#Swearing/Explicit Language

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound��and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[hoshifighting]

— Synopsis: Where you “unfortunately” caught your best friend's roomate—your unsaid enemy—masturbating in their shared apartment. — WC: 4.6k — WARNINGS: smut, monster cock!seungcheol, explicit language and content, overstimulation, dry fucking, oral as a tongue massage (f. receiving)—a reward <3, body fluids (cum), dry humping, cock riding, dumbfication, degradation, aftercare, exhaustion, and DIRTY TALK.

here’s how it always goes with seungcheol:

you walk into a room, he immediately finds something to scoff at. maybe it’s the way you dress, maybe it’s the way you talk, maybe it’s just the fact that you exist in his general vicinity. but it doesn’t matter what you do—he hates you. or, at the very least, that’s what he insists on showing you.

joshua, your best friend and possibly the only person in the world who can tolerate both of you without losing his mind, always tells you to be the bigger person. “he’s not that bad,” he says, as if seungcheol didn’t practically hiss at you last week for sitting on his side of the couch.

but whatever. you don’t go out of your way to piss him off, and he doesn’t go out of his way to be nice. that’s just the way it is.

which is why you hesitate when joshua calls you:

“i swear, i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. i left my keys at your place before i flew out, remember?”

“okay, but i literally don’t want to step foot in his apartment,” you stress, cringing at the thought.

“it’s my apartment, too,” joshua deadpans.

you groan, already feeling a headache coming on.

“just go in, grab the folder on my desk, and leave,” he insists. “cheol probably won’t even be home.”

which is how you find yourself standing outside their apartment door, holding joshua’s keys and hyping yourself up like you’re about to enter enemy territory. which, in a way, you are.

you unlock the door, push it open,

and immediately wish you hadn’t.

seungcheol. on the couch. fisting his cock.

your brain short-circuits. like, full shutdown, blue screen, cease all functioning mode.

the man is spread out—legs wide, head tipped back, theres a drop of sweat that drips from his neck aand land in the middle of his chest. hes exposing his toned abs that clench with every up and down of his hand. and his cock is huge. thick from the base to the top and flushed deep red at the tip, veins prominent as his fist works over it.

he’s so lost in it that he doesn’t even register your presence at first, not until he finally cracks his eyes open and sees you standing there, frozen stunned into silence.

the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

his eyes widen. his entire body stiffens. his hand stops.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

seungcheol scrambles to cover himself, reaching for the nearest thing—which, unfortunately for him, is a shirt that does nothing to hide the absolute tent he’s pitching. his face goes red, splotchy from the neck up, and he looks so flustered that for a split second, you almost feel bad.

“why the fuck are you here?!” he practically barks at you, voice ragged from whatever the fuck he was doing before you ruined his life.

you blink, still processing the image that’s now burned into your brain for eternity. “uh. joshua?”

“what about joshua?!”

“he… he needed a document.”

seungcheol lets out a sound that is so frustrated, so exasperated, that it almost doesn’t register as human. “and you didn’t think to knock?!”

“why would i knock?! i didn’t think anyone would be jerking off in the living room like a fucking pervert—”

“IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

“IT’S JOSHUA’S TOO.”

“HE’S NOT HERE.”

“WELL, NEITHER AM I, NOW.” you turn on your heel, hand reaching for the doorknob. “i’ll just get the doc later—”

but before you can escape, he rasps, “don’t you dare tell joshua about this.”

you pause. smirk. oh, this is fun.

back still facing him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. you should leave. should pretend none of this ever happened. but something—some sick, wrong part of you—doesn’t want to.

so you turn. lean back against the door. cross your arms.

“what?” he snaps, shifting on the couch, the shirt still pitifully draped over his lap.

you tilt your head, dragging your gaze slowly down his body—his hard nipples, the taut muscles in his arms, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to close them. you can see the way he twitches under the shirt.

“you’re still hard,” you note, your voice syrupy sweet, but your eyes gleam meanly.

seungcheol tenses. “so?”

“so… you’re mad at me for walking in,” you say, cocking a brow, “but you’re still hard as fuck.”

he grits his teeth, but his silence is loud as hell.

so you take a step forward. just one.

his breath hitches.

“cheol.” you coo at him. “you sure you hate me?”

he glares, but it’s weaker now, faltering under your scrutiny. you can see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he’s not telling you to stop.

so you take another step.

and another.

until you’re standing right in front of him, the shirt the only barrier between his cock and your eyes.

his jaw tightens. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” you murmur, reaching forward to trace your fingers over his wrist—the one that was just wrapped around his cock. “don’t call you out? don’t get closer? don’t—”

in a flash, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down.

you gasp as you land on his lap, his hands firm on your hips, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin barrier of the shirt and your clothes.

his lips are right by your ear when he growls, “don’t fucking test me.”

you shiver, but you’re not scared, you’re thrilled.

so you shift, pressing back against him, and smirk when he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

“or what?” you whisper.

his grip tightens. “you really wanna find out?”

your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.

“yeah,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “i do.”

he snaps.

the shirt under you is gone.

his mouth crashes into yours, hot and angry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing the gasp you let out when his fingers dig into your hips.

you grind down, moaning into his mouth when you feel just how fucking thick he is, leaking against your skirt. 

his hands are rough when he yanks your skirt up, bunching the fabric around your waist with no intention of letting it fall back down. you barely have a second to breathe before his fingers push past your thighs, finding the front of your panties hooking his thumb into the damp fabric and pulling it to the side.

the rush of cold air makes you gasp, thighs trying to snap shut, but his thighs pins them open. and maybe, he has a shred of decency in him, because he lets out a low breath and murmurs, “this is gonna be rough.”

no warning. just that.

you should stop him. you should tell him to go slow, to prep you, to at least spit on it—but you don’t, you need to feel this big cock stretching you until every single thought inside your head gets completely erased.

there’s no lube, no prep besides the mess between your thighs, just the torturous process of sinking down.

seungcheol watches all of it. watches the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter, how your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders the lower you go. he’s leaning back against the couch, one hand gripping the plush of your ass, the other wrapped around his base, guiding you onto him like you’re something delicate. like he’s trying to help.

but he’s not.

because he knows what he’s doing when he taps his cockhead against your clit first, dragging the tip through your slick, coaxing out little whimpers that make him smirk. he knows what he’s doing when he presses up, just the tip slipping inside, barely enough to be satisfying but more than enough to make your thighs twitch.

your breath catches in your throat, your whole body twitching up as you take the next inch too fast. your brain is empty, your body is working on instinct, thighs shaking as you brace yourself against him, trying—failing—to push down further.

and he sees it. sees how you’re struggling, sees how your muscles twitch like you’re about to give out, sees how you want to take it but your body is fighting the stretch.

so he helps.

his hands clamp down on your waist.

and then he slams you down.

the sound that leaves your throat is so ruined that he cant help but feel a bit of compassion.

because suddenly you’re full. suddenly you’re sitting completely in his lap, completely engulfed in him, your thighs flush against his, his cock buried so fucking deep that you can feel it pressing up against every nerve inside you.

but when you try to move, try to lift yourself even an inch—nothing.

your thighs won’t cooperate. your muscles won’t listen.

you can’t move.

“oh?” seungcheol tilts his head, smug grin curling at his lips as he grinds up, watching the way your mouth falls open at the sensation.

“too big for you, baby?”

you whimper.

“thought so.”

and then he takes control, because you can’t move—so he does it for you. his hands lift you effortlessly, dragging your hips up before slamming you back down, setting the pace, forcing your body to take what it’s given.

and you can’t think straight anymore. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every time he slams you down it punches little whimpers from your throat that only make him hungrier.

“awww… thought you were so tough. but you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock, huh?”

you cry out, body giving up, melting against his chest as you desperately try to follow his rhythm, hips twitching with little, pathetic attempts to keep up. your body isn’t even yours anymore—just a toy, something for seungcheol to use, something he’s breaking in with every brutal roll of his hips. 

his fingers dig into your waist, gripping you so tight it hurts, but the pleasure drowns it out. you’re so deep into it, into him, that every ounce of shame has left your body, every shred of dignity gone. because you can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but let him use you like you were made for this.

he tilts his head, watching you fall apart, watching how your thighs tremble with every slap of his hips against yours.

“damn,” he laughs, licking his lips, voice mocking. “you’re making such a fucking mess of yourself.”

you whimper, forehead pressing against his collarbone.

and then he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“mm-mm, don’t hide now,” he says, smirking. “be a good girl and let me see that dumb little face while i ruin you.”

a sob rips from your throat, high-pitched and wrecked.

he groans, grinding up into you.

“fuck. bet the neighbors can hear you, huh? joshua’s gonna be so fucking embarrassed when he gets a noise complaint for his dumb little best friend getting dicked down like a whore.”

your whole body jerks, a whimper escaping your lips at the humiliation, the filth dripping from his tongue.

and he sees it.

his grin turns cruel.

“oh, you like that?” he taunts, thrusting up so deep your back arches. “you like knowing that you’re loud enough to make it everyone’s fucking problem? that you’re such a good little fucktoy for me that i can’t even keep you quiet?”

you nod, because you can’t lie. his fingers tighten around your jaw, his lips brushing against yours as he coos.

“poor little thing.”

he thrusts up again, so hard, so deep that your whole body bounces, hands scrambling against his chest, voice cracking in a choked-out sob.

and he moans, deep and satisfied, because you’re so fucking perfect for him. because your body is his to use, to mold, to ruin.

“joshua’s gonna kill me c-cheol.”

his hips snap up again, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“but you’ll tell him it was worth it, won’t you, baby?”

he smooths one over your back, pressing down so your tits rub against his burning skin, while the other stays firm on your hip, keeping you still. your body jerks with every pulse of his cock inside you, twitching as you flutter around him, so overstimulated you can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.

“s-seungcheol—” his name is nothing but a broken cry, muffled against his neck, but he’s relentless. he doesn’t even let you finish, just shifts his knees slightly and thrusts up into you with all the power in his core.

“fuck,” he hisses when you clamp down, crying out into his skin, and he wraps an arm fully around you to hold you up. “shh, baby, you’re being so loud.”

his hand snakes up your back, fingers tangling into your hair, forcing you to lift your head. you meet his gaze, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. he looks fucked, mouth parted, sweat dripping from his hairline, chest heaving, but he still manages to look at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“c’mon,” he coos, tilting his head, his grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “tell me it was worth it. tell me how good my cock is.”

he punctuates it with a sharp snap of his hips and you keen, trying to lift yourself, trying to relieve some of the intensity, but your thighs betray you. seungcheol laughs, breathless but smug, and his fingers press bruises into your skin as he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing.

“see? can’t even move, huh? my poor baby,” he murmurs, voice syrupy sweet, his free hand cupping your cheek now. “you’re just gonna sit here and take it like the perfect fucktoy you are.”

heat prickles at your skin at the words, your brain too fogged up to be embarrassed, too fucked out to do anything but let him guide you. he rocks you against him, making sure you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, rubbing at all the right places, pressing into you deeper than you thought was even possible.

“you take me so well, baby,” he praises, leaning in to press his lips against yours, just enough to tease. “so fuckin’ tight, so warm—fucking heaven.”

his hand slides between your bodies, two fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over it. the sensation makes your thighs twitch, your nails dig into his back, a fresh wave of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your temple. his fingers on your clit work in time with the slow, torturous grind of his hips. “i got you, yeah? you gonna cum for me? hm?”

he kisses you full on the mouth when you sob, swallowing the sound like he wants to keep it forever. and then he speeds up just a little, rolling your clit with more pressure, meeting every rut of your hips with a firm thrust up.

you shatter.

your whole body seizes, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down so tight on him that it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. he groans, long and low, holding you so tight against him that you can feel every pulse of his cum inside you, hot and deep. his hips jerk once, twice more before he stills, forehead pressed against yours as you both gasp for air.

it’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city outside the window, and the soft squelch when he finally shifts, making you both moan.

your body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind, and seungcheol drinks it in, the heat of your overstimulated form twitching against his chest as he presses slow, lingering kisses into the curve of your neck. his lips move down, sucking at the pulse point that hammers beneath your skin. your breath stutters. his fingers, nails just barely grazing, trail down the arch of your spine, featherlight but enough to make you shiver. you barely even realize you’re moving, the last bit of strength in your boneless limbs used to weakly push yourself up, to let his cock slip free from where it’s buried inside you. 

the second it leaves you, your body gives out. you collapse right into his chest, heavier than before, spent and trembling, the exhaustion hitting all at once. you can’t even pretend to be embarrassed about it. you just sigh, your lips brushing the base of his throat as you settle against him, body limp.

seungcheol holds you steady with both hands, like he’s afraid you might melt right into the couch and disappear. his broad palm cradles the back of your head, fingers splaying across your scalp, scratching at your roots. he keeps the other hand wrapped around your waist, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs. the tension in his body hasn’t left yet. his shoulders are still tight. you know him well enough to know what’s coming before he even says it.

“you good?” 

you hum in response, nuzzling into his chest as your fingers curl weakly against his pecs. “just a little sore.”

he exhales through his nose. shifts beneath you. you can feel his fingers flex where they rest on your waist, like he wants to squeeze but holds himself back. then, with zero effort, he grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, just enough to force you to look at him. your lids are heavy, half-lidded, dazed, and fuck, that shouldn’t make him feel so possessive, but it does.

his thumb sweeps across your cheek, his jaw tensing. “shit. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over your features like he’s searching for anything more than just exhaustion. “lemme take care of you, hm?”

you don’t have it in you to resist, don’t even want to. you let him move you, let him handle you like you weigh nothing as he lifts you from his lap and shifts you onto the couch, laying you down as if you’re something delicate. and maybe you are, now, after the way he ruined you. maybe that’s why you don’t fight him when he presses your thighs apart, watching as they just fall open on their own, spread wide like a doll.

you don’t have the strength to do much else than whimper softly as his thumbs spread you further, gaze locked onto your swollen cunt, still so slick from where he fucked you. his jaw clenches.

you don’t even get a warning before he moves in, before his hands grip your thighs to keep them open as he dives between them, mouth sealing over your clit in one slow stroke of his tongue.

you jolt, a weak little gasp punching from your lungs. your fingers barely find the energy to tangle into his hair, and the grip is nowhere near as firm as it usually is, but he groans anyway. whether it’s from the feeling of your grip or from the way you instantly react to him, you don’t know. but he doesn’t stop.

his tongue moves slow, warm and so fucking wet as he licks broad, flat strokes over your sensitive flesh, working you open again with patience. he isn’t trying to overstimulate, isn’t trying to get you off again—though you can already tell it wouldn’t take much. his focus is entirely on easing the ache, on massaging every tender inch of you with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

“feels good?” his voice is muffled against you, but it vibrates in just the right way.

you nod, breath hitching when he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling it in slow circles. your body twitches, heat curling at the base of your spine. “cheol…”

he moans against you, and presses you down harder against his face. your hips jump, an embarrassing whimper breaking free as his tongue dips lower, tracing around your entrance before dragging back up, collecting every bit of slick along the way.

you whine, fingers curling tighter in his hair. he doesn’t tease. doesn’t prolong it. just keeps his pace slow and steady, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to keep you on the edge of something, even if you’re too sensitive to chase it. and if the way he’s grinding his hips into the couch tells you anything—it’s that he’s just as affected as you are.

he’s not eating you out to get himself off, but fuck if it isn’t working.

the obscene sounds of his mouth working between your thighs filling the entire apartment, mixing in with your breathless moans and the way he groans right into your cunt. you don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about the way your cum is smeared all over his chin, his jaw, his cheeks—how it drips down onto the couch below with every intentional roll of his tongue against your entrance.

his tongue works in circles, pressing flat to your hole before dragging up again, tasting every bit of your arousal as it gushes out onto his lips. his mouth is open the entire time, tongue rolling and flicking, nose nudging against your clit as he angles his head lower. he flattens his tongue, groaning as he drags it up through your folds before plunging it into you, so messy that you swear you see white behind your eyelids.

your back arches, chest rising in sharp, hiccupped gasps, every single nerve in your body on flames. your thighs twitch in his grasp, and he squeezes them tighter, keeping you spread open just for him. his hands slide up, one wrapping firmly around your waist, keeping you pinned in place, while the other travels up, up—his fingers finding the stiff peaks of your nipples.

your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as he rolls one between his fingertips, twisting just enough to make your eyes roll. you swear you hear him chuckle against you, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your clit before sucking it between his teeth, tongue rolling in lazy, teasing circles on the swollen bud. “breathe for me, baby.”

you try. you really do. but the way his mouth moves, the way his fingers tweak and pull, it’s too much. you’re spiraling. you feel another orgasm creeping up so fast it steals the air right out of your lungs.

he sees it. he knows.

his grip tightens on your thigh, his tongue flicking faster, working you open as his free hand continues to play with your tits, kneading the soft flesh, fingers rolling your nipples in rhythm with the lazy grind of his tongue against your clit.

your moans turn high-pitched, desperate. your body twists beneath him, unable to keep still as the pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher.

but then—a whimper.

not from you.

from him.

you force your heavy lids open, head lolling to the side as you try to focus on him. and fuck, the sight that greets you is almost enough to make you cum then and there.

seungcheol is rutting against the couch. grinding, fucking humping it like a damn dog, his hips rolling in slow thrusts, his rock-hard cock straining against his stomach, smearing precum all over his abs and the fabric beneath him.

he whimpers again, this time louder, his brows furrowed, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.

