reset the energy to what it had been before your name became the hot topic of the morning. “It’s only because I’ve known them longer. Maybe… if we hang out a little more, I’ll tell you.”

You flash Wanda a tentative smile. There’s warmth behind it - an invitation, not a promise - but she doesn’t take the bait.

She presses her lips together, visibly fighting the tug of a grin, but loses the battle to her pride. With a sharp turn of her head, she mutters, “Don’t bother,” and spins on her heel.

You watch her walk away, ponytail swaying with each step, her back impossibly straight and her jaw clenched in defiance.

And just like that, you’re certain - painfully certain - she might be the most charming girl you’ve ever met.

Unfortunately for you, Natasha doesn’t miss a beat.

She catches the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, your head tilted just slightly as Wanda disappears down the hall. The corner of the assassin’s mouth curls with amusement as she leans back into the couch, arms crossed.

You snap out of it fast, frowning in her direction. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you paying Stark when Wanda brought that up,” you accuse, tone laced with mock betrayal. “You two were betting on this again?”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter from his seat and shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Natasha raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence. The five-dollar bill is already gone, stashed away like evidence in a classified file.

You sigh, rubbing your hand over your face. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, come on,” Natasha says, barely hiding her amusement. “You’ve gotta admit - it’s hilarious when people realize Superwoman isn’t your actual name.”

Steve chuckles from the other couch, finally giving in. “That reminds me - remember that poor waiter in D.C.? The one who panicked and couldn’t decide whether to call you Miss Super or Madam Alien?”

Laughter ripples through the room at the memory. Even Banner cracks a smile. You roll your eyes dramatically, throwing your hands up.

“I told him just ‘Ma’am’ was fine,” you mutter as you start walking toward the door, shaking your head. “And for the record,” you call out, tossing a glance over your shoulder with a perfectly straight face, “I am from another planet.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “See? Knew it.”

The room erupts into fresh laughter, but you just shake your head, waving a hand dismissively as you walk off.

“Still unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, though this time, there’s amusement in your tone. The kind that sits warm and quiet in your chest, like sunlight through clouds.

A new bet had been circulating through the Avengers Compound ever since your disastrously awkward introduction to the team’s newest recruits.

How long until Wanda Maximoff discovers your true identity?

Clint said a few weeks, tops. Steve and Tony were betting for a couple of months. Thor, bless him, didn’t even understand the concept of keeping a secret identity and nearly shouted your actual name across the room - only to be stopped by a flying metal gauntlet Tony launched with frightening precision.

Bruce, ever the scientist, made a whole prediction chart - color-coded and everything - outlining the likelihood of various exposure scenarios. According to his behavioral analysis, you’d eventually slip up and reveal yourself accidentally. Tony called him a spoilsport but still convinced him to place a bet anyway.

Maria and Natasha, meanwhile, were curled together on the couch like shadows stitched at the hip, indistinguishable in the half-light of movie night. Natasha didn’t even look up from the screen as she muttered, “It’s not fair to bet on that. Wanda could just read her mind.”

Maria hummed her agreement. “And not tell anyone. Classic Maximoff move.”

Right on cue, as if summoned by sheer chaos, Wanda reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn tight in a frown.

“I would never invade someone’s mind like that,” she snapped, voice low and tight with restrained indignation. “If she wants to keep secrets and build walls, that’s her choice.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked off, her crimson flannel pajama pants fluttering slightly with the motion. The room sat in silence for a beat, then Natasha grinned.

“New bet,” she announced. “How long until Wanda admits she has a crush on Y/N?”

Laughter erupted.

It only got more ridiculous from there.

Maintaining a secret identity was hard enough with your crazy schedule, missions popping up at ungodly hours, and an internship at Oscorp that demanded more from you than legally acceptable. Peter Parker was the only one who truly understood the madness. You had a little ongoing competition: “How many times did I almost get caught today?” A point system. The winner got free shawarma.

But lately, things felt… off.

It was as if the team had collectively decided to test you. You were being sent on last-minute missions, brought back in civilian clothes, tossed into briefings before you had time to shed your disguise. It felt deliberate. Sabotage by friendly fire.

Of course, no one mentioned the bet to you.

It was one of those mornings - chaotic, cursed, and running ten steps behind the clock. You were still in your Oscorp clothes, your signature lead-laced glasses perched on your nose, hair slightly frizzy from rushing. Your dress shirt wasn’t completely buttoned, and beneath it, a glimpse of the familiar blue and red peeked through like a bad omen.

As you stumbled barefoot into the Tower’s common room, scanning for your shoes, you froze.

Wanda Maximoff was standing there in oversized pajamas, her hair a sleepy mess, blinking at you from over a mug of steaming coffee.

“Oh, uh. Hi,” you said, voice cracking just a bit under the panic.

This was it. This was the moment you’d have to change your name, disappear to the Arctic, and start a new life herding goats.

Wanda just blinked, forced a smile, and murmured a polite “Good morning” before turning back to the coffee machine, like you were no one. Like you were just some intern passing through.

Your shoes sat mockingly on the far side of the room. You crossed to them, fumbling with your shirt to make sure not a single thread of the Superwoman suit was visible.

You sat down, tugging your laces tight, when her voice broke the quiet.

“Are you… Friends with anyone here?” she asked suddenly. Wanda leaned casually against the counter, but there was something soft in her voice, almost cautious.

Your mind blanked. Friends? With anyone?

“Uh yeah,” you blurted, nerves turning your brain into static. “I’m friends with Superwoman.”

You could hear your soul leave your body.

Wanda tilted her head. “Oh?”

Before she could press further-or laugh, or question the absurdity of what you just said, the automatic door whooshed open.

Bruce stepped in with a file in his hands and a furrow on his brow.

He took one look at you, then glanced at Wanda. You weren’t often in civilian clothes around the Tower - especially not so early, or without warning. His pause was subtle, but it said enough.

“Y/N?” Bruce asked, tone neutral but probing. “Didn’t know you were here.”

You jumped to your feet, trying to act casual. “Hey, yeah. I came by late last night. Needed to grab some documents.”

Bruce blinked slowly.

“I, uh, ended up staying. Superwoman said it was okay,” you added, your lie falling apart as it left your mouth.

Bruce, mercifully, decided not to comment. The brilliance in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what you were doing. He gave a slow nod. “Right. Of course.”

You grabbed your shoes, already half out the door. “Nice meeting you, Miss Maximoff,” you said quickly, voice almost too formal as you escaped, waving once and not daring to look back.

Bruce stood there for a moment in silence, then looked at Wanda.

She simply lifted the cereal box into the air with her magic, poured it with too much force into her bowl, and carried it off, pouting the whole way.

The worst part of the whole secret identity thing isn't the exhaustion, or the constant lies, or even the juggling act between superhero landings and corporate deadlines.

It’s remembering exactly why it's necessary.

Peter runs into an old friend - Harry Osborn - who, by some cosmic joke, also happens to be your boss. Superheroes have their own demons, their own secrets clawing behind the masks, and something serious unfolds between them.

When the dust settles, Gwen ends up in the hospital.

She’ll recover - Peter says it like a prayer - but the guilt is carved into the spaces under his eyes, and it doesn’t go away when he tells you what happened. About Harry, about the favors he wanted from Spider-Man. About how betrayed he felt when he discovered Peter was Spider-Man - and had refused to help.

You don’t sleep that night.

There's a pit in your stomach, bitter and deep. That could’ve been anyone. That could’ve been you.

There are only a handful of people who know who you really are. Your family. Carol - your lifeline, your salvation, the one who pulled you from the wreckage of your dying world. Fury - who raised you through SHIELD like some grim guardian angel. A few Avengers who found out under specific, inescapable circumstances.

Peter, of course. He understands the weight of the mask.

And then… there’s everyone else.

Your classmates. Your bosses at Oscorp. The coffee shop barista who always forgets your name. The world.

And Wanda.

Wanda, who bickered with Superwoman during missions like it were a sport. Who never let you win without a challenge and rolled her eyes so dramatically you sometimes thought she'd levitate off the ground.

Wanda, who always looked at Y/N Danvers like she was made of something softer. Who shared food without asking. Who nudged your knee during movie nights. Who once touched your badge, just to straighten it, and sent a shiver up your spine with the brush of her fingers against your neck.