“fuck,” he groans, mouth still pressed against you, voice muffled by the way his tongue keeps working you over. he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked. his eyes are dark, glassy, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you. “can’t—fuck, i can’t stop. you taste too good.”

your chest tightens, a desperate, aching cry slipping from your lips as you clutch at his hair, thighs twitching in his grasp. “cheol—gonna—gonna cum, oh my god—”

he moans, actually fucking moans, his hips grinding down harder against the couch as he redoubles his efforts, tongue circling your clit in precise, teasing flicks, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to send you over the edge.

your body locks up. your back arches. your mouth falls open, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, all-consuming.

seungcheol doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow down. he works you through it like it’s his mission, licking you clean, his tongue rolling over your entrance, collecting every last drop as your body trembles violently beneath him.

your chest heaves, your vision blurring, but even through the haze, you can feel him still grinding against the couch, still so fucking hard and desperate, all because of you.

your brain is slow. dial-up connection slow. everything feels like it’s underwater, your body floating somewhere between consciousness and the best orgasm-induced coma of your life. it’s warm, so warm, like your body is still riding out the fever of your high, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth, throat dry, muscles heavy like they’re full of sand.

you don’t even remember when it happened—when you blacked out, when you got moved. just flashes of cool wipes dragging over your skin, a damp cloth pressed between your thighs, seungcheol’s hands gentle, careful, murmuring something you were too gone to comprehend. like déjà vu, like something out of a dream.

but you’re awake now. sort of. and you’re in his bed.

the sheets are soft, cool against your fevered skin, and it feels so good that you can’t help the tired, pleased moan that slips past your lips, involuntary, barely conscious.

but it’s enough to make him look at you.

you blink, vision still a little hazy, but yeah, that’s definitely seungcheol, sitting at his desk, dressed in a loose shirt and sweats, hair damp, probably from a shower. there’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his eyes are soft as they sweep over you, taking in the way you’re still half-buried in his sheets, limbs heavy, body relaxed.

then it hits you.

the documents.

joshua.

fuck.

your eyes widen, and you jolt up too fast, regretting it immediately when the soreness between your thighs protests, a sharp ache shooting up your spine. “fuck—”

seungcheol’s already up, one hand pressing to your shoulder, guiding you back down before you can do any more damage. “hey, hey, relax. you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“the—documents,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again as the exhaustion creeps back in. “joshua.”

he chuckles, and you open your eyes just in time to see him shaking a small stack of papers in his hand. “yeah, yeah. i got it. sent them over while you were passed out.”

you frown, groggy. “i was supposed to send them.”

“and joshua needs to get used to me handling shit for you,” he says, grinning as he sets the papers down. “besides, he’d probably prefer not to get another noise complaint under his name.”

your face heats up instantly. “oh my god.”

“mhmm,” seungcheol hums, tilting his head. “wanna know how loud you were?”

“no.”

he laughs, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “then go back to sleep, baby.”

you glare at him. or, at least, you try to. it’s weak, and he knows it, because all it takes is one more stroke of his thumb before your eyes flutter shut again, body sinking further into his bed.

yeah. you can fight him about the joshua thing later. maybe. probably not.

[sixeyesonathiel]

WHEREVER YOU WANT IT, BABY, I’M TAKING YOU THERE!

↳ being married to gojo satoru means never knowing peace. or underwear.

4.4k words of domestic filth inspired from that one tiktok audio

cw: light degradation, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, food play (whipped cream, batter), dry humping, mild exhibitionism, marking (hickeys, biting), mild overstimulation, explicit language, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : made a version with suguru for my bbg lyra here!

ON THE COUCH.ᐟ

you’re sunk into the couch, legs tucked under the plush throw you’ve had since forever, the one satoru swears smells like your shampoo. the TV’s glow bathes the living room in soft blues, your favorite show’s theme song chiming through the speakers.

you’re halfway through a bowl of popcorn, kernels scattered on your lap, determined to actually watch this episode without your husband derailing you. it’s your comfort rewatch, the one you’ve seen enough times to recite the lines, but it still hits every time. you’re mid-bite when you feel him—satoru, your personal chaos agent, already sprawled across your lap like a cat who’s never heard of personal space.

his head’s nestled against your stomach, white hair a mess from where he’s been nuzzling into you, and you can feel the warmth of his breath through your—his—t-shirt, the one you stole years ago and never gave back. it’s loose, slipping off one shoulder, and his fingers are already sneaking under the hem, tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“baby,” he whines, voice low and syrupy, lips brushing just under your ribs, “you’ve seen this episode a million times. i haven’t been in your mouth once today.”

you don’t look at him, eyes glued to the screen, though you’re barely processing the dialogue. “you said you wanted to cuddle,” you mutter, popping another kernel in your mouth, trying to sound unbothered. your heart’s already picking up, traitorously aware of how his touch sparks heat under your skin.

“i am cuddling,” he insists, shifting so his body presses closer, one muscled thigh sliding between your legs, nudging them apart. you can feel the denim of his jeans through your thin shorts, rough against your inner thighs, and the warmth pooling low in your belly betrays you.

“just, y’know, with benefits.” he adds, his lips curling into a grin you don’t need to see, and he nips at the soft skin above your waistband, making you jolt.

“satoru,” you warn, but it’s weak, half-hearted, and he knows it. his hand slips higher under your shirt, fingers grazing the underside of your breast, thumb brushing just shy of where you want it. you shift, trying to focus on the TV, but he’s relentless, mouthing at your stomach now, slow, wet kisses that leave your skin tingling. “i’m watching.”

“watch, then,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your hip. he tugs your shorts down an inch, just enough to expose the lacy edge of your panties, and his lips find the sensitive spot right above. “don’t miss the good part, sweetheart.” his tone’s teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

he pulls you forward, guiding you to straddle his thigh, the sudden pressure of his leg against your core making you gasp. your hands grip the couch cushions, popcorn bowl tipping precariously, but he steadies it with a chuckle. “careful, baby. don’t waste snacks.”

his hand’s between your legs now, fingers brushing over your panties, slow and deliberate, feeling how you’re already soaking through. “fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself, eyes glinting up at you, blue and predatory in the TV’S light. “you’re this wet and still pretending you care about your show?”

he presses harder, circling your clit through the fabric, and you bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan. the characters on screen are arguing, but it’s just noise now, drowned out by the thump of your pulse.

“shh,” he whispers, when a soft whimper escapes you, his free hand tugging the throw blanket over your lap. “can’t hear the dialogue.” he’s mocking you, smirking as he slips his fingers under your panties, grazing your slick folds.

you’re grinding against his thigh without meaning to, the friction of denim and his deliberate touches pushing you closer to the edge. every time you get too loud—a gasped “satoru”or a shaky moan—he leans up, kissing you sloppy to muffle the sound, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming it.

“quiet, baby,” he teases, pulling back to nip your bottom lip. “you’re drownin’ out the plot.”

you’re a mess already, shorts bunched around your thighs, panties pushed to the side, and he’s barely touched you. the blanket’s slipping, and he grabs it, draping it over your shoulders with a grin.

“perfect,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “you love this thing, don’t you? let’s put it to good use.” he shoves it against your mouth, pressing it there as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them deep. your muffled cry vibrates into the fabric, and he laughs, low and filthy. “fits, doesn’t it? you and your cozy shit.”

you’re trembling, thighs shaking as he works you, his thigh still pressed against you, encouraging the desperate roll of your hips. the TV’S forgotten, just a blur of colors and sounds, but he’s not done playing.

“eyes on the screen,” he orders, free hand gripping your chin to turn your head. “this is your favorite part, right? where they confess or whatever?” you can’t answer, too lost in the stretch of his fingers, the way he’s dragging you toward release. your moans are louder now, barely stifled by the blanket, and he pulls it away, tossing it aside. “fuck it,” he growls, “i wanna hear you.”

he’s bored of teasing, you can tell, because he’s moving fast now, yanking your shorts and panties down completely, leaving them tangled around one ankle.

“over the table,” he says, voice rough, and before you can process, he’s got you bent over the coffee table, popcorn bowl knocked to the floor, kernels crunching under his feet. your hands brace against the wood, cool against your flushed skin, and he’s behind you, jeans unzipped, pressing into you in one slow, deep thrust that makes you sob.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, hands gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “you feel so good.” the table creaks with every snap of his hips, the tv still blaring behind you, your favorite character’s voice a mocking backdrop to the way he’s ruining you. he leans forward, chest against your back, and grabs your chin again, forcing you to look at the screen. “don’t tap out now,” he pants, thrusting harder, “this is your comfort episode, right?”

you’re crying now, tears of pleasure and overwhelm streaking your cheeks, your body shaking as he drives you toward the edge. every thrust is deliberate, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and his voice is a constant stream of filth “love how you take me,” “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” “gonna make you come so hard you forget this stupid show.”

you’re incoherent, babbling his name, nails scratching at the table as your orgasm hits, a white-hot wave that leaves you trembling, clenching around him.

he’s not far behind, groaning your name as he spills inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder from you. when he finally pulls out, you’re a wreck, collapsing against the table, panties still dangling off one ankle, tears smudging your mascara. he’s laughing, breathless, pulling you back onto the couch and into his lap, the throw blanket draped over you both like nothing happened.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, softer now, kissing your temple as he grabs the remote. he rewinds the episode, smirking as he feeds you a piece of popcorn and you’re too blissed out to do anything else but chew.

“guess we both got our favorites tonight,” he says, voice smug but warm, his arm tight around you. your legs are still shaking, and you nuzzle into his chest, the theme song starting again as you mumble something about hating him. he just laughs, kissing your hair, and you know you’re in for it all over again tomorrow.

IN THE BED.ᐟ

you’re drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking, the kind where the world feels soft and warm, like you’re cocooned in a dream you don’t want to leave. the sheets are tangled around your legs, your tank top rucked up from tossing in the night, and you’re vaguely aware of the faint morning light slipping through the curtains.

but then you feel it—satoru’s weight shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he presses closer, his bare chest warm against your back. his breath ghosts over your neck, slow and deliberate, and you know he’s been awake for a while, just waiting for you to stir.

his arm’s already slung over your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach, possessive but gentle, like he’s anchoring you to him. you feel him, hard and insistent, grinding lazily between your thighs, the thin fabric of your panties doing nothing to dull the heat. “mm,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice thick with sleep and something hungrier.

“good morning, wife.” his words are soft, but there’s that edge to them, the one that makes your heart stutter even half-asleep.

you groan, burrowing your face into the pillow, the cool cotton a brief escape from his intensity. “satoru, it’s too early,” you mumble, voice muffled, though you’re already shifting back against him, instinctive, your body betraying your weak protest.

he only chuckles low, vibrating against your spine, and he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, slow and wet, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“never too early for you, angel,” he murmurs, his hand sliding under your tank top, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then higher, cupping your breast with a reverence that feels almost too sweet for him. his thumb grazes your nipple, teasing it to a peak, and you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering open despite yourself.

“been dreamin’ about you,” he says, kissing down your shoulder now, each press of his lips a deliberate worship. “couldn’t help myself.”

“you’re so creepy,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a sleepy laugh as you turn your head to peek at him.

he’s already staring, blue eyes soft and molten in the dim light, his white hair a tousled halo against the pillow. he’s grinning, that lovesick, idiot grin that makes your chest ache, and you can’t help but reach back, fingers tangling in his hair. “watching me sleep again?”

“guilty,” he admits, not even pretending to be ashamed. he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can lean over you, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful. thank you for marryin’ me.” his voice cracks a little, like he means it too much, and you’re torn between rolling your eyes and melting completely.

“sappy idiot,” you whisper, but you’re smiling, pulling him closer until his lips find yours, soft and unhurried, all morning haze and warmth. t

he kiss deepens, his tongue slipping against yours, and you feel his hand slide lower, tugging your panties down just enough to press his fingers between your thighs. you gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, murmuring, “shh, let me say good morning properly.”

it’s slow at first, all lazy touches and quiet gasps, his fingers circling your clit with a patience that’s rare for him. you’re still half-draped in sleep, your moans muffled against the pillow as he works you open, his lips trailing down your spine, leaving a constellation of hickeys where your neck meets your shoulder.

“mine,” he whispers, over and over, like a prayer, each word punctuated by a kiss, a nip, a mark that says you’re his. you’re soaking now, hips rocking against his hand, and he groans, low and needy, grinding harder against your thigh.

“satoru,” you breathe, voice shaky, and he hums, pleased, flipping you onto your back with a gentleness that makes your heart flip. you blink up at him, and he’s a vision—hair messy, eyes glowing with something too tender, too raw.

“wanna see your face, angel,” he says, grinning as he leans down, kissing your forehead, then your eyelids, then your lips again, like he can’t get enough. his fingers are still moving, slow and deliberate, and you’re trembling, legs spreading wider to give him more.

he pulls back just enough to tug your panties off completely, tossing them somewhere in the sheets, and you’re bare beneath him, tank top pushed up to expose your stomach. he kisses lower, lips grazing your navel, then the soft skin just above your core, his tongue tracing the outline of your ring finger where your wedding band glints in the light.

“fuck, i love this,” he murmurs, sucking gently on the digit, his eyes locked on yours. “love you.”

you’re a mess already, whining when he settles between your thighs, his breath hot against your slick folds. he doesn’t tease for once, just dives in, tongue lapping at you like he’s starving, and you cry out, hands fisting in his hair.

he’s relentless, sucking and licking until you’re bucking against his face, and he’s moaning like he’s the one getting off, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you still.

“taste so good,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, and you’re sobbing, the pleasure too much, too perfect.

when you’re close, he crawls back up, kissing you sloppy so you taste yourself on his tongue, and you feel him nudge against you, hard and leaking. “ready, baby?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, and you nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he slides in slow, inch by inch, and you both groan, the stretch so good it makes your toes curl. he’s deep, filling you completely, and he stills, just for a moment, letting you adjust, his lips brushing yours.

“love you,” he says again, thrusting slow and deep, his hand finding yours, fingers interlacing. your ring glints between your joined hands, and he kisses it, then you, his eyes never leaving yours. it’s intense, the kind of eye contact that strips you bare, and you’re both pathetic, gasping messes, your nails digging into his back as he moves. “you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice breaking, “my wife, my everything.”

you’re coming before you realize it, a slow, rolling wave that has you clinging to him, sobbing his name, and he’s right behind you, groaning into your neck as he spills inside, his thrusts stuttering. e

he doesn’t pull out, just stays there, buried deep, his weight grounding you as you both catch your breath.

he nuzzles into your hair, rubbing slow circles on your back, and murmurs, “five more minutes. need to be home a little longer.”

you hum, content, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. the sheets are a mess, your tank top’s somewhere around your collarbone, and you can feel him softening inside you, but neither of you moves. he’s drawing lazy patterns on your hip, whispering how much he loves being married to you, and you’re grinning, too in love to care about the morning chill or the fact that you’ll need to wash these sheets later.

“you’re such an idiot,” you mumble, kissing his chest, and he laughs, soft and warm, pulling you closer like he’ll never let go.

ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER.ᐟ

you’re in the zone, apron tied loosely around your waist, the kitchen alive with the hum of your favorite pop playlist—satoru’s insistence that it’s “our jam” still makes you laugh. flour dusts your hands, the air sweet with vanilla and sugar as you whisk pancake batter, the morning light streaming through the window.

you’re flipping a pancake, singing off-key to some cheesy chorus, when you feel him—satoru, your walking disaster, sneaking up behind you. his arms snake around your waist, firm chest pressing against your back, and his chin rests on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.

“baby,” he purrs, voice low and playful, lips grazing your ear, “you’re too sexy in this apron. makes me wanna eat you instead.” his hands slide under the fabric, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts, and you feel him, already hard, grinding subtly against your ass.

you snort, not turning around, focusing on the skillet. “you ate an hour ago,” you say, voice steady despite the heat creeping up your spine. you flip the pancake, the sizzle masking the hitch in your breath as his fingers dip just under your waistband, tracing the skin there.

“not talkin’ about food,” he murmurs, licking a smear of batter off your cheek, slow and deliberate, his tongue warm and teasing.

you swat at him with the spatula, half-laughing, but it’s shaky, your body already betraying you. “satoru, i’m cooking!” you protest, but he’s undeterred, hands slipping lower, tugging your shorts down an inch to expose the lacy edge of your panties.

“and i’m starvin’,” he whines, dramatic as ever, but there’s a growl beneath it, hungry and raw. before you can argue, he’s lifting you onto the counter, effortless, like you weigh nothing. the mixing bowl wobbles, batter sloshing, and you grip his shoulders, flour-covered hands leaving white prints on his black t-shirt.

“satoru, the pancakes—” you start, but he’s already between your legs, spreading them with a nudge of his hips, his grin wicked.

“fuck the pancakes,” he says, grabbing the whipped cream can from the fridge, shaking it with a flourish. “gonna taste-test my favorite dessert.” he sprays a messy heart on your inner thigh, the cold cream making you gasp, and you laugh, shoving at his chest, but it turns into a moan as he leans down, licking it clean, his tongue slow and filthy, eyes locked on yours.

“satoru, you’re wasting it!” you scold, but your voice cracks, your hands tangling in his hair as he nips at the sensitive skin.

“waste?” he scoffs, pulling back to lick a stripe of batter off your finger, sucking it into his mouth with a low groan. “this is art.” he tugs your shorts and panties to the side, not even bothering to pull them off, and dives in, mouth hot and relentless against your core.

you cry out, head tipping back, the counter hard under you as you grip the edge, knocking over a measuring cup. flour scatters across the surface, and he’s moaning into you, like he’s the one getting off, his tongue circling your clit with a precision that makes your thighs shake.

“fuck, you taste better than anything,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, his fingers joining now, two sliding inside you, curling deep. you’re a mess, gasping his name, your apron bunched around your waist, flour smudged on your thighs where his hands grip you.

he grabs the whipped cream again, spraying a dollop right above your clit, and licks it off with a filthy moan, the cold cream and his warm tongue a dizzying contrast that has you bucking against his face.

you’re close already, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming, but he’s not done playing. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grabs a spoonful of batter from the bowl, smearing it across your collarbone. “messy girl,” he teases, leaning in to lick it off, his teeth grazing your skin.

you’re whining, desperate, pulling at his shirt, and he finally gives in, unzipping his jeans and pushing inside you in one swift thrust, the stretch making you sob. the spatula clatters to the floor, and you’re clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as he moves, fast and deep, the counter creaking under you.

“mm, let’s make every mornin’ cream-filled,” he groans, licking more batter off your neck, his thrusts relentless, knocking measuring spoons and a bag of sugar to the floor. you’re incoherent, babbling his name, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drives you higher.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand, sucking the flour off your fingers as he fucks you, his other hand circling your clit until you’re screaming, the orgasm hitting hard, your body shaking, clenching around him.

he’s right behind you, groaning your name as he spills inside, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder. the oven beeps, shrill and insistent, but neither of you cares, too caught up in the messy, blissful aftermath.

you’re panting, slumped against him, the counter sticky with flour, cream, and batter, your apron a crumpled mess. he’s laughing, breathless, kissing you sloppy, his hands still roaming like he can’t stop touching you.

“fair trade,” he says, eyeing the skillet where the pancakes are charred to a crisp. you smack his chest, breathless, muttering, “you’re cleaning this.” he just grins, licking a stray bit of whipped cream off your neck, and says, “worth it.” you’re both giggling, feeding each other burnt pancake scraps, flour still smudged on his cheek, and you know the kitchen’s a disaster, but your marriage is thriving, sticky and sweet as the mess you’ve made.

ON THE STAIRS.ᐟ

you’re halfway up the stairs, each step creaking under your furious pace, the crumpled receipt in your hand like a smoking gun. “satoru, three hundred dollars on towels?” you snap, whirling around to glare at him, your voice echoing in the narrow stairwell. “towels? we have lights! electricity! a mortgage to pay!”

he’s trailing behind, hands stuffed in his sweatpants pockets, looking infuriatingly unbothered. his white hair catches the dim glow of the hallway light, and that stupid, lopsided grin is already curling his lips.

“they’re plush, baby,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just blow a small fortune. “like you. thought it’d be romantic.” his blue eyes glint, teasing, and you can tell he’s not taking this seriously, which only makes your blood boil more.

“romantic?” you hiss, gripping the banister so hard your knuckles whiten. “we could’ve bought a new couch! or, i don’t know, groceries for a month?” you wave the receipt in his face, and he has the audacity to lean forward, squinting at it like it’s a museum exhibit. “you’re impossible!”

he steps closer, one stair below you, towering over you despite the height difference. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping low, “you married a brat. you knew what you were gettin’ into.” his hand darts out, grabbing your ankle, and before you can react, he tugs you down a step, making you stumble into him.

“satoru!” you squeal, clutching his shoulders to keep from falling, the receipt fluttering to the floor.

“what?” he says, all mock innocence, but his hands are already sliding up your calves, rough and warm, stopping just under the hem of your shirt. “you’re cute when you’re mad.” he’s grinning now, full-on, and you want to smack him, but his chest is pressed against yours, and you can feel his heartbeat, steady and maddeningly calm.

“come here and spank me about it, then,” he murmurs, leaning in, lips brushing your jaw.

“you’re not gettin’ outta this,” you mutter, but your resolve’s crumbling, his breath hot against your skin as he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate. your hands betray you, tangling in his hair, and he hums, pleased, nipping at your collarbone. “i’m serious, satoru—”

“so am i,” he growls, and suddenly he’s kissing you, hard and sloppy, backing you up against the railing until it digs into your spine. the stairwell’s narrow, the steps uneven under your feet, but he’s got you pinned, one hand hiking up your shirt, the other tugging your panties down just enough to bare you. “let’s see how mad you really are,” he says, pulling back to smirk, his fingers brushing between your thighs, finding you already wet. “oh, baby, really mad, huh?”

you groan, half in frustration, half in need, and he takes that as permission, lifting your leg to hook it over the next step up, the angle opening you to him. “satoru, we’re on the stairs,” you hiss, but it’s weak, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fumbles with his sweatpants, freeing himself. he’s hard, leaking, and when he presses against you, you both moan, the sound echoing in the tight space.

“fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groans, pushing in deep, one rough thrust that makes you cry out, your head tipping back against the wall.

the railing’s creaking, the stairs shifting under his weight, but he’s relentless, fast and feral, each snap of his hips driving you higher. “say you forgive me,” he growls, biting your neck, his teeth sharp enough to leave a mark. you’re sobbing, swearing at him—“you’re such an idiot”—but your body’s begging for more, hips rocking to meet his.

“never,” you gasp, but it’s a lie, and he knows it, laughing breathlessly as he sucks on your fingers, moaning around them like they’re candy.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he pants, his pace brutal, the sound of skin on skin loud enough to drown out your protests. you claw at his back, still muttering about the towels, but it’s incoherent now, lost in the haze of him filling you, stretching you, owning you.

when you come, it’s with a scream, your body shaking, clenching around him so tight he curses, his thrusts stuttering as he follows, spilling inside you with a groaned “fuck, baby.”

you’re trembling, barely holding onto the railing, and he’s not done, his fingers slipping between your legs again, circling your oversensitive clit. “still mad?” he murmurs, smirking, and you hiss, “yes,” but your voice breaks, your legs wobbling as he keeps teasing, pushing you toward another edge.

“liar,” he laughs, kissing you soft now, a contrast to the chaos of before. you’re a wreck, panties tangled around one ankle, shirt rucked up, and he’s still grinning, like he’s won the lottery.

you try to step up, legs shaky, but you stumble, and he catches you, scooping you up bridal-style. “told you the towela were worth it,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom.

you smack his chest, muttering about the mess on the stairs, but he just kisses your forehead, tossing you onto the bed with a, “round two for the towel tax?”

you’re too spent to argue, pulling him down for more, the receipt forgotten on the stairwell floor, your marriage as chaotic and perfect as ever.

[cbeargyu]

marry me, mr. jeong

summary: while everyone around you is getting married, you're left behind—no ring, no lover, just silence waiting at home. but one night, your boss, mr. jeong, makes an unexpected proposal: "marry me." and suddenly, your quiet world begins to burn.

pairing: boss!jaehyun x fem!reader

genre: romance, slow burn, fluff, emotional smut, domestic married life, eventual pregnancy, emotional growth, healing.

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy mention (later), minor angst, lots of kissing, crying, soft husband jaehyun, tooth-rotting fluff, crying-in-the-club type of love.

wc: 19,7K

notes: i’m obsessed with jaehyun as a boss, boyfriend, hubby, and daddy lmao. man’s got range 😮‍💨💍🖤 i swear i try to keep it short but my brain goes rogue every time 😭 like girl be fr, when’s the day i finally drop a short fic??? bye lmao 💀

you’re twenty-nine, and the number feels heavier than you thought it would. not because it’s old—not really—but because thirty is close. and thirty means expectations. by now, you were supposed to have it all figured out. at least, that’s what they say. your friends certainly make it seem that way with their photo-perfect marriages, toddlers learning to walk, houses in peaceful neighborhoods. meanwhile, you still live in a quiet apartment with plants you often forget to water and a fridge that holds more takeout containers than groceries.

you work at an architecture firm—clean lines, big ideas, and even bigger egos. the kind of place where late nights are common and recognition is rare. you’ve built a name for yourself, though. you lead your team well, your ideas consistently get approved, and your work ethic has never been in question. the other women whisper that you’re just trying to impress the boss, that your dedication is nothing but a strategic flirtation. they don't know that your passion isn’t about pleasing anyone but yourself. well, mostly. maybe part of you does want to be seen. to be acknowledged by him.

jeong jaehyun.

your department lead. two years younger than you, but somehow always carrying himself like he’s lived three lives already. he doesn’t talk much. doesn’t engage in the small talk that fills the office kitchen or the empty flattery some of your coworkers throw his way. he’s serious, focused, almost too calm. the kind of man who’s unreadable, and yet somehow always watching. you’re not close, not really, but there’s a quiet understanding between you. he trusts you. you can feel it in the way he gives you space to lead, the way he nods subtly in meetings when you speak, the way his eyes linger sometimes—not in a way that feels invasive, but like he’s... thinking.

you’ve never seen him flirt with anyone. never seen him talk about his personal life. no ring, no photos on his desk, not even vague mentions of a girlfriend or family. and while no one dares to say anything to his face, everyone wonders. he's a man, though—no one criticizes him for being single. no one asks him what he's waiting for.

you, on the other hand, can barely go a week without someone making a comment. still not married? you’re so pretty, what a shame. your mother means well, but every call ends with a variation of you’re not getting any younger, sweetheart.you smile through it. you tell them you're happy. you tell yourself that, too. but deep down, there's a quiet ache. because you’ve always wanted a family. always dreamed of being a mother, of coming home to someone who knows you—not just your schedule or your favorite takeout order, but the way you think, the way you feel things deeply and try to hide it. but love hasn’t knocked in years. not since your last relationship ended at twenty-two, before the world hardened your heart. since then, you’ve been too busy, too careful, too tired.

tonight, you're staying late again. the office is nearly empty, save for a few flickering lights and the buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you're finessing the last pieces of a major project, making sure every detail is just right. you're in the zone when you hear soft footsteps approaching, and then his voice—low, familiar, closer than expected.

“you’re still here, byun?”

you glance up to find jaehyun standing by your desk, hands in his pockets, that usual unreadable expression on his face. there’s no judgment in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

you offer a tired smile, leaning back in your chair. “oh, mr. jeong, i just wanted to polish a few things before the presentation. i figured if i leave anything messy, the senior managers will rip it apart. and then you’ll take the heat for it.”

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that almost looks like a smile. “you care that much about how i look to the execs?”

you shrug, turning back to your screen. “you’re my boss. if you look bad, i look bad.”

he lets out a soft exhale, a sound that's dangerously close to a chuckle. then he leans against your desk, his body relaxed but his eyes still sharp as ever. “you’re too committed.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he shakes his head. “not bad. just... rare.”

a brief silence settles between you, not awkward, but weighted. it feels like he’s about to say something else, and when he does, it’s not what you expect.

“doesn’t your family mind that you stay this late?” his gaze holds yours. “your husband? kids?”

you blink, the question catching you off guard. your smile falters just slightly, and you look down at your hands before answering.

“no husband. no kids. no one waiting at home.” you try to sound casual, even throw in a little laugh. “i guess i’m just married to the job.”

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t look away. “i didn’t know.”

you nod, suddenly very aware of the silence around you. “most people assume. but... yeah. i live alone.”

another pause. then, gently, you ask, “what about you, mr. jeong? i mean, you’re always here late too. no one waiting on you?”

he looks away for the first time, his jaw tightening slightly before he answers. “no one yet.”

and there it is again—that silence between you. but this time, it’s different. it hums with something unspoken. curiosity. surprise. maybe even recognition.

you return your gaze to the screen, not really seeing it. he’s still standing there, close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. something in the air shifts, and for the first time in a long time, your chest feels... not heavy, but full.

the next morning, you arrived a few minutes early—just like always. being punctual wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about control, about proving—at least to yourself—that you had your life together. it made you feel reliable. consistent. in a workplace full of half-assed excuses and people who couldn’t meet a deadline to save their lives, your discipline was something you wore like armor. something no one could take from you.

your outfit was soft, delicate even—rose-pink skirt brushing just above your knees, a crisp white button-up tucked in neatly, the blazer matching your skirt in a subtle pastel tone. your heels clicked softly against the tile floor as you made your way to your desk, and as you passed the reflection on one of the glass panels, you couldn’t help but think: i look good today.

you did. your hair was in place, makeup light but elegant, lips tinted a faint nude-pink. polished. pretty. professional. but beneath all that... you also looked a little alone. not that anyone would say it to your face—but you could see it sometimes, in the glances people gave you. admiration, maybe. pity, sometimes. curiosity always.

you sat down, smoothing your skirt and adjusting your chair, reaching for the little yellow post-it you’d stuck to the side of your monitor the day before. your handwriting was neat, methodical. a short list of pending tasks, each one already being mentally checked off as you booted up your computer. you didn’t waste time—your fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes the familiar sounds of productivity filled your small corner of the office: the rhythmic clack of keys, the soft hum and spit of the printer warming up to spit out proposals and reports.

you didn’t hear him come in.

you were too deep in the flow, too focused on aligning the final report with the visual standards the company demanded. your eyes scanned the document line by line, searching for typos, ensuring everything was clean, sharp, presentable. the sound of footsteps behind you didn’t register until you felt it—that subtle, electric awareness that comes when someone is watching.

“good morning, byun. please leave the project report on my desk once it’s ready.”

he didn’t look at you. just passed by, smooth and quick, his voice calm and firm, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, the familiar scent of roast beans and expensive cologne trailing behind him like a silent presence. his stride didn’t falter, his gaze fixed ahead, like he’d already moved on to the next ten things in his mind. you barely had time to nod, mouth parted to respond, but he was already disappearing behind his office door.

you blinked.

right. the report.

you gathered the last printed pages, slid them into the presentation folder, double-checked the order, smoothed the cover with your palm before rising from your seat. your heels clicked softly against the floor as you made your way down the short corridor, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of the folder, nerves tightening with each step even if there was nothing to be nervous about. it was just work. just jaehyun. just another report.

you knocked once and entered when he answered. he was seated behind his desk, sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the dark veins of his forearms visible as he typed something on his laptop. he glanced up, briefly, then reached for the report when you held it out.

“thank you,” he said, flipping it open with precision, already scanning the contents. “at two p.m. we have the meeting with upper management. you’ll be joining me at the table. along with choi and hwang.”

you nodded. “understood.”

“good. go over the numbers one more time before then. they’re likely to ask.”

“yes, mr. jeong.”

and that was it. no warm smile. no thank you. just professional, cold efficiency. you turned and left, closing the door gently behind you before returning to your desk, the weight of the upcoming meeting settling on your shoulders like a familiar cloak. you’d been through this before. plenty of times. but it never got easier. not when the room was full of men in suits who barely hid their condescension, who chewed through ideas like tasteless gum until someone—usually jaehyun—said something smart enough to catch their interest.

you spent the next few hours fine-tuning the financial section, making sure your data was clean, graphs properly labeled, estimates realistic but still ambitious. it was a delicate game—making things sound innovative without actually suggesting anything too risky. they didn’t want bold. they wanted impressive illusions of boldness packaged in safe wrapping.

the meeting room was as bland as ever. too much glass, too much beige. you sat at the long table beside jaehyun, your laptop open, presentation ready. the managers arrived first, already complaining about another team’s failed prototype. the director entered last, stone-faced as always, his tie perfect, his opinion impossible to read.

as expected, the meeting dragged. they picked apart the proposal, paragraph by paragraph, expressionless until one of them grimaced like the very concept of originality offended them. you watched them, these men who nodded at each other but rarely smiled, who offered feedback that wasn’t feedback, just empty phrases like “it needs more punch” or “is this trend even scalable?”

then jaehyun spoke.

his voice was calm, slow, measured. and yet he made every single line sound convincing. powerful. like there was no other way forward but the one he was laying out. the room shifted around him. the tension eased. eyes narrowed—not in skepticism now, but interest. he wasn’t just presenting; he was selling a vision, and you felt yourself straightening with pride even if the credit wasn’t yours.

until he said your name.

“y/n,” he said, still facing the director. “if you could present the budget projections.”

you froze for a half second. not out of fear—just... surprise. you hadn’t expected him to call on you so soon.

you stood, smoothed your skirt unconsciously, and took a breath before switching slides. your voice was steady, even if your palms were clammy.

“these are the projections for the next two quarters,” you began, pointing at the chart. “we’ve estimated a moderate increase in cost during the development phase, with a break-even point projected for the beginning of q3. depending on the approved budget, we’re looking at a return on investment of approximately—”

you kept going, explaining the graphs, walking them through the numbers with careful clarity. no embellishments, no guesswork. facts. you swallowed once, clearing your throat before the final slide, then ended with a nod.

when you sat back down, jaehyun glanced at you. just a moment. a flicker of something almost soft in his expression.

like you’d done well. like you couldn’t possibly disappoint him.

the rest of the meeting blurred. the managers began tossing in extra suggestions—small changes, tweaks they hoped would impress the director. the man nodded, offered vague praise, and you remained at your seat, listening to it all with a practiced, patient expression.

when the meeting finally ended, you stood beside jaehyun again. he didn’t say much—he never did—but as he packed his laptop, he looked at you.

“good work today,” he said. “you’re an essential part of the team. if you keep this up, i’ll make sure your name’s considered for the upcoming promotions.”

you stared at him, momentarily stunned. the words hit harder than you expected. you’d worked for five years, given everything to this company, and this—this was the first time someone above you had said something that felt... real.