Wanda, who was slowly becoming a reason to smile in rooms too quiet.

And precisely because of that… Wanda, who could never know.

You couldn’t stand the idea of putting her in danger.

Not just from enemies, but from you. From what it costs to be close to you.

By the time your distress becomes impossible to hide, the bet has long been forgotten. You walk through the Tower in pieces. The team stops whispering about when you'll slip up and starts worrying about whether you’re okay.

It’s Natasha who finally had enough.

She kicks you off the next mission.

No arguments. No chance to protest. Just a firm grip on your wrist and a silent march through the hallways until you're sitting in an empty room that smells faintly of metal and ozone. The door closes with a hiss behind you.

“Okay,” she says, arms crossed. “Let’s talk.”

You glance at the wall like it might give you an escape route. It doesn’t.

You can hear faint voices down the hallway. The others are whispering about your little outburst in the briefing room. You clench your jaw.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter.

Nat raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you repeat. You shrug. Look at the floor. Your voice dips quieter. “It’s just…”

A breath escapes you. Heavy. Frustrated.

“…how did you know this was what you wanted?”

Natasha’s expression shifts. The sharpness in her posture softens. She sets her tablet down on the table behind her, unread.

“What do you mean?” she asks, but her voice is gentle now.

You hesitate. Your throat burns.

“I mean… back then. When you stopped being the Black Widow. When Fury gave you the option to just be Natasha Romanoff. Why didn’t you take it? Why didn’t you stop?”

She doesn’t answer at first. She just watches you, eyes trained and careful. You hate that they see too much.

You blink, and the tears well up despite yourself. You’re so tired. Of pretending. Of juggling two lives. Of wonder, which one is real?

“And now you’re living with Maria,” you continue, voice cracking. “You could’ve quit. You could be… happy. Quiet. Safe.”

Natasha sighs.

“I get it,” she says softly, like a truth you didn’t want to hear.

She sits beside you.

“But this isn’t really about me, is it?”

You shake your head, eyes shining with unshed tears. Natasha reaches out instinctively, finding your hand and resting hers over it. It's warm. Solid. A grounding force you didn’t realize you needed.

“I visited Gwen in the hospital before I came here,” you say quietly, your voice thick with guilt and fury. “Harry… he did a number on her. Four broken ribs. Internal bleeding. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Your breath shudders. “Peter hasn’t put the mask on in weeks. And I can’t stop thinking - if any of my enemies came for the people I care about…”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to.

Natasha squeezes your hand tighter. “Hey. I get the fear. I really do. But we’re not helpless. You’re not alone. We can defend ourselves.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh and nod, though there’s nothing funny in any of this.

“I didn’t want any of this to be necessary, Nat,” you murmur. “The mask, the secrets. I didn’t come here to be a superhero.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But no one makes it through this life alone, Y/N.” She laces her fingers with yours. “And, if you must know, the weight got a little easier for me when I let Maria in. Turns out, sharing the burden isn’t so bad. Who knew?”

You huff a soft laugh and bump your shoulder lightly against hers. The touch feels safe. Reassuring.

There’s a brief silence before you speak again. “I’ll get my head on straight, okay? You don’t have to bench me.”

Nat smiles at you with that knowing tilt of her head. “Look, I think you’re one of the best heroes we’ve got. But maybe - just maybe - getting benched is a good thing right now. Take a breath. A day off. Ask a girl out.”

Your face heats immediately, and you mutter something about not having time for relationships.

Nat smirks, entirely unsurprised. “Then maybe you should consider someone who gets the job. Say, another superhero?” She wiggles her brows. “Someone in the Tower who, as far as I can tell, is very interested.”

You blink. “Wanda doesn’t even know I’m Superwoman.”

Natasha bursts out laughing.

“Oh, honey. Do you really think the mind reader of the group doesn’t know?”

You stare at her, stunned. “But - she never said anything! She treats me like I’m two different people!”

Nat sighs, her smirk softening into something more understanding. “Because you asked her to. Maybe not with words, but with walls. You put this distance between yourself and everyone. Between her and you.”

You look down, guilt landing like a weight on your chest.