“thank you,” you said softly, trying not to let your smile get too big. “really.”

he nodded. “you earned it.”

later, when the director extended the dinner invitation, you didn’t hesitate. it wasn’t optional. the team needed to show up, needed to mingle, to pretend everything was a celebration and not an endless cycle of office politics masked with clinking glasses.

the bar was upscale but casual enough to loosen people’s ties. smoke from grilled meats hung faintly in the air, the tang of sweet sauces and roasted garlic filling the space. you sat between your supervisor and jaehyun, trying not to feel too stiff in your work clothes. everyone was drinking, toasting, laughing louder than they had all day.

the supervisor leaned forward, voice slightly slurred. “you know,” he said to the director, “the whole prototype? the mockup? the execution timeline? all her. y/n practically carried the whole thing.”

the director turned to you, surprised. “really? how long have you been here?”

“five years,” you replied, sipping from your glass.

he raised a brow. “how is it possible i haven’t noticed you until now?”

jaehyun, still beside you, said nothing—but you felt the subtle tension in his posture.

“you’ve got a good employee,” the director told him. “it’s your job to shape her. teach her. sounds like she’s already on the right path. with the right guidance... she’ll move up in no time.”

he raised his glass. “to y/n.”

“to y/n,” echoed around the table.

you lifted your glass, cheeks warm—not just from the alcohol but from the unfamiliar sensation of being seen. you smiled, surrounded by coworkers and approval and good food, and for a moment, just one moment, everything felt like it was finally going somewhere.

you were finally going somewhere.

the dinner had blurred into noise.

conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling like tides. glasses clinked, meat sizzled on the grill, the warm lighting softening everyone's expressions into something hazy and unguarded. you sat at the long table, just a bit to the side, the smoky scent of barbecued meat in your hair and the echo of compliments still lingering in your chest. across from you, your supervisor had long since slipped into a drunken retelling of his glory days. to your left, jaehyun sat quietly, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. his arms were strong, veins defined even in the low light, and on his left wrist, a sleek, expensive watch glinted every time he reached for his glass. he hadn’t touched his soju in a while, though. he just held the rim between his fingers and occasionally let his gaze wander across the room.

when your eyes met, it was casual, almost accidental. but you didn’t look away.

“you’re not drinking,” you said, quietly enough that only he could hear.

he offered the ghost of a smirk, the kind that barely pulled at one corner of his mouth. “someone has to remember what was actually said tonight.”

you laughed, a soft breathy sound, grateful for his clarity amidst the chaos.

a silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. rather, it felt like a small space carved out just for the two of you—unbothered, untouched, a bubble where you didn’t have to keep smiling or pretending. you let out a quiet sigh, swirling your untouched drink in your hand.

“do you ever feel like you're running out of time?” you asked, voice low, not even sure why you were asking him of all people.

jaehyun looked at you, brows drawn slightly, intrigued but still calm. “time for what?”

you hesitated, fingers tightening around your glass. the alcohol was warm in your chest, but not enough to numb this confession.

“for everything,” you admitted. “i mean, professionally… things are going great. i can’t complain. i’ve worked hard, and it’s starting to pay off. but…” you looked down, lips pressing together. “sometimes i feel like i’m trapped inside a giant hourglass, watching the sand fall, grain by grain. i’ll be thirty in a few months. and i know that shouldn't mean anything, but in a world where people expect you to have everything figured out by now—marriage, kids, some picture-perfect life—i feel like i’m falling behind. like my dreams are moving farther and farther away.”

you took a breath, not daring to look at him.

“it’s just… sad,” you continued. “when you achieve something big and there’s no one waiting at home to celebrate it with you. no partner, no family. no one to say, ‘i’m proud of you.’”

jaehyun was quiet for a moment. then his voice came, soft and even.

“i can celebrate with you.”

you looked up, surprised, blinking at him. “thank you, but… that’s not what i meant. it’s not the same.”

he held your gaze. then, calmly, like he was offering a solution to a logistics problem, he said it.

“then marry me.”

your brain stalled.

you didn’t understand at first. maybe you misheard him. maybe he was joking, or drunk—except his voice hadn’t changed. his tone hadn’t wavered. your stomach dropped.

“…what?” you whispered.

“you want a family. you want someone to come home to. marry me.”

the words hung between you like smoke. absurd. unreal. your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. you glanced around—everyone else was too busy laughing or slurring their next toast to notice what had just happened.

you leaned in slightly, voice tense and hushed. “mr.—jeong—what are you talking about? we don’t even know each other like that.”

“we know enough,” he said without blinking.

“we’ve never even had a real conversation outside of work until now.”

“so let’s have more,” he replied, as steady as always.

you felt like your heart was beating too loudly. “are you… are you seriously suggesting we get married?”

“i’m not suggesting it. i’m telling you i’d do it. if you said yes.”

you stared at him, at the cool detachment on his face, the quiet certainty in his voice, and felt your world tip on its axis.

he shrugged. “how long until you turn thirty?”

“…my birthday’s in november,” you muttered, the words escaping before you could even process them. “it’s april now. that’s seven months.”

jaehyun nodded slowly. “then you have seven months to decide.”

he finished his beer in one slow, final gulp. then he stood up, reaching into his wallet and placing a few bills under his empty glass. you were still frozen when he stepped beside you.

“i’ll take you home,” he said.

you tried to protest, voice stumbling over half-formed refusals. “you don’t have to—i can call a cab, really—”

he looked down at you, expression unreadable.

“that wasn’t a request. it’s your boss giving you a ride.”

and with that, he turned, waiting for you to follow. your legs felt heavy as you stood, your mind racing, still reeling from what had just happened. marry him? seven months? he was serious. he was actually serious.

you had no answers. only questions. and one man who had just offered you everything you’d spent your life pretending you didn’t need.

you didn’t sleep.

not really. you tossed and turned, arms flung across the bed one minute and buried under the covers the next. jaehyun’s words echoed in your skull like an intrusive melody, looping over and over again.

then marry me.

you have seven months to decide.

like some sort of countdown had been triggered.

you must have stared at your ceiling for hours, trying to make sense of what he meant—what it meant for you—and whether he’d been serious. but the worst part wasn’t the proposal. the worst part was how calm he’d been, how effortlessly he’d said it, and how easily he’d walked away afterward like it hadn’t upended your entire sense of self.

your alarm went off at seven, and you hit snooze five times. by the time you dragged yourself out of bed, you felt like your bones had aged a decade overnight. you put on your makeup with the heaviness of someone trying to erase exhaustion from the inside out—concealer, color corrector, foundation. you went over your under-eyes twice, then a third time. you looked like yourself, but blurry. off.

you arrived to work twenty minutes later than usual, which was already enough to earn a few raised brows. no one said anything, but they noticed. you noticed them noticing.

you sat at your desk and stared at your drawers, forgetting which one you kept the monthly reports in. your fingers shook slightly as you shuffled through folders, trying to find the stupid paperwork you'd seen a million times. a stack of them slipped from your grasp and scattered onto the floor like a metaphor. you groaned and crouched down to collect them, muttering under your breath. your brain still felt like it was swimming through molasses.

then—

“good morning.”

his voice. that casual, bored tone he always used in the office. neutral, even, no trace of anything buried beneath it. no sign that he’d ever said something as life-altering as what he’d said last night.

you startled so hard you hit your head on the underside of your desk.

“good—ouch!” you winced, clutching your scalp with one hand and your pride with the other. “good morning, mr. jeong.”

he kept walking. didn’t glance down at you. didn’t smirk. didn’t check if you were okay. he passed your desk like any other morning, like he hadn’t proposed to you over beer and smoke and shared loneliness.

a few coworkers peeked over their partitions, concerned. you gave a shaky thumbs-up and a whispered, “i’m fine,” even though you felt anything but fine.

you weren’t like this. not at work. not ever. your name was synonymous with precision. discipline. control. and here you were, dropping papers and bumping into furniture like your brain had short-circuited.

you finally gathered the reports and brought them to his office.

he was seated at his desk, focused on his screen, the sleeves of his dress shirt still rolled to his elbows. your eyes caught briefly on the line of his forearm, the watch still there, still ticking.

“these are the reports from last month,” you said, setting the folder down.

“thanks,” he replied without looking at you.

you lingered.

“mr. jeong.”

he finally looked up.

his eyes were calm. cool. like nothing was wrong. like he hadn’t detonated a bomb and walked away from the wreckage.

you hesitated, your throat dry. “about what you said last night—”

his expression didn’t change.

“we’re at work,” he said simply. “i’m being professional.”

you blinked, almost offended. “so that’s it? you say something that insane and then just—go back to normal?”

“we’ll talk after work,” he said, returning to his screen. “if you want to.”

you stood there, gripping the folder even though it was already out of your hands, heart thudding with something sour and hot and unnamable. frustration? humiliation? confusion? all of it?

he was treating you like you were the one out of line. like you were being inappropriate for even bringing it up.

you turned around without saying anything else and walked out of his office, pulse hammering in your ears. the rest of the day dragged like wet cement. you couldn’t concentrate. you couldn’t remember what you were supposed to be doing half the time. you reread emails four times before hitting send. and every time someone walked past your desk, you wondered if it was him, if he’d say anything, if he’d look at you, if he even remembered what he said or if the memory of it belonged to you alone now.

you’d never felt so out of control.

you didn’t know what was worse—his silence or the fact that you wanted him to break it.

you tried to focus. god, you really did. you stared at spreadsheets until the numbers blurred into static. you answered emails with words you didn’t remember typing. every time the phone rang, your heart jumped, irrationally convinced it might be him—even though you were in the same building, separated by maybe thirty feet of glass, air, and unspoken tension. it felt like the longest day of your life. your temples throbbed with a slow, building ache, like your thoughts were pressing too hard against the inside of your skull.

you popped two painkillers around lunchtime, washed them down with lukewarm water from your reusable bottle, but they didn’t help. not really. because the pain wasn’t just physical—it was mental. emotional. a kind of pressure that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

your mind wouldn’t shut up.

you kept looping the same questions, over and over again, like your brain was stuck on a carousel with no exit.

why would he say that? why now? why you?

he already told you he'd wait. seven months. seven impossibly long, slow-burning months.

so why talk? why meet? it wasn’t for him. it didn’t serve him. he’d been clear. he had time, he had patience. this conversation—it was for you. you were the one desperate to make sense of it. to understand his motives. to justify the insanity of it all.

but how were you supposed to justify something that made no sense?

he’s twenty-seven. handsome. polished. wealthy. he could have anyone—literally anyone. girls younger than you, brighter than you, women who weren’t crawling toward their thirties with a fading list of half-achieved dreams and a fridge full of takeout leftovers. why you?

a mid-level employee in a department no one paid much attention to. someone who had to fight tooth and nail just to be noticed in board meetings. someone who had accomplishments but no one to toast with. someone who fell asleep most nights with their phone face-down and on silent because no one was texting anyway.

why you?

you didn’t have an answer.

you finished your tasks—barely—and the moment the clock hit the end of your shift, you shut your computer down with shaky fingers and grabbed your bag. your steps felt heavy, reluctant, as you made your way through the hall toward the entrance. part of you wanted to bolt, to pretend nothing had ever been said, to go home and crawl into bed and put on a show you wouldn’t really watch. to sleep off the confusion like a bad hangover.

but the doors opened before you could entertain the thought. those clean, automatic glass doors slid apart with a hiss, and there he was.

leaning casually against one of the white pillars just outside, his suit jacket draped neatly over his forearm, his other hand gripping his sleek black briefcase like it weighed nothing. he looked like something out of a commercial—well-dressed, composed, the perfect image of success. but when his eyes met yours, something flickered beneath the surface. maybe restraint. maybe tension. maybe nothing.

he walked toward you calmly, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the smooth tile.

“get in the car,” he said, voice even. “we’re going to talk. like you wanted.”

not a question. not a request.

he turned without waiting for your answer and made his way to a parked luxury sedan—shiny, deep black, windows tinted so dark you could barely see the interior. he opened the passenger door for you, as if the conversation that waited inside was just another part of his routine.

you hesitated, only for a second.

but then you followed.

because no matter how messy your thoughts were, no matter how terrified or confused or unworthy you felt, one truth cut through the noise:

you wanted to know.

you slid into the passenger seat, trying to calm the way your heart was sprinting inside your chest. the door closed beside you with a quiet thunk, sealing you into a space you weren’t sure you were ready for.

he walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, smooth and unhurried.

you stared straight ahead.

ready—or not—to finally ask the questions that wouldn’t leave you alone.

the silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. not exactly. but it was dense—like fog inside your chest, heavy and silent and there to stay.

you stared out the window as the city drifted past, familiar buildings made foreign by the storm in your head. beside you, jaehyun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. there was music playing—low, jazzy, old—but he didn’t speak. not until you passed a traffic light and he tilted his head, casually.

“did you get enough sleep last night?” he asked, like he was commenting on the weather.

you didn’t look at him. “not really.”

“figured,” he said, turning smoothly into another avenue. “you looked like hell.”

you gave a humorless chuckle, resting your elbow against the door and propping your chin in your hand. “thanks for the compliment, sir.”

“anytime,” he said dryly.

and that was it. that was all the small talk he offered. nothing personal. nothing intimate. just an acknowledgment that he saw you. that he’d noticed.

the drive was short, and before you could make sense of anything, you were already parking in front of a modest little korean restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. it smelled like steam, garlic, and simmered bone broth. a place where people went for real food and no-frills comfort.

“this place has the best gomguk in the city,” jaehyun said, grabbing his briefcase from the back. “been coming here since i was a teenager.”

you hesitated at the door. “you like bone soup?”

“love it.”

you wrinkled your nose. “i can’t stand that stuff. never could. not even as a kid.”

he paused mid-step and gave you a look, slightly amused. “well,” he said, “there’s our first disagreement as a couple.”

you blinked at him, caught off guard. “what?”

“now i know you don’t like gomguk. guess i’ll have to avoid cooking it for you.”

you said nothing.

because he wasn’t joking. not really. not entirely. and that was the part that made your mouth dry.

how could he say things like that so easily? so naturally? as if you hadn’t spent the entire day unraveling at the seams while he strutted through the office like nothing had happened?

he sat across from you at the table, unbothered, scanning the menu like it wasn’t even necessary. he already knew what he wanted. meanwhile, you still didn’t know why you were there.

you picked something else. kimchi jjigae, maybe—safe, familiar, strong enough to mask the taste of your confusion.

once the server took your orders and disappeared behind the curtain, you leaned forward, folding your hands together to stop them from trembling.

“why me?”

his eyes lifted slowly from the empty table to your face. “there’s no reason,” he said. “i just want to give you what you want.”

“do you say that to all women?”

he smirked. “if i did, i’d probably be married to half the city by now.”

you shook your head. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“don’t treat this like a mission,” you snapped, trying not to raise your voice. “i don’t need your pity. i shared something vulnerable with you, yeah. but that doesn’t mean you have to swoop in and rescue me from a miserable life of solitude by offering a ring. this isn’t some fairytale. i don’t need a man to save me.”

“i never said you did.”

you exhaled slowly. “i want to love and be loved. to build something. something real. not this... whatever this is. a contract. a deal. a deadline to escape loneliness.”

his expression didn’t shift. not a single flicker. but his voice softened.

“then let’s say this. if in seven months, you still haven’t found someone—someone who makes you feel like you can build something... try it with me.”

you stared at him. hard. trying to read every intention in the lines of his face.

“just like that?”

“just like that.”

you couldn’t look away.

and then he said it. the words that settled into the cracks of your resolve like warm rain after a drought.

“we can love. i can love you. you can love me, if you want to. if you want to date, we can date. you don’t have to feel pressured. i just think... you’re worth the risk. and i don’t think you should torture yourself every day that passes just because you haven’t ‘settled down.’ opportunities don’t always come twice. sometimes you have to grab them while they’re here. or regret it forever.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

you looked at him then—not as the cold, polished man who walked the halls like a ghost in tailored suits. not as your boss. not as someone who confused and overwhelmed you.

you saw him as a man.

a man who knew what he wanted. who wasn’t afraid to take action. who looked you in the eye and offered you something you weren’t even sure you deserved.

his jawline. his eyes. the little wrinkle between his brows when he got serious. the calm way he listened. the confidence. the clarity.

you saw him differently.

you weren’t ready to give him an answer. not yet.

but something inside you had shifted.

you just didn’t know what to call it.

he didn’t rush you.

he didn’t push.

he just sat there across from you in that tiny booth, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened, waiting with the kind of quiet confidence that only made your heart beat louder. he stirred his soup gently, letting it cool, occasionally taking a sip without ever looking away from you for too long.

and then he said it—casually, as if proposing something as simple as lunch next week.

“let’s do this. i’ll pick you up after work from now on. we’ll go out. have dinner. spend time together. see what happens. let it unfold naturally.”

just like that.

your breath caught. “i… i have doubts,” you admitted, almost in a whisper. “i don’t know what to say. i don’t know what to feel. this is all so sudden, so... fast.”

he nodded, unbothered. “that’s okay.”

you blinked. “that’s okay?”

“yes. it’s not a race. but you heard what i said—opportunities don’t always knock twice. you don’t have to say yes right now. just think about it.”

but you were thinking. too much.

his voice played on repeat in your mind: we can love. i can love you. you can love me. and god, wasn’t that the exact thing you’d been terrified of never having?

your fingers trembled under the table. your palms clammy, your mouth dry. you rubbed your hands together slowly, grounding yourself in that simple motion, trying to breathe.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t ask again. just kept sipping his soup, patient as stone, like he’d already accepted whatever answer you’d give him.

you stared at your food, at the steam rising, the way the aroma filled the space between you and him like something sacred. you still couldn’t stand bone soup. but somehow, being across from him made it smell less... offensive. less like something to run from.

and you remembered.

all those nights crying in silence.

all those mornings brushing your teeth with tears stuck in your throat because you didn’t know if ever would come.

ever finding someone.

ever being enough.

ever being loved without begging for it.

maybe he wasn’t what you imagined.

maybe he was better.

you looked up at him.

“okay,” you said, softly. then stronger. “okay. i’ll try. i’ll let you pick me up. we’ll go on these dates. maybe… maybe i can love you. maybe i can let myself be loved by you.”

he paused mid-sip, eyes lifting.

your voice cracked slightly when you added, “maybe i can stay with you.”

for a beat, the world went still.

he didn’t smile wide. didn’t gloat or tease.

he just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. his eyes warm, deep, but controlled—like someone who’d been expecting this moment and didn’t want to scare it off.

“good,” he said. “that’s all i needed.”

you swallowed hard.

and for the first time since that strange proposal, something in your chest loosened.

you weren’t sure if this was love.

but it was a beginning.

the next morning. everything is different.

you walk into the building like you own the damn place—heels sharp, suit immaculate, makeup clean and fierce, ponytail slicked high like a crown. the memory of yesterday—your stumble, your throbbing head, your wandering thoughts—now felt like a distant, irrelevant dream. that wasn’t you. this was.

a woman who knew what she wanted.

a woman who said yes.

you smiled to yourself in the elevator. not just any smile—that kind. the kind that curled at the corners, the kind that held secrets, the kind that felt like sin dressed in silk. the kind that belonged to someone with a man waiting outside a restaurant, ordering bone broth, and talking about love like it was something simple. doable. inevitable.

you were early. again. not by accident this time, but by choice.

you slid into your desk, organized, efficient, present. the hum of the office hadn’t started yet, and you took advantage of the calm, catching up on reports and scheduling the week like the good girl you were trained to be. but this time, it was different. you weren’t surviving the day. you were anticipating it.

and then—at exactly the hour—he walked in.

jung jaehyun.

same black suit. same silver watch. same air of cool detachment.

but today, when he passed by your desk and muttered his usual, “good morning,” you didn’t just nod like before.

you stood up—too fast.

too happy.

“good morning, mr. jeong!” you sang, voice lilting and almost musical, like you’d just won the lottery.

it was instinctual. not calculated. just... you.

the entire floor stopped.

heads turned.

some eyebrows shot up. a few eyes narrowed.

jaehyun himself halted in his tracks, looking back at you slowly, his brows drawn together in the tiniest frown. he cleared his throat.

“everyone, back to work,” he said, voice firm. and then, after one last look—eyes narrowed at you in something between confusion and amusement—he turned and walked away.

you bit your lip so hard it almost hurt, barely suppressing the giggle building in your throat.

the memory of last night echoed in your mind, maybe i can love you, maybe i can stay with you—and now here you were, trying not to beam like a teenager with a crush. you watched his back disappear into his office, and your lips curled up, despite yourself.

you could still feel his eyes on you. even if he wasn’t looking.

after work, you waited by the entrance as the glass doors slid open.

he was already there—like he promised. leaning casually against his car, black coat folded over one arm, briefcase in hand, gaze scanning the horizon like the perfect ceo out of a drama. but as soon as his eyes met yours, they softened—barely, subtly—but you noticed.

“get in,” he said, opening the passenger door for you.

you slipped in without protest, heart beating faster than it had any right to.

once the car pulled away from the curb, the silence settled—but it didn’t last long.

“you can’t do that,” he said, not harshly, just... firm.

“do what?” you asked, knowing damn well.

“greet me like that. like that.” he glanced at you sideways. “at work.”

you shrugged. “what? we’re dating now. aren’t we?”

“we’re seeing where this goes,” he corrected. “but we still have to be professional. people talk. your position can be affected. and mine—”

you cut in, not harshly but with a certain fire. “i’m not going to apologize for being happy.”

“i’m not asking you to apologize.”

“then don’t ask me to pretend. i’ll dial it down, sure. but i’m not going to act like you don’t mean something to me when we’re under the same roof eight hours a day.”

he stayed quiet for a beat, tapping the wheel with one hand, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“is this how you are with all your boyfriends?”

you grinned. “i’m worse.”

he laughed. actually laughed. that deep, velvet sound you hadn’t heard much outside of formalities.

“well, i’ll brace myself,” he said. “i might enjoy it.”

you turned to the window, hiding your smile. this was really happening.

the drive back was quiet at first—a comfortable silence that didn’t demand immediate conversation. the kind of quiet that says: you don’t need to perform, just exist here with me.

the radio was on. a soft playlist of english ballads played in the background—songs about longing, beginnings, maybe even second chances. you doubted jaehyun picked them himself. it was probably just the algorithm. still, the timing felt so precise… so intentional, that you wondered if the universe was helping him out tonight.

you played with your fingers over your thighs, crossing and uncrossing your legs slowly, watching the night pass outside the window. city lights in the distance. trees swaying softly in the wind. you tried to guess where he was taking you next, but the truth was… you didn’t really care.

not knowing was part of the charm.

“where are we going?” you finally asked, unable to resist the curiosity.

he smiled without turning to look at you, eyes steady on the road ahead.

“it’s a secret,” he said. “you’ll have to wait and see.”

you squinted at him with mock suspicion, amused—and yet, inside, your heart started to thump a little faster with every mile.

there was something strangely beautiful about not being in control this time. about letting yourself be taken somewhere, not out of submission, but out of trust. you weren’t used to that. you weren’t used to letting anyone drive. but tonight, you wanted to believe you could lean back and just... be.

and then… the car turned down a dark, barely lit road, and you saw it.

a wide, open lot. a giant projector screen glowing at the far end. dozens of cars parked in neat rows, some with trunks open, fairy lights, blankets, snacks. couples curled together under the stars.

it was a drive-in movie. like something out of an old romance film.

you gasped, both hands flying to your mouth as you turned to him.

“oh my god. no way. are you serious?! i love the movies—but i've never done this. i’ve always wanted to, but… i don’t know. it just never happened.”

jaehyun glanced at you sideways. and this time, he smiled. really smiled. not the polite, composed smile he wore in the hallways or meetings—but something warm. something real.

“then it was a good idea,” he said simply.

he parked in the middle row. good view of the screen, but far enough for privacy. you were already melting—and then he popped the trunk.

a thick blanket. two small pillows. a tote bag with snacks—popcorn, a big soda bottle, even the exact chocolate bars you’d once said you liked during a random, probably drunk, late-night conversation. you didn’t even remember mentioning it.

he did.

“did you plan all of this?” you asked, curled slightly sideways in the passenger seat while he arranged everything with care between you.

“i just wanted you to be comfortable,” he said. “i wanted it to be... special.”

no posturing. no hidden motive. just sincerity. you felt it in the way he unfolded the blanket and draped it gently over your lap. in how he checked the window—cracked just enough to let in the breeze, not enough to let in the cold. In how he handed you the soda first, before even opening his own drink.

the movie started. some lighthearted rom-com with ridiculous dialogue and cheesy plot points, but it didn’t matter. it was perfect. low-stakes. no pressure. you curled your legs under you, blanket snug, the flickering light from the screen dancing across your skin.

every once in a while, you’d glance at jaehyun. and more than once, you caught him watching you instead of the film.

“are you bored?” you whispered.

“not even close.”

“you haven’t laughed once.”

he turned to you, that sarcastic little smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“you’re already making enough noise for the both of us.”

you gave him a playful slap on the arm, pretending to be offended.

“that was a compliment,” he added, amused.

you rolled your eyes—but smiled. god, you smiled so much that night.

as the credits rolled, something shifted in the silence. the mood thickened—not heavy, just… deeper. weighted with something. a moment hanging on the edge of change. your head leaned against the window as the screen dimmed, your eyes distant but your heart so very full.

he still didn’t touch you.

he didn’t grab your hand. didn’t lean in.

but his presence wrapped around you all the same—solid, patient, waiting. not pushing, just there. learning how to be near you without demanding anything in return.

“thank you,” you said softly, voice almost too quiet to hear. “for this. for everything.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“yes, i do. it’s not every day someone goes out of their way like this.”

he paused before answering. his tone was steady, but low.

“i want this to work,” he said. “and if that means planning teenage-level dates with blankets and popcorn, then… yeah. i’ll do that.”

you laughed, eyes dropping to your lap.

“you’re doing well so far.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

and then you looked at each other. just looked. no words needed.

but inside… you felt it.

your shoulders, usually tense, were light. your heart, bruised and cautious for so long, was opening again. quietly, but surely. as if whispering, i’m still here. i still want to believe.

you weren’t sure where this would go. if it would last. if it would end in tears or something worse.

but right now, in his car, under the stars, with the last notes of the film still echoing through your skin…

you wanted to find out.

you wanted to try.

the next morning at the office felt different—less chaotic, more grounded. you greeted the receptionist with a small smile, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor as you made your way in, clutching your coffee cup like a security blanket. you weren't glowing, exactly, but something about you was… softer. less guarded. like a petal finally relaxing in the warmth of spring after a too-long winter.

jaehyun noticed immediately.

you caught him watching you from the glass-walled conference room as you entered the bullpen. he didn't stare, not in a way that would make it obvious to others—but his eyes followed you, just long enough to clock the change. your navy blue pencil skirt hugged your hips, the slit in the back offering just the right amount of grace as you walked. the cream blouse you wore was modest but elegant, the top button left undone, showing the delicate line of your collarbone. your hair was half-up, your makeup minimal, professional—but the gloss on your lips and the quiet shimmer on your eyelids betrayed a whisper of mischief. not overt. just enough for someone paying attention.

you met his gaze briefly through the glass and raised your brows in a silent hello before looking away, sipping your coffee with forced nonchalance.

by the time you crossed paths an hour later—both of you heading into a smaller briefing room—he gave you that look again. the one that asked, really? amused, but faintly disbelieving.

"good morning, mr. jeong," you greeted him politely, eyes straight ahead as if you hadn't spent the last night wrapped in his blanket, watching a movie with your legs tangled under it.

"miss y/l/n," he replied, his lips curving into a knowing smile as he held the door open for you. “very formal today.”

you didn’t rise to the bait. just gave him a brief, professional smile and walked past, heels clicking, not looking back. you were committed to the bit.

the meeting was brief, technical—a review of deliverables, some feedback loops, nothing out of the ordinary. you contributed where you needed to, kept your tone measured, avoided lingering glances. even when he made a rare joke and the room chuckled, you only allowed yourself a small, polite laugh, hands folded neatly on the table.

he didn’t push. but when you passed each other near the coffee station later, his voice dropped low, just enough for you to hear.

“you’re really leaning into the whole executive assistant with boundaries thing, huh?”

you smirked as you refilled your mug, still not looking at him. “just trying to keep things professional, mr. jeong.”

“of course.” he nodded once, pretending to adjust his tie. “wouldn’t want to cross any lines.”

you bit your lip to suppress your grin. the game was on.

at 3:47 PM, your phone lit up with a text from his office number: meeting with the department heads in fifteen. boardroom. don’t be late. signed J.J.

you rolled your eyes but your stomach did a little flip.

the 4 PM meeting dragged—there was a lot of back and forth over campaign numbers and rollout schedules, but you held your own, taking notes, speaking clearly when your insight was needed. you could feel jaehyun watching you when others weren’t—his gaze warm, grounding—but he didn’t speak to you directly unless it was related to the discussion. you appreciated that. It let you stay in control, let you breathe.

after everyone had trickled out and the room was quiet, you stayed behind a moment, closing your laptop and straightening the chairs without a word. he didn’t move from his seat at the head of the table, just watched you as you moved, his fingers idly spinning a pen.

“dinner?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence.

you didn’t look up right away. “are you asking as mr. jeong or...?”

he tilted his head, eyes playful. “just jaehyun.”

you looked up, meeting his eyes. something flickered between you—recognition. of the past few days, the softness in your chest, the way your shoulders had finally stopped bracing for disappointment.

“okay,” you said quietly. “dinner.”

he didn’t take you to a fancy restaurant or anywhere showy. just a quiet little rooftop place downtown, dim lights and mellow music, open air and the sound of the city below. you sat across from him at a small table, knees brushing under the surface. you shared dishes, laughed softly, talked about nothing and everything. he asked about your childhood; you asked about his first heartbreak. there was no rush to get anywhere. just being there—together—was enough.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you with that open expression he reserved for moments like this—unguarded, gently curious.

“you said you grew up outside the city,” he said, casually swirling the remnants of his drink. “what about your parents?”

you set your fork down and rested your elbows lightly on the table, exhaling. “they still live in the same town. a couple hours from here.”

he nodded. “siblings?”

“one,” you replied. “older brother. married. two little boys.”

jaehyun smiled at that. “you’re the cool aunt.”

you laughed softly, the sound bittersweet. “i try. i send them stickers and weird snacks from the city. but i think i’m mostly the mysterious aunt who lives alone in seoul and doesn’t have a husband, which is a major point of concern for my parents.”

jaehyun raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “concern?”

“oh, huge.” you leaned back, crossing your arms with a mock-serious nod. “they think i’m one heartbreak away from crawling back into my childhood bedroom with a suitcase and giving up entirely. i get the same call every weekend—‘have you met someone yet?’ and ‘when are you coming home, sweetheart?’ like my single status is a national emergency.”

you smiled, tried to make it sound light. funny. but the knot in your chest tugged a little tighter with each word. because underneath the teasing tone, it hurt. the weight of expectation, of having let them down without really meaning to. you’d always thought, by now, you’d have that picture-perfect family. a husband. maybe a child. but life had taken its own sharp turns, and somewhere along the way, you'd lost the map.

before your thoughts could spiral too far inward, you turned your eyes toward him and asked, “what about you? any siblings?”

he shook his head. “only child.”

“wow. that explains the drama,” you teased.

he grinned, playing along. “what drama?”

you shrugged, playful. “the perfectly tousled hair. the quiet confidence. the whole mysterious boss with a tragic past vibe.”

jaehyun laughed, the sound low and warm. “nothing tragic, thankfully. my parents own a condo complex back in busan. they keep to themselves. ever since i moved out, they’ve stayed out of my decisions. no guilt trips. no blind dates.”

he smirked a little, taking another sip. “which is great for me.”

you smiled at that, but there was something about the way he said it—casual, yes, but laced with a kind of loneliness you recognized. the kind that came with being left alone a little too much. with being successful but still carrying a shadow no one quite asked about.

you watched him for a second longer than necessary. then nodded slowly. “that does sound kind of great.”

he looked at you then, really looked, and the silence between you shifted—deeper now. heavy with things not said.

the city hummed around you. glasses clinked from other tables. somewhere, a violinist was playing faintly near the street below. but you only heard the soft cadence of his breath, the way it matched your own.

and then he stood and offered you his hand.

you didn’t hesitate this time. you let him lead you to the edge of the rooftop, where the view was clearer, the air colder. your arms brushed as you looked out together, shoulder to shoulder, warm skin against cool wind.

he turned to you first, eyes darker now, thoughtful. “you don’t need to rush anything. marriage, or whatever they want from you. you’re… okay. just as you are.”

you looked at him slowly, your heart caught somewhere between gratitude and ache. “thanks,” you whispered. “sometimes i forget.”

he stepped closer—barely—but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

you met his gaze, and something shifted between you again. tighter. stronger. the kind of tension that doesn’t demand to be broken, only… felt.

he leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t.

your lips met his softly, a single, tentative kiss that carried the full weight of everything left unspoken. sweet, searching, the kind of kiss that says i see you. that says stay.

and when you pulled back, your eyes didn’t dart away.

they lingered.

because something had begun. and neither of you was pretending anymore.

there was no big speech. no sudden declarations.

just the quiet gravity of this moment. the closeness. the way his eyes searched yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

april melted into may in soft, golden increments—like a candle burning slow at both ends. the weather grew gentler, the evenings warmer, and with each passing day, your relationship with jaehyun unraveled in small, tender pieces that neither of you rushed to name.

you had more dinners together. nothing extravagant—he wasn’t the kind to impress with grand gestures—but always thoughtful. ramen tucked away in a quiet corner shop with mismatched stools. a spontaneous detour after a work meeting that led to an art gallery’s closing hour. coffee at a tiny cafe with mismatched mugs and jazz playing softly from a dusty speaker. with every outing, something softened between you. the way you spoke to each other, the way you lingered a second longer when saying goodbye, the way your eyes found his in a crowded room and stayed there.

still, at work, everything remained perfectly composed. restrained. you never touched, never called him anything but mr. jeong. no one suspected a thing—and that secrecy gave it all the thrill of something sacred. childish almost. like passing notes under a desk. a shared joke disguised in a spreadsheet. your fingers grazing when you exchanged documents. a glance too long in the breakroom when he poured your coffee before you even asked. you could feel it in the air, that charged silence of two people pretending to be just colleagues, and failing quietly, deliciously.

the project itself was moving well—smooth timelines, promising data. it gave you an excuse to spend more time in his office, laptop open across from his, sometimes both of you too focused to speak for long stretches. sometimes one of you talking while the other typed, nodding with half-listening affection. sometimes, on the slow days, the lines between work and personal conversation blurred gently, like ink on damp paper.

today was one of those days.

you sat across from him, legs crossed under the conference table, scrolling through performance reports while he adjusted a chart on his screen. outside the windows, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting pale lines across the carpet and the sleeves of his shirt. he leaned back, stretching slightly, then caught your gaze with a small smile.

“so…” he said, voice lower than usual, “what are you doing this weekend?”

you glanced up, biting your lip to hide a smile. “why? do you need me to run more numbers?”