“She’s the new kid, Y/N,” Natasha continues gently. “She’s trying to make real connections. Trying to earn trust. And you - ” she nudges your knee with hers - “you won’t let her in all the way.”

You swallow hard, throat tight.

“I just thought… maybe she didn’t know. Or maybe she liked Y/N Danvers more than Superwoman.”

Natasha throws her head back and laughs again, full and exasperated. “Wow. You really are the queen of self-denial.”

She stands and grabs her work tablet off the table, mumbling to herself as she taps through a few screens. “Well, since neither of you is cleared for the mission, it looks like you and Wanda are stuck with tower duty. Desk work, all day.”

You grimace. “Ugh, but I hate desk work - ” You stop. Catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes. Oh. Desk work.

Alone. With Wanda. In an empty tower.

“This desk work,” you mumble.

“I love desk work, actually,” you add quickly, sitting up straighter.

Natasha rolls her eyes and chuckles, already halfway to the door. “You just cost me twenty bucks, Danvers.”

It takes a second to process what she means. Another bet. Another chance. Another push.

And before the door closes behind her, you're on your feet again - chasing after her, heart hammering with something that feels a lot like hope.

Desk work is, without a doubt, the least glamorous part of being a superhero.

Bureaucracy. Mission reports. Intelligence logs. Inventory updates. Categorizing classified items into neatly labeled folders.

Endless, soul-crushingly boring stuff.

Boring enough that your focus slips every five minutes - though maybe that’s less about the files and more about the hum of Kryptonian energy beneath your skin, begging for movement. Or maybe it’s the presence at the other desk, steadily flipping through files, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You spin absently in your swivel chair, just to keep your body busy. One turn too far and the chair wobbles dangerously under your weight, threatening to tip. You gasp and grab the desk for balance - just in time.

Wanda lets out a small giggle, quick and unexpected. The sound makes your heart stutter.

“Sorry you got dragged into this too,” she says, trying to make conversation. Her eyes flick toward you, soft with something you can’t quite name. “I think this is just them getting back at me.”

You tilt your head, brows raised. “What do you mean?” Your voice is playful, but your mind leaps straight to the worst possible interpretation. “Wait - am I that bad to be around? Is this some kind of punishment?”

Wanda's eyes widen, and she scoffs, scandalized. “What? No! That’s not what I meant.” She sounds almost flustered, and when you give her your best wide-eyed puppy dog look, she glares, flustered but amused. “Come on, you’re not that bad.”

There’s laughter in her tone, and you offer a reluctant smile, looking away before it turns into a grin you can’t hide.

She leans back slightly in her chair, her voice softer now. “It’s because of Ultron, really. My fault he managed to compromise so many of our files. Now we have to go all analog. Hard copies for everything. Hence…” She gestures broadly to the pile of folders between you.

You pause, your smile fading a little. “You know you didn’t create Ultron, right?”

Wanda doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers hover over the edge of a file. You can hear the shift in her breath, just slightly unsteady, before it evens again.

“Maybe it’s time to stop blaming yourself for something that wasn’t yours to carry,” you add gently.

There’s a moment of quiet between you, something unspoken passing in the space between your desks. A heartbeat. Hers, steady now. Yours, skipping like it’s forgotten how to keep rhythm.

Then Wanda clears her throat. “Still,” she says lightly, “I have to admit - it’s a little funny. Seeing Superwoman stuck behind a desk.”

You roll your eyes, shifting in your seat as the poor chair creaks under your weight. She smirks. “It’s like watching Thor try to sit on Tony’s designer couch. That poor thing never stood a chance.”

You laugh under your breath and adjust your posture before the chair gives out. “It’s not so bad,” you murmur, casting her a sideways glance. “I like my work partner.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. They land in the air between you with more weight than you intended.

Wanda blinks, and her cheeks flush instantly. You feel the heat creep up your own neck in response.

“I mean - like, in a friendly way,” you stammer quickly, eyes darting back to your file. “Like… liking my teammate. Not like liking liking - ”

She lets out a breathy laugh, somewhere between nervous and charmed, and turns her attention to the stack of papers in front of her like they’ve suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You try to listen - listen for the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat - but yours is pounding so loudly in your ears, you can’t hear anything else.