“maybe,” he said, teasing. “but i was thinking something less tragic. maybe the museum? or that poetry cafe you mentioned.”

you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “depends. are you asking as mr. jeong or as… jaehyun?”

he smirked, eyes playful. “i guess that depends on your answer.”

you were about to respond when the door opened without a knock. both of you sat up straighter instinctively, like students caught passing notes. the supervisor from the analytics division stepped in, scanning the room with barely concealed curiosity.

“mr. jeong,” he said, tone clipped, “the director wants to see you.”

jaehyun stood immediately, buttoning his jacket with an easy nod. “i’ll be there in a moment.”

the supervisor looked at you then. his eyes lingered—not long, but long enough. something unreadable passed over his face. “you’ve been spending a lot of time here,” he said, like it wasn’t a question.

you gave him your most neutral smile. “just supporting the project. we’re on a tight schedule.”

“mm.” he said nothing more, just nodded once and stepped out.

jaehyun glanced at you before leaving, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe. or quiet warning. you went back to your laptop, fingers pretending to type while your heart tried to calm its sudden gallop.

the evening found you both in his car again. the sun had already begun its descent, turning the sky a soft shade of apricot. you slid into the passenger seat, closed the door behind you, and without thinking too much, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

his skin was warm under your lips.

he blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a second, he forgot to hide it. the tips of his ears flushed red. he cleared his throat and reached for the ignition, like nothing happened, but his smile lingered, crooked and faint.

“you keep doing that,” he murmured, not looking at you.

“doing what?” you asked innocently.

he shook his head, eyes on the road. “making it hard to pretend we’re not dating.”

you grinned and didn’t answer.

he drove you to the han river, where the breeze was cool and kind, and the crowds were light enough to feel private. you sat cross-legged on the grass, sharing tteokbokki and fried dumplings from paper trays, watching cyclists blur past under the lamplights. a small speaker nearby played an old ballad, sweet and melancholic, and you leaned into his shoulder without needing permission.

“i like this,” you said softly.

“what part?” he asked.

“this part. where everything’s… quiet.”

he didn’t speak immediately. just reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“me too.”

you looked at him, really looked—and it hit you in that moment how far you’d come. from formal greetings and polite distance to soft laughter and shared silence. from stolen glances to kisses on the cheek that left him blushing.

and somehow, without realizing it, you’d stopped keeping count of how many times you thought about him during the day. because now he was part of your days.

and you didn’t want to imagine them without him anymore.

june arrived with a subtle shift in rhythm—projects moved faster, deadlines drew closer, and the sun stayed longer in the sky. the office felt heavier in the afternoons, warm with late spring air and the quiet hum of new beginnings.

one of those beginnings came in the form of kim jungwoo.

he was transferred from the incheon branch—a bright-eyed analyst with quick wit and a laugh that filled corners. you were told he'd be supporting the data team, and since your department handled most of the projections, he was placed right in front of your desk, where your eyes met every time you looked up. your first impression of him was that he was disarmingly charming—too friendly, too easygoing for the stiff, quiet culture of the office—but undeniably efficient. he asked questions that made sense, learned fast, and had a way of easing tension with a joke delivered just under his breath.

you kept things professional, as always. showed him how you sorted the quarterly metrics, how to navigate the company’s outdated database system without crashing it, how to color-code your sheets for easier reading. he listened, smiled, nodded. and eventually, he joked. made you laugh when you’d been staring at the same budget chart for hours. brought you coffee with your name scribbled on the lid in dramatic calligraphy. sometimes too much, sometimes exactly what you needed.

you liked him. platonically. comfortably. it was easy to like jungwoo.

but jaehyun noticed. of course he did.

at first, it was subtle. he’d call you into his office more frequently, asking for reports he usually didn’t request until later in the week. you didn’t think much of it—until you realized he was keeping you in there for hours. even when the topic had already run dry, even when both of you were silently pretending to still be discussing something relevant. you’d glance at your watch, mumble about needing to check on jungwoo’s progress, and jaehyun would give you this look—tight-lipped, unreadable, almost irritated.

the third time it happened, you couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“are you seriously going to keep me hostage in your office every time jungwoo asks me a question?” you asked, laptop balanced on your knees, arms crossed.

jaehyun didn’t answer right away. he leaned back in his chair, one hand draped lazily over the armrest, watching you. but there was tension under his cool expression, the kind that coiled in his jaw.

“you’re my girlfriend” he said, voice low, measured. “even if we have to act like colleagues in this building, you’re not just anyone to me.”

your breath caught. not because of what he said—because of the way he said it. with that sharp, quiet certainty, like it wasn’t up for debate.

“you’re jealous,” you muttered, trying to smile, to turn it into something lighter.

“of course i’m jealous,” he said, leaning forward. “he’s new, he’s charming, and he’s looking at you like he already knows what you taste like.”

your face flushed.

you looked away, but only for a second.

because when you met his eyes again, he stood.

in two strides he was in front of you, taking the laptop gently from your knees and setting it on the coffee table without a word. then he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you—deep, slow, and hungry. there was nothing tentative about it. it wasn’t sweet or shy. it was possession, poured soft and molten through the shape of his mouth on yours. you sighed into it, hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulse thudding in your throat.

he pulled away just enough to speak, voice rough. “don’t tease me about this.”

you nodded, breathless. “okay.”

and then he kissed you again.

the kiss tasted like all the things you weren’t allowed to say out loud. frustration. longing. the ache of pretending, day after day, that you were only what the world let you be. his thumb stroked your jaw as his mouth opened against yours, deeper now, slower. you felt your knees weaken and your thoughts scatter, all logic melting into the heat of the moment.

that night, like every night since the start of your secret, you met him outside the office. his car waited at the edge of the lot, tinted windows and the soft thump of quiet music playing through the speakers. you slid into the passenger seat, your heart already dancing.

this time, he didn’t say hello.

he reached over and kissed you—harder than before, lips parting yours in a way that made your body sing. the car wasn’t moving. neither of you were thinking. you kissed like it was all you knew how to do. mouths hungry, breath shallow, his hand tracing the edge of your thigh just enough to make you gasp. every time you pulled away for air, he followed. every time he groaned into your kiss, you shivered.

he never rushed.

never crossed that line you hadn’t yet spoken about.

but you felt how close it hovered. just under the skin.

and as your lips brushed his one last time before pulling back, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “i like it when you get jealous.”

his smile was crooked. dangerous.

“you better not like it too much,” he said, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, “because next time… i might not let you leave so easily.”

thursday crept in quietly, with no big plans or messages of anticipation. the city, usually loud and hungry for excitement, felt unusually tame that week—like it had spent itself on too many events, too many evenings out, too many people chasing novelty in crowded cafés and rooftop bars. maybe it was just you, though. maybe everything had started to feel dull because your world had shifted to revolve around something—someone—entirely new. and nothing outside of that circle could compare anymore.

you barely spent time in your apartment lately. always out. always in his car, in places that weren’t quite home but felt more real because he was there. so on that afternoon, with your head tilted against the cold surface of your desk and your brain spinning from spreadsheets, you blurted it out between quiet keyboard taps.

“don’t make any plans tomorrow night.”

jaehyun glanced at you from across his office, pen in hand, eyebrows drawn. “should i be worried?”

you smiled without looking up. “you’re staying over. the weekend. at my place.”

the pause was heavy. not uncomfortable, but... loaded. you didn’t dare lift your head until he spoke.

“wait—what?”

and there it was. you looked at him finally, biting your bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. he looked stunned. genuinely caught off guard.

“you heard me. pack a bag. pajamas. toothbrush. snacks. i don’t know. whatever you need to survive two days with me.”

his face went red. a deep, rich pink that spread across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. you laughed. he was thinking things.

“ya, what were you imagining?” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him with a smirk.

“nothing!” he defended too fast. “i just... i didn’t expect we’d be spending the weekend... alone like that. it’s not a bad thing. i like it. i like the idea. i just—i mean, we’ve been doing great. this relationship. it feels good. real. and... if it keeps going like this, who knows—maybe one day we’ll get married.”

you froze.

he didn’t say it as a joke. it was quiet. casual. but he meant it.

married.

you hadn’t thought about that in weeks. you’d been so swept up in the rush of the new—new glances, new kisses, new secret dates and stolen evenings. but that word made your heart skip, stumble, leap. it opened a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

married to jeong jaehyun. walking down an aisle. your coworkers gasping. your parents trying to stay calm. him lifting your veil. kissing you like it was the beginning of forever. sunday mornings with kids and cartoons and coffee. vacations. shared bookshelves. him waiting at the door when you got home.

you shook the image out of your head.

“you can’t just say things like that,” you whispered, barely breathing.

“why not?” he asked softly, his eyes sincere. “it’s where we’re going, right?”

friday night came like a slow exhale.

he arrived with a small black duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a sheepish grin. you wore mismatched pajamas—striped pants and a faded hoodie from a school club you barely remembered joining. the sight of you like that made him laugh, and the sound was so unguarded it made your chest ache with affection.

you stayed in. ordered too much food. picked a cheesy rom-com that made you cry halfway through. he kept making sarcastic comments at first, trying to pretend he didn’t care, until somewhere in the middle he got quiet. his hand found yours under the blanket, warm and steady. when the credits rolled, your head was on his shoulder and your eyes were puffy.

“i hate that you made me cry,” you sniffled, wiping your face.

“i didn’t make you cry. blame julia roberts,” he said, kissing the top of your head.

the rest of the night blurred. an improvised dinner of instant noodles and wine, soft music from your phone speaker, him dancing stupidly in the kitchen with a wooden spoon, trying to make you laugh. and you did. hard. the kind of laugh that made you forget to be careful.

when it got late, and the lights dimmed, the kisses came back. slow. long. searching. his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, breathing each other in like you were afraid to stop. the heat built, like always, but neither of you pushed further. it wasn’t time. not yet. but god, it was close.

saturday was lazy and warm and beautiful.

you woke up tangled in the blankets, his arm draped over your stomach, his breath soft against your neck. the kind of morning you never thought you’d get to have—where nothing was urgent, and everything felt right.

you took turns in the shower, argued over who finished the milk, and spent an hour sitting on the floor flipping through old photo albums you’d forgotten you had. you didn’t plan to show him—but he insisted. and once he started looking, he didn’t stop.

“wait... this is you in high school?” he asked, pointing at a photo.

“yeah,” you said, embarrassed. “why?”

“you were so cute.”

you rolled your eyes. “i wasn’t popular or anything. i had one boyfriend. lasted a week.”

he stared. “a week?”

“he said i was too uptight and boring.”

jaehyun’s mouth dropped open. “that guy was an idiot.”

you laughed. “no, he was probably right. i’ve always been... structured. controlled. even back then. guess that’s why i’m like this now—such a workaholic.”

he didn’t laugh. instead, he kept looking at your photo—finger brushing over the glossy paper like it meant something.

“if i had met you back then,” he said quietly, “i would’ve fallen in love with you. no doubt.”

your breath caught.

he didn’t look away. “i wouldn’t have let you go. not for a second.”

“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, unsure what else to say.

“i do,” he said, firm. “you’re not boring. you’re brilliant. you’re thoughtful. you see things no one else sees. you work harder than anyone i know. and... you make me want to be better.”

tears pricked your eyes again. not from sadness. just—too much emotion. too much truth.

“you’re going to make me cry again,” you whispered.

“then cry,” he said, pulling you close. “but only if you let me hold you through it.”

the rest of the weekend passed like a dream.

grocery runs in sweatpants. a half-burnt attempt at making pancakes. arguments over which playlist was better for cleaning the kitchen. you wore ridiculous socks with cartoons on them. he made fun of you until you found his even worse ones.

you kissed between chores. kissed while brushing your teeth. kissed while folding laundry.

it wasn’t glamorous.

but it felt like home.

and when sunday night came, and he packed his bag again, you didn’t want him to go. not because of the sex, or the thrill, or the high of newness. but because somewhere between instant noodles and high school photos, you realized something terrifying and beautiful—

you were falling in love.

for real.

for the first time.

towards the end of the month, your phone rings. you’re in your apartment, folding laundry with the window cracked open to let in the soft breeze of early summer. the sunlight filters through sheer curtains, painting everything in golden hues. you glance at the caller id and feel a knot tighten in your stomach. mom.

you answer.

“it’s your father’s birthday this weekend,” she says, skipping greetings as always, her voice a mix of cheerful anticipation and subtle reprimand. “you should come visit. he’s been asking if we’ll see you.”

you agree, almost without thinking, but then comes the dreaded question.

“and? have you found a boyfriend yet or do i need to talk to mrs. lee again?”

you rub your temple. “mom—”

“her son is still single, you know. owns a good piece of land. sells vegetables to that big food corporation. you’d be set for life.”

you exhale deeply, eyes closing in frustration.

“i’m… i’m seeing someone.”

a pause. then her voice lights up like fireworks. “you are? oh, this is wonderful! finally, you’re not wasting away alone up there in that office job.”

“mom, we’ve just started seeing each other,” you say, hesitating. “it’s too soon to—”

“no,” she cuts in firmly. “you don’t have time to be unsure. the train is about to leave the station, sweetheart. you either get on or it’s gone. bring him. we want to meet him.”

before you can argue, the call ends with a clipped goodbye, and you’re left staring at your phone, pulse racing and chest tight.

the rest of the week, you feel like a ghost of yourself. distracted at work, distant on your dates with jaehyun, your mind spinning in loops. he notices immediately—of course he does—and it only takes one missed joke and a quiet dinner for him to call you out on it.

you’re sitting across from him, poking at your food. the restaurant is softly lit, cozy, but there’s a distance in your eyes.

“y/n,” he says, setting his chopsticks down. “what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you mutter, but he leans in.

“don’t give me that. we’re together now, remember? you can talk to me. or… if you’re second guessing this… if i’m moving too fast, just tell me. i can handle it.”

your heart aches at his words. you reach across the table, grabbing his hand.

“it’s not that. i’m not doubting us,” you say quietly. “it’s just… my mom called. she wants me to visit this weekend for my dad’s birthday. and she… kind of expects me to bring you.”

he blinks. then, without hesitation, he says, “okay. then i’ll come.”

you blink right back. “wait, seriously?”

“yes. if it means that much to them—and to you—I want to go. i want to meet your family, y/n. it feels right.”

your chest swells with something warm and terrifying. you nod, silently.

friday comes and your suitcase is zipped and ready by the door. you’re wearing a floral summer dress, light and breezy, with your favorite pair of nude heels that make your legs look longer than they are. your hair is pinned loosely, lip tint soft and rosy. there’s a nervous flutter in your chest when you step outside.

jaehyun is already waiting beside his car, leaning casually against it like he belongs in a photoshoot. he’s in cream linen pants and a sage green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open at the throat. his sunglasses reflect the afternoon sun, and he looks, frankly, too good to be standing in your quiet little street. you gulp.

“need help with those?” he says with a grin, reaching for your bags before you can answer.

the ride is filled with music, laughter, and long, thoughtful silences. the kind that don't feel awkward, but full. pregnant with meaning. he holds your hand on the highway, thumb stroking the back of it lazily, his warmth anchoring you through your nerves.

when you pull up to your parents' house—a modest home with stone finishings and a neat little front garden—your heart thunders. everything feels smaller, more fragile, like stepping back in time. your mom rushes out first, apron still tied around her waist, eyes wide and wet with excitement.

and when she sees jaehyun? she nearly cries. “you’re real,” she says, pressing her hands together like she’s witnessing a miracle. your dad comes out next, chuckling as he wipes his hands on a dish towel.

“so this is the young man,” he says with a knowing nod, clapping jaehyun on the back. “your mother hasn’t shut up about you since she found out.”

inside, the dining table is set with your dad’s favorite dishes. everything smells like memory. you sit in the living room afterward, your parents across from you, jaehyun beside you on the couch, close enough to feel his knee brushing yours.

he speaks up first, voice calm and clear.

“i just want to say that i’m very serious about your daughter,” he says. “i have genuine intentions. we’re still getting to know each other, but… if things keep going the way they are, i’d like to build a future with her.”

your mother gasps, reaching for a tissue. your father nods slowly, visibly moved.

“this… this is the best birthday gift i could ask for,” he says.

you shrink into the couch, cheeks burning, while jaehyun’s hand finds yours again and squeezes gently.

then comes the chaos.

your older brother, baekhyun, bursts through the door with his wife and two kids in tow. he takes one look at you and smirks.

“who’s the guy and what have you done with my perpetually single little sister?”

you groan. “shut up, baek.”

the two of you bicker like teenagers, tossing playful insults back and forth while your nephews cling to your legs, shouting your name with delight. you hand them the toys you brought and their eyes light up like it’s christmas.

jaehyun watches it all, amused, until one of the boys climbs into his lap and hands him a toy too.

he freezes.

and in that moment, something shifts in him. the sound of children’s laughter, the image of you with a soft smile, cradling one of your nephews in your arms. the warmth of this home, the love in every corner. he imagines it—having this with you. kids with your eyes. a house that’s yours. your framed wedding photo on the wall. vacations. birthdays. late-night talks in bed. wrinkles and silver hair, but still loving you with the same fire.

he blushes.

and you notice.

“what?” you whisper as you lean close.

he shakes his head, smiling to himself. “nothing. just… i really, really like this. all of it.”

the night unfolds gently. dinner turns into stories, stories into laughter, and soon the sun has long set and the house is lit with warm yellow lights. you and jaehyun sit outside for a moment, watching the stars.

he wraps an arm around you, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“you feel like home,” you whisper, not even realizing the words have slipped out.

he turns to look at you, eyes soft. “so do you.”

and in the quiet, with the cicadas singing and the echo of your family’s voices drifting from inside, you know.

this might just be the beginning of everything.

the month of july passed by with little to no complications. your parents were pleased with jaehyun, and you could tell that their approval meant the world to him. jungwoo, on the other hand, was playful and teasing, but with a newfound sense of respect, especially as jaehyun started to show more signs of being protective, making sure that jungwoo didn’t cross any boundaries. you were still professional with everyone at work, but the chemistry between you and jaehyun was undeniable. nights together were spent laughing, and weekends were filled with stolen moments of joy, where you both shared something more than just professional courtesy.

jaehyun had made a habit of calling you during the day, just to check on you, and you found yourself doing the same. the conversations were simple, but they felt important. visits to his office became more frequent, sometimes just for work, but other times, it was an excuse to sneak in a kiss or two. the passion between you two continued to build, a slow, steady fire that became increasingly hard to ignore.

one night, a wednesday, you both ignored the weather forecast and decided to take your date out in the city. the air was warm, and the lights of the city sparkled as you walked the streets together. the mood was light, but as midnight approached, the weather took a sharp turn. dark clouds rolled in, and soon, rain began to pour, turning into a violent storm. the wind howled, and the streets quickly flooded. jaehyun’s car struggled against the force of the water, and you couldn’t help but grip the seat, anxious.

jaehyun tried to keep calm, glancing at you with a reassuring smile. “it’s okay, nothing’s going to happen,” he said, though you could tell he was also feeling the weight of the storm.

the rain pounded against the windows, and the car barely moved as the currents began to grow stronger. after what felt like an eternity, you both agreed that waiting in the car wasn’t safe anymore. as you both discussed where to go, a motel appeared in front of you. it seemed like an odd choice, but the parking lot was dry, and there were few other options at that hour. both of you hesitated, unsure of what to do. it was a strange situation—neither of you wanted to suggest anything that could be misinterpreted.

jaehyun was the one to break the silence. “let’s just use the parking lot, at least we’ll have shelter from the rain,” he said. “and if it lasts all night, we’ll have a warm place to stay.”

you nodded, a little nervous. “yeah, i mean, we’re not going to do anything else, right? just sleep, then in the morning, we’ll head back to our places and go to work, right?”

jaehyun smiled at you, trying to ease your nerves. “of course, just a safe place to wait out the storm. no pressure.”

you both parked and got out of the car, a little stiff from the tension, but the moment you entered the motel, things started to feel different. jaehyun took the lead, making sure you were comfortable and settled in, giving you space to breathe. He didn’t rush you, always checking to see how you felt.

both of you were tired from the day, and the weather didn’t help the situation, so after some brief, awkward glances, you both decided to take separate showers to unwind. you both changed into something more comfortable, but since it was summer and it was warm, you decided to just sleep in your underwear. when you looked at jaehyun in his, the moment felt almost surreal. his gaze lingered for a moment before he quickly turned away, as if both of you were still trying to adjust to how close you had become.

“you know,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence, “you don’t have to feel awkward. we’re taking things at our own pace.”

you smiled, feeling your heartbeat quicken at the sound of his voice. “what if i want to go faster?” you said, your words surprising even yourself.

jaehyun looks at you, eyes widening slightly before they darken with something deeper—something he’s clearly been holding back. “are you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost trembling with restraint.

you nod, stepping closer, your fingers brushing against his bare chest. “i’m sure.”

his hands find your waist gently at first, testing the waters, but when you lean into him, he pulls you in like he’s been waiting forever to hold you like this. his lips find yours in a kiss that starts soft, exploratory, but quickly deepens, hungry and needing. he walks you backwards slowly until the back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp, taking him with you.

his hands roam your body, reverent and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. he whispers your name against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, and lower still. your breath hitches when his mouth lingers between your thighs, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for any sign to stop—but you nod again, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding him closer.

what he gives you isn’t rushed. it’s worship. like he’s been dreaming of this moment for too long to waste it. you lose yourself in the rhythm of his mouth, the way he listens to your body, adjusting, teasing, giving. he doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking and your voice is broken with moans you couldn’t hold back.

when he finally crawls back up your body, his lips kiss yours again, slower this time, tasting you. he whispers, “still okay?” and you nod, pulling him closer.

when he slides into you, it’s not hurried or careless. it’s deep, slow, and overwhelming in the best way. you cling to him, breathless, as your bodies move together like they were made to. he holds your gaze, foreheads pressed together, sweat-damp skin sticking in the summer heat, but neither of you care.

you whisper his name like a prayer, and he answers with yours, over and over, like he’s trying to brand it into the moment.

you fall apart in his arms, not once, but twice, and he follows soon after, burying his face in your neck as he trembles against you. 

his lips are still on yours when he pushes deeper inside you, and this time, there’s no hesitation. your body arches under him, the stretch of him delicious and overwhelming all at once. he fills you slowly, inch by inch, like he wants to feel every reaction he pulls from you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes out, forehead resting against yours. “been thinking about this for so long.”

you moan softly, nails dragging down his back as he starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips into you with precision that makes your legs tremble. he kisses down your throat, biting softly at your skin as he picks up the pace, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. the headboard taps gently against the wall, a quiet rhythm that matches the sound of your breathy moans and his soft, low groans.

your fingers clutch the sheets, the pleasure building with every thrust. jaehyun’s hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider for him, and the new angle has you gasping his name, your voice breaking. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—lost in the feel of you, the sounds you make, the way your body clings to his like it’s the only place it belongs.

he pulls out just enough to see the way you take him, watching your slick coat his length before sliding back in with a filthy, wet sound that makes your toes curl. “look at you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes locked on yours. “so fucking beautiful like this.”

when he shifts, propping one of your legs over his shoulder, the angle has you crying out, your whole body shuddering. “you’re so deep,” you whimper, and he groans, hips snapping faster, harder, chasing both your highs like a man starved.

your climax hits hard—white-hot and blinding—as your walls clamp down around him, dragging him over the edge with you. he cums with a strangled moan, burying himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to yours, breathing heavy, hearts pounding in sync.

after a few moments, he pulls out slowly, carefully, kissing your shoulder as he lies beside you and pulls you into his arms.

your body’s still trembling when he runs a hand down your spine, voice low and thick with affection. “think we’re still just sleeping?”

you laugh softly against his chest, lazy fingers tracing circles on his skin. “not a chance.”

he kisses the top of your head. “then let’s not sleep yet.”

and before you can even respond, he’s already kissing down your body again—because one round clearly wasn’t enough.

you barely have time to catch your breath before jaehyun’s mouth is back on your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your chest, between your breasts, over your stomach. his hands roam your thighs with greedy fingers, and even though you’re still sensitive, your body responds instantly—needy, aching, already ready for him again.

“you’re still so wet,” he murmurs, spreading you open with his fingers, dragging two of them slowly through your folds. “fuck, baby… you’re dripping.”

your hips jerk when he circles your clit, light and teasing, and you whine, fingers gripping the sheets. “j-jaehyun…”

he smirks, dark eyes meeting yours as he sinks his fingers into you—slow, deep, curling just right. “you can take it, can’t you?” he says, voice thick with lust. “you want it again.”

you nod helplessly, mouth parted as your back arches off the bed. he fucks you with his fingers until you’re trembling again, begging for him, grinding down onto his hand like you can’t get enough—and you can’t.

when he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up again, there’s no patience this time. he pushes in all at once, rougher, deeper, making your breath catch in your throat. the stretch, the pressure, the heat—it’s almost too much, but you crave every second of it.

he fucks you like he owns you now, one hand on your hip, the other pressing down on your stomach so he can feel himself inside you. “you feel that?” he groans. “you’re taking all of me.”

your moans turn shameless, high-pitched and raw, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room with every thrust. the bed creaks, the headboard pounds against the wall, and you don’t care who hears. he flips you onto your stomach without warning, pulling your hips up, and slides back into you from behind.

you cry out at the new angle, your hands clawing at the sheets as he drives into you, deeper than before. “god—jaehyun, i’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” he growls, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back to kiss the side of your neck. “cum all over my cock, baby.”

your orgasm hits like a shockwave, blinding and hot and overwhelming. your whole body shakes, legs giving out beneath you as he keeps fucking you through it. he follows moments later, groaning your name as he fills you again, hips jerking against your ass, the sound of it all so filthy and perfect.

this time, when you collapse together on the bed, everything is soaked in sweat and heat and the scent of sex. your body is limp, your mind dazed, and he just pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms like he’s never letting go.

“okay,” you whisper, laughing breathlessly. “now we might need to sleep.”

he chuckles against your hair, voice rough. “maybe. after round three.”

that night at the motel changed everything.

it wasn’t just the sex—though, god, it was incredible. it was the way his hands learned your body like a second language, the way he whispered your name like a secret, the way you both let yourselves fall without fear. that night was messy, breathless, and soaked in want. but more than anything, it was a turning point—a quiet, unspoken agreement that this was no longer just something casual. not for either of you.

after that, the line between love and lust blurred beautifully. sex became part of your rhythm, part of how you communicated. stolen glances in the office turned into stolen kisses in the elevator. late nights became sleepovers, and every morning-after was filled with lazy touches and knowing smiles. you memorized each other’s moans like favorite songs, found new ways to say i want you, even when the words themselves weren’t spoken.

but there was one night that stood out. the one you still think about more than any other.

it was the night you stayed over at his apartment—just the two of you, no distractions, no storms outside, only the slow burn between your bodies. dinner turned into kisses. kisses turned into the first round on his kitchen counter, then the second in the shower, steam fogging up the mirror as your bodies tangled and slipped together like water and flame.

by the third round, it was past midnight. you were already sore, breathless, but insatiable. he pulled you back into bed, whispering things in your ear that made your skin burn. he was rougher that time—hungrier—gripping your hips as he fucked you deep and slow, drawing out every moan until your voice was hoarse and your mind was gone.

you were on top, riding him with lazy, desperate rhythm, your head thrown back, your nails digging into his chest. he looked up at you like you were something divine, his hands guiding your pace, eyes locked on the place where your bodies met.

and just when your orgasm started to hit—when everything went hot and tight and unbearably good—the words slipped out of you.

“i love you.”

your voice cracked around it, high and trembling, your body still grinding against his, your climax crashing over you like a wave. for a split second, everything stopped. you felt him freeze beneath you, heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the shock in his eyes.

you hadn’t meant to say it like that. not in the middle of fucking. not when you were bare in every sense of the word.

it was reckless. vulnerable. raw.

but not wrong.

his hands gripped your waist tighter, and then he was sitting up, arms wrapping around you, thrusting up into you so hard and deep that you sobbed out his name.

“i love you too,” he groaned against your neck. “fuck, i love you so much—too much.”

and then he came—hard and fast, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

afterward, you just lay there on top of him, chest to chest, skin to skin, hearts pounding in unison. there was no awkwardness. no regret. only this strange, beautiful calm that settled over the room like dawn.

it was in that moment you realized just how deep your feelings for him ran.

what had started as a simple plan—just something to avoid growing old alone—had become the best part of your life. somewhere along the way, between the office visits and shared glances, motel rooms and quiet mornings, you had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with jaehyun.

and the craziest part?

you couldn’t imagine ever thinking of anything—or anyone—else but him.

august wrapped around you like a golden ribbon, thick with heat and filled with the kind of breathless anticipation that only comes after months of hard work. the project was done—finally—after weeks of stress, endless reports, last-minute corrections and late nights. but it was done. and not just done, but successful. glowing feedback, client satisfaction, numbers that sang. it was more than you had dared to hope for.

and then—the email.

subject line: promotion confirmation.

you stared at it for a full minute before opening it. and when you read the words “congratulations, supervisor,” your breath hitched. you covered your mouth. you gasped. and then you ran.

jaehyun wasn’t even at his desk anymore, he was just walking into the hallway when you caught him. “jaehyun!” you called, your voice trembling with a kind of joy that had nowhere to go.

he turned, concerned for half a second—until he saw your face. and then you said it.

“i got it.”

“you got what?” he blinked, confused.

“the promotion.”

his eyes widened. he froze for a second. and then—his arms were around you before you could even finish breathing. he lifted you, spinning you once, twice, both of you laughing as you clutched his shoulders and buried your face in his neck.

“oh my god, baby—you did it! i knew it, i knew you would!”

you were dizzy, and not just from the spinning. he kissed your cheek, your temple, your lips. everything was warm and golden and right.

he took you out that night.

you didn’t go anywhere fancy—jaehyun insisted that celebrations should be personal, not performative. so he drove you to that one little pizzeria you loved, the one that made the potato crust just the way you liked it. he ordered your usual without asking, and when the wine came, he raised his glass first.

“to you,” he said, his eyes soft and gleaming under the low light. “my brilliant, unstoppable, incredible woman.”

your heart swelled so fast it almost ached. the clink of your glasses felt like the sound of a new chapter opening.

“i’ve never had this before,” you confessed, fingers curling around the stem of your glass. “celebrating something this big. with someone i love. it feels…” you laughed, shy and overwhelmed. “it feels like everything’s different now.”

jaehyun reached for your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it slowly.

“it is different,” he said. “because now, every good thing that happens to you—we get to celebrate it. together.”

you stared at him, your chest tight with emotion, with the kind of love that had no bottom, no edge. just more.

you leaned across the table, kissing him slow, deep, grateful. pizza between you, wine in your veins, your laughter echoing off the walls of that tiny booth.

you didn’t need fireworks.

this was better.

this was yours.

mid-september arrived with a softness that clung to the air—warm enough to feel like summer still lingered, but mellowed by the early hints of fall. the leaves hadn’t turned yet, but something in the wind carried change. maybe that’s what had been stirring inside you all week—a restless certainty that had taken root in your chest and bloomed with every kiss, every sleepy morning wrapped around each other, every whispered i love you that escaped your lips without hesitation. it had been five months, five months of chaos and clarity, of fire and softness, and you knew now—you didn’t want to wait anymore.

you wanted jaehyun. not in a month. not after careful plans. now.

so you climbed the steps to his office, heart thudding like a war drum, nerves tangled with determination. you paused outside the door, breathed once, twice, and knocked.

“come in,” his voice called, muffled behind the heavy door.

you stepped in and found him at his desk, back slightly hunched, focused on the glow of his screen. he looked up, and the moment he saw you, he smiled—that slow, dazzling smile that always made your knees feel like melted wax—and stood immediately, walking toward you without hesitation. he cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it all day.

“jaehyun,” you said, voice almost trembling, more from the gravity of what you were about to say than nerves. he pulled back slightly, tilting his head.

“yeah?”

you met his eyes and, without giving yourself the chance to second-guess it, you let it fall from your lips.

“i want to marry you.”

his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features. he blinked, as if trying to be sure he heard you right.

“i know, baby,” he said, a soft chuckle lacing his words. “that was the whole deal, right? but remember—we said after november. we’d have more time to plan, get everything ready—”

“no,” you interrupted, stepping forward, clutching his hands tightly. “i don’t want to wait till november. i mean it. i want to marry you now. today, tomorrow, next week—i don’t care when or how. i just want to be yours. forever.”

he stared at you, quiet. processing. his brows drew together, and then lifted again like the meaning had just landed fully. his hands gripped yours tighter.

“but—what about the wedding? your parents, mine—”

“we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “but this... this love we have, i don’t want to keep treating it like something that needs to be scheduled. it’s real. it’s now.”

he took a breath, deep and full. and then, his expression softened into something vulnerable and glowing—his eyes shone with something deeper than just affection. he leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “you want to be my wife.”

you nodded, lips brushing his as you breathed, “more than anything.”

his thumbs brushed over your cheeks, as if committing this moment to memory. “then we’ll do it. not because it’s rushed, but because we know. we’ve known. and if you want to be my wife now... then i’ll make it happen. we’ll get married. i promise.”

and he kissed you again, this time slower, as if sealing an oath between your mouths.

the proposal happened three days later.

he told you it was just a normal date—dinner, then a walk somewhere scenic. no pressure. he even played it off by wearing something casual: a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, soft beige slacks, and the cleanest pair of loafers you’d ever seen. he looked devastatingly handsome without trying.

he picked you up and drove toward the edge of the city, toward the river trail where the summer festivals were usually held. the area was quiet now, early autumn having driven the crowds away. but fairy lights still dangled from the trees, twinkling faintly as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a warm, honeyed hue over everything.

he walked with you along the wooden path, your fingers tangled. his hand was slightly clammy. you noticed, and your heart fluttered, thinking—he’s nervous. the realization made you giddy.

and then, just as you reached the little bridge that overlooked the water, he stopped.

“wait here,” he said softly, squeezing your hand. “don’t move.”

he jogged a few steps ahead, ducked behind a low fence near a cluster of trees, and returned with a bouquet of peonies—your favorite. you hadn’t told him that. he remembered.

your eyes began to water.

he handed them to you, smiling shyly, and then pulled something out of his pocket.

a velvet box.

he opened it without a speech, without fanfare. his voice was soft, his eyes locked on yours like the world outside didn’t exist.

“you already said yes,” he whispered. “but i want to do this right.”

he got down on one knee, the gravel crunching beneath him, and held the ring up.