“I get it, Y/N,” Wanda murmurs.

And just like that, your mouth clamps shut. Embarrassment floods through you, hot and fast. You duck your head and pretend to care very deeply about the stack of inventory files in front of you, wishing you could disappear into them. Or, better yet, have one of those heavy boxes topple over and end this moment with poetic finality.

It takes a full five minutes for your brain to catch up - five minutes of sitting there in silence, pretending to work, heart pounding uselessly - before it hits you.

She called you by name.

Your eyes widen as realization crashes into you like a wave. You freeze, blinking at the words on the page that don’t even register anymore. Your breathing shifts, shallow and uneven.

Wanda brought it up first.

You didn’t even notice.

You’ve been so locked inside your own anxious spiral, so distracted by every small move she makes, that you missed the one thing you were most afraid of.

You’re so wrapped up in your panic that you don’t realize she’s stopped working, that she’s crossed the room, quiet as a shadow. She pulls something out of one of the drawers. It doesn’t belong to the inventory.

Your glasses.

The old pair, lost ages ago in the mess of the tower, now held gently in her hands like they were something precious.

You only catch her movement in your peripheral vision, and when she’s standing beside you, you instinctively hold your breath.

The chair shifts slightly beneath you, the telltale shimmer of her magic moving it to face her.

She doesn’t say anything. But there’s no anger in her face. No judgment. Just that patient, quiet look that always makes you feel like maybe the world isn’t such a bad place after all.

She brushes a few strands of hair from your eyes. Then, slowly, she slips the glasses onto your face.

“There you are,” she says softly.

It’s almost enough to undo you.

The contrast of the suit - the bright blue and red - and the old glasses feels ridiculous, but the way Wanda’s eyes soften makes it something else entirely. Familiar. Real. You.

“Wanda, I - ” you start, but she moves before you can finish.

She kisses you.

It’s soft, gentle - just the press of her lips to yours. Barely long enough to register before she pulls away.

Your cheeks go up in flames. “H-hm...” Your brain short-circuits. Words evaporate. You’re just... sitting there, in a slightly too-small chair, in your super-suit, with the most incredible girl in the world looking at you like that.

Wanda’s lips quirk in a smile. “Sorry. I just thought we had to get a few things out of the way.” Her fingers trace lightly down your cheek. “You’ve been thinking about it for days. But it didn’t seem like you were going to actually do anything.”

“I was going to,” you mumble, flustered. “Eventually.”

She laughs under her breath, warm and amused. “Sure. Eventually.”

Before you can think of a clever response, she leans in again - this time slower, more certain. Her nose brushes yours, a soft, teasing touch, before her lips find yours again.

This kiss is different. Unhurried. Confident. Her mouth moves against yours with quiet intent, and when her tongue brushes against yours, it sends a shiver down your spine.

Unfortunately, the chair makes a rather unfortunate groan beneath your shifting weight. You lurch slightly, catching yourself before you topple over completely.

Wanda pulls back with a burst of laughter, and you can’t help but join her, even as you cover your face in embarrassment.

Eventually, you peel the glasses from your nose and set them on the desk beside you. Your hands find hers and bring them to your chest, pressing them gently against the symbol on your uniform. Her gaze flickers down, then back to your face.

Your voice comes quieter now, almost fragile. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell the truth,” you say. “I’ve never been this scared to let someone in. To risk putting them in danger just by loving them.”

Wanda doesn’t flinch. She nods, her expression softening as she wraps her arms around your shoulders.

“I do understand,” she whispers. “Come here.”

You fold into the embrace, arms slipping around her waist, grounding yourself in the feel of her - warm, solid, real. There’s a long moment where neither of you says anything. You just breathe each other in.

Then, voice low and almost conspiratorial, Wanda murmurs against your ear: “I love Mexican food, if you ever get brave enough to ask me out.”

You laugh into her shoulder, breaking the hug. “Oh my God, stop reading my mind.”

“But it’s so fun,” she teases, her smirk blooming again.

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays. “I can think of something better for you to focus on.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

But she’s the one leaning in first, closing the distance with a wicked little smile and a kiss that promises a thousand unsaid things.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #marvel imagines #wanda maximoff fics

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