“y/n, will you marry me—not next month, not in theory, not in some future we’re still trying to picture... but now. for real. because i’m yours. and you’re mine.”

you didn’t cry. you sobbed. like an idiot. like a girl who had waited her whole life for someone like him. you nodded so fast your vision blurred and fell into his arms, and he kissed you like he was promising you the rest of forever.

in that moment, september never felt sweeter.

telling the company was a whole thing.

it started with a scheduled meeting—a weekly operations check-in with the usual suspects: team leads, upper management, the supervisor, and a couple of sharp-eyed executives who never missed a detail. it was jaehyun’s idea to make it official at work, to do it clean and direct and proudly. no rumors. no hiding. just the truth, glowing and solid like the ring that now lived permanently on your finger.

you both walked into the meeting room together, which wasn’t unusual, but something in the way your hands brushed as you took your seat already had jungwoo giving you the side-eye.

the presentation started, charts and projections lighting up the screen behind jaehyun as he stood with calm confidence. it was business as usual—until the last slide.

"before we wrap up," he said, glancing back at the room, his eyes finding yours briefly before turning to the group again, "i have one personal announcement to make."

you swallowed. jungwoo leaned forward like a damn hawk. mr. choi narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if he'd been waiting for this moment since spring.

jaehyun smiled—soft, boyish, unbothered. “as some of you may know… or have guessed," he said, and gave jungwoo a teasing look that made him gasp, "i knew it," he muttered dramatically—"y/n and i have been seeing each other for a while.”

the room exploded. a gasp from the secretary and the supervisor actually choked on his coffee. someone in the back whispered “what the fuck” under their breath.

jaehyun held up a hand, a little smug, a little amused.

“and, as of last weekend… we’re engaged.”

your cheeks were burning. your heart thundered. you expected chaos, maybe disapproval, but what followed was—

cheering. clapping. wide eyes and stunned smiles. even mr. choi looked like he was trying very hard not to grin.

“you’re marrying jaehyun? our jaehyun?” he blinked at her, then looked at jaehyun like he’d just discovered a double life. “okay, i knew something was going on. i’m not blind. but marriage? dude, that’s insane. like, insane in the good way, but—holy shit.”

you stood up, feeling brave. “we just didn’t want to hide it anymore,” you said. “we’re really happy. and we hope you’ll be happy for us too.”

the room burst into applause again. someone shouted, “wedding invites or we riot!”

the parents came next.

you visited your family first. your mom opened the door and immediately noticed the ring. she gasped, dropped the dish towel she was holding, and squealed in that way only mothers can. within seconds, your dad was there too, grinning, eyes glossy, holding jaehyun’s shoulder like he was already part of the family.

"are you kidding me," your mom kept saying. "you're engaged? oh my god, you're engaged!"

you nodded, trying not to cry as she hugged you so tight it hurt.

“he’s everything i ever wanted for you,” your dad told you quietly, before giving jaehyun a very serious handshake. “you take care of her.”

“always,” jaehyun promised, voice thick with sincerity.

then it was his parents' turn.

you were more nervous, but you shouldn’t have been. the moment jaehyun’s mom saw you, she pulled you into a hug, muttering in korean how beautiful you were, how she’d been praying her son would be smart enough to not let you go. his dad was more reserved, but the sparkle in his eye said everything. when jaehyun said, “we’re getting married,” his mother clapped her hands and screamed like she’d just won the lottery.

“we’re so happy,” she said, eyes shining. “you are already family.”

they brought out food, wine, photos from jaehyun’s childhood. his mom made you take home a tupperware of kimchi and a crocheted doily she claimed she made for whoever he married one day. she said she just had a feeling it was going to be you, and jaehyun turned red.

it turned out that weddings—real weddings—took a lot more time to plan than y/n had expected. even with jaehyun’s calming presence and the help of a surprisingly competent wedding planner, the months passed like petals falling from a tree: softly, quickly, too beautifully to hold onto.

they settled on march 28. it gave them just enough time to breathe, to build, to dream together.

from the moment they told everyone—first their friends, then their families, and finally, in a hilariously formal email, the entire company—the whirlwind began. the announcement caused a stir so loud in the office that y/n had to leave her desk just to get some peace.

the directivos were equally shocked, though mostly amused. her supervisor just nodded sagely, like he’d been betting on this since the beginning.

“you two were always ‘too in sync’,” he said, raising his coffee mug in mock toast. “i give it six months before one of you becomes the other's boss at home too.”

and then came the parents.

jaehyun’s mother cried when she met y/n, tears slipping down her cheeks as she hugged her tight and whispered in korean, “you’re even more beautiful than he said. and i knew he was in love the first time he said your name.”

her own parents, after recovering from the initial shock, became obsessively involved in the planning, sending flower samples, playlist suggestions, and opinions on wedding favors at all hours of the day. but none of it was overwhelming. not with jaehyun there, always pulling her back into calm. always making sure this was their wedding, not anyone else’s.

they chose a venue outside the city—a small vineyard with soft hills, blooming wisteria, and golden light that melted everything it touched. march 28 arrived with the scent of earth and lilac, a warm wind, and the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at.

y/n stood before a mirror in a white gown that made her feel like everything good in the world had been sewn together just for her. she could hear the quiet rustle of guests arriving, the soft music playing in the distance, the laughter of children running between the rows of flowers.

and then, jaehyun.

when she saw him waiting at the altar, dressed in a suit that fit like second skin, with his hair slightly tousled and a look in his eyes that could undo galaxies—she forgot how to breathe.

he mouthed “you’re perfect” as she walked down the aisle.

she mouthed “you’re mine.”

the ceremony was intimate, emotional, wrapped in vows that made everyone cry—even jungwoo, who tried to play it off by pretending he had allergies.

“i promise to protect your dreams as fiercely as my own,” jaehyun said, voice trembling slightly, “and to always make sure your pizza has the right amount of potato crust, even when we’re eighty.”

“i promise to choose you, even on the days we forget how lucky we are,” y/n replied, tears in her eyes. “and to never let the fire between us die, even when we’re old and gray.”

they kissed.

and the world felt new again.

their first dance was under strings of fairy lights, barefoot on the grass. the song was soft, a slow jazz tune that jaehyun had played for her once in the car when she’d been crying. now, with her head against his chest, they swayed like the wind had been made just for them.

“we did it,” she whispered.

“we did,” he said. “and i’d marry you again tomorrow if i could.”

the honeymoon came a few days later. they chose santorini, greece, not for the postcard beauty or luxury, but because y/n had once told him, offhandedly, that she always dreamed of watching the sun melt into the sea from a white rooftop. he remembered.

their suite was perched on a cliff, overlooking the caldera, with white walls and blue domes and windows that opened to eternity. the first night, they sat on the balcony with a bottle of wine, their feet touching, their hands always searching for each other.

they kissed under sunsets and made love under stars. they danced in narrow streets, shared kisses between sips of ouzo, fed each other olives and sweet baklava. they were ridiculous. and in love. and utterly themselves.

“this is the life i want,” y/n whispered one night, tangled in cotton sheets, her cheek against his chest.

“then it’s the life we’ll have,” jaehyun said. “forever.”

and this time, forever didn’t sound like a fairytale.

it sounded like a promise.

three years passed like chapters in a love letter—written slowly, lived fully.

you and jaehyun made a home out of a sleek little apartment tucked into the rhythm of the city. it was all black wood and soft gray, velvet cushions and open windows where sunlight poured in like gold. it wasn’t big, but it held your whole world. your toothbrushes leaned against each other. your shoes tangled by the door. your laughter lived in the walls.

mornings were sleepy and soft—coffee mugs clinking, your legs wrapped around his under the kitchen table, newspaper pages ignored in favor of each other’s eyes. nights were even softer—blankets twisted around you, movie soundtracks playing in the background while your fingers danced across his skin. the kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures—just the warmth of his palm on your thigh and the way he said “come here” like home itself.

but then, one evening, the quiet changed.

you were in the bathroom. pacing. heart in your throat. your phone timer ticked like thunder in the silence. the test rested on the sink, small and still—like it held the weight of the universe. you sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled up, trying to breathe.

when the timer stopped, you moved like you were underwater. slow. hesitant. scared.

two pink lines.

you stared. blinked. stared again.

your lips parted, the shape of a whisper you couldn’t form. your hands trembled, and for a moment, the whole world tilted—just you and that tiny piece of plastic and everything it now meant.

you stepped out of the bathroom, barefoot, holding the test like it might shatter.

jaehyun was on the couch, lounging with his phone, one leg bent lazily, hair tousled from running his hand through it too many times. he looked up. paused. frowned softly. “baby… what is it?”

you didn’t answer right away. just walked toward him—slow, like the floor might disappear—and placed the test in his hand.

“we’re gonna be parents!!”

the silence cracked. and then—

jaehyun surged forward, arms wrapping around you so tight you gasped. he lifted you off the ground, spinning you around the living room like a kid on christmas morning, laughter bursting from his chest, from yours, from some place deep inside where all the hope had been hiding.

you were both crying. laughing. kissing. saying “we did it!” over and over again like a prayer you never thought you’d get to say out loud. he pressed his forehead to yours, voice shaking, “we’re having a baby.”

“we’re having our baby,” you whispered.

months passed like petals falling from a blooming tree.

you were glowing. exhausted, but glowing.

your blush-pink maternity dress clung gently to your growing belly, printed with tiny white florals that made jaehyun smile every time he saw you in it. your feet were bare, your ankles swollen, your back ached constantly—but he was always there, hands rubbing your spine, lips on your shoulder, whispering, “you’re magic, you know that?”

the nursery was nearly finished—lavender walls painted with care, gold stars twinkling on the ceiling, and a soft mobile that played lullabies like stardust. the crib waited, delicate and perfect, with a plush bunny nestled in the corner.

jaehyun was kneeling by the dresser, sweat on his brow, tongue between his teeth as he finished the final drawer. he looked up, eyes finding you immediately, and god—he looked at you like the whole sky lived inside your smile.

“she’s gonna love this room,” he said, standing to press a hand to your belly. his palm warm. grounding. full of quiet awe. “our little moon.”

you leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i hope she gets your eyes,” you whispered.

he smiled, eyes soft with wonder. “and your heart,” he murmured. “especially your heart.”

the room went quiet again—except for the soft hum of the mobile spinning slowly above the crib. gold stars turned, catching the light.

and in that moment, just one suspended, breathless moment, everything was still.

you. him. her.

and the love that built it all.

finally. completely.

beautifully yours.

[enhaflixer]

HARD HOURS - enha reaction when you wont let them sleep because you're too needy.

cw (MDNI): breeding, explicit activity, super filthy, face sitting, spitting, mean language, swearing, squirting, oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, harmless choking let me know if theres anyth i missed! AN: i had a stroke brought back to life and produced this. wc: 10K

@naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @brianashiftz @niki-tty @jakeyismine

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

Heeseung is dead to the world—or so it seems. He’s sprawled on his stomach, head half-buried in the pillow, blankets barely hanging onto his hips. You can tell by the slow, heavy breaths that he’s on the edge of deep sleep. In other words, the perfect target for your mischief.

You start small: a soft kiss against his ear, teeth gently dragging along the shell. Nothing. Heeseung barely stirs, only letting out a faint groan. You smirk, inching closer until your body is pressed flush to his back.

Then, you whisper your first sinful line:

“God, Hee, I can’t stop thinking about you filling me up… Wanna feel your cum dripping out.”

A slight twitch of his shoulders. Still not enough. You drag your lips lower, biting softly at his earlobe, letting your breath fan over the sensitive skin. This time, you feel his entire body tense, a quiet grunt rumbling in his chest.

“Mm… baby,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow, “why are you so… fucking horny?”

You grin into his ear, hooking your leg over his calf to keep him from rolling away. “Because you’re so goddamn hotwhen you’re half-asleep,” you purr. “And because I know you love the idea of breeding me.”

Heeseung freezes. Then, a soft exhale that sounds suspiciously like a groan. “Shit… not this again,” he complains, though his tone betrays a hint of intrigue.

You trail your hand beneath the blanket, grazing the waistband of his boxers. “Yes, this again. Don’t pretend you don’t get off on the thought of knocking me up.” You can’t help the wicked smile curling at your lips. “Think about it, Hee… I’d be so full with your baby—everyone would know you fucked me so good that—”

“Stop,” he grumbles, face still squished into the pillow, but you hear his breathing pick up. “Don’t talk like that when I’m… trying… to sleep…” His words are disjointed, lazy from exhaustion, but there’s no mistaking the twitch in his boxers.

You press closer, cupping him through the fabric. He’s already half-hard—despite how desperate he is to stay asleep. “Feels like you don’t really want me to stop,” you tease, giving him a firm squeeze. “C’mon, Hee, you can breed me in your sleep if you want. I’ll do all the work. Just fill me up ‘til I’m pregnant with your baby.”

Heeseung lets out a muffled curse, finally rolling onto his side to face you, though his eyes are still lidded with exhaustion. “You’re… so fucking… relentless,” he mutters. “I was literally about to pass out.”

You just tilt your head, giving him your sweetest, most innocent smile. “Well, if you can’t handle it, guess I’ll just—” You start to pull your hand away, as if giving up.

But the second you try, Heeseung catches your wrist, pressing your palm fully against his length. “Shut up,” he mutters, brows furrowed. “You started this. Now you’d better take responsibility.”

You arch a brow. “Responsibility?” The corner of your mouth twitches. “As in… riding you ‘til you pump me full?”

He swallows hard, cock throbbing beneath your hand. “If that’s what it takes to get you to let me sleep afterwards,” he growls, though the sleepy rasp in his voice makes him sound more needy than threatening.

You can’t help the rush of arousal pooling between your thighs. You slip your hand under his waistband, fingers closing around the hot, stiff length of him. He gasps—quietly, but it’s enough to confirm you’ve got him.

“Fuck…” Heeseung’s eyes flutter, half-lidded, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “Fine. But don’t… don’t expect me to do all the work. I’m literally about to pass out.”

You laugh softly, sliding your leg over his hip until you’re straddling him. “I told you,” you purr, leaning in to nibble at his ear again, “I’ll do everything. You just gotta lie there and let me use that gorgeous cock. Let me fuck your baby into me.”

A trembling exhale leaves him, and for a second, you think he might actually fall asleep mid-conversation. But then, he ruts upward, desperate, jaw clenched. “Don’t… say that if you’re not serious,” he warns, voice cracking from both arousal and exhaustion. “You know how I get when you mention… that.”

You smirk, shimmying your sweats off, aligning yourself with him. “Who says I’m not serious?” Another deliberate roll of your hips, letting the tip of his cock slide between your folds. “Wanna see you get all possessive, Hee. Wanna watch your face when you realize you can’t help but fill me up ‘til I’m stuffed with your cum.”

He hisses, fists gripping the sheets as you sink down on him. His eyes squeeze shut, a low groan vibrating in his throat. “You’re… so fucking wet,” he mutters. “God, babe, you’re insane.”

You start a slow grind, rolling your hips to coax him deeper. “Mm, blame yourself,” you tease, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear again. “You’re the one who made me this wet by… existing. By being so fucking adorable even when you’re grumpy.”

He exhales a laugh—somewhere between a scoff and genuine amusement—then clutches your hips, fingers digging in as he tries to thrust up. But you quickly pin him, reminding him of your promise that you’ll do the work. He shudders, letting his head fall back into the pillow, letting out a string of curses when your pace increases.

“Fuck… you’re—” he starts, but the words catch in his throat as you slam down harder. His hands slide up under your shirt, caressing your waist as he tries to hold on to some sense of control. But you can tell he’s close to just letting go.

“You gonna cum already, Hee?” you taunt sweetly, nails scratching lightly along his torso. “Gonna fill me up with your baby while you’re half-asleep?”

He practically growls, eyes fluttering open to glare at you in a haze of lust. “Shut up,” he groans, “you’re the one who started—fuck—this.”

The slide of his cock is delicious, each wet smack of your bodies echoing in the quiet. His face contorts with pleasure, and you can tell from the shaky moans that he’s right on the edge. Suddenly, he grips your thighs, forcing you down until you’re fully impaled, burying himself to the hilt.

A ragged cry leaves him. “Shit, babe—I’m… oh, fuck—” His eyes roll back as he spills inside you, warmth flooding your core. His entire body trembles, half-lidded gaze locked on the sight of you perched on his lap.

Panting, you watch him struggle to stay awake, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “God, you’re so—fucking—difficult,” he gasps out, voice raspy with exhaustion. “But… so good.”

You gently stroke his hair, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Told you you’d like it.”

Heeseung groans again, arms wrapping around your waist. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me sleep,” he mumbles, eyes already fluttering shut. “Unless you want me to… pass out mid-round two.”

You laugh, settling over his chest, feeling the sticky warmth of his release still dripping between your thighs. “Mm, maybe I’ll let you get some rest, big boy.”

He half-smiles, nuzzling into your neck. “Why… are you so… horny… all the time…?”

You just chuckle, letting your fingers trace random patterns along his spine. “Maybe it’s because you’re so fucking irresistible, Hee.”

He makes a small, pleased sound—somewhere between a hum and a sigh—and finally drifts off, still inside you, arms locked around your waist like you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

You won this round—but at least he gets to sleep now… right?

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

Jay was out cold. Face half-buried in the pillow, arms stretched above his head, lounge pants slung low around his hips. He’d come home dead tired—only to doze off in that weird position where his eyes stayed half-open, like he was on autopilot even in sleep.

Meanwhile, you were in the bathroom, freshening up… and slipping into a brand-new black lace lingerie set. The bra was sheer enough to flaunt your nipples behind intricate lace, a garter belt hugged your hips, and the star of the show? Crotchless panties that revealed you in all the right places. The plan was to wake him gently—or, well, not so gently.

When you crept back into the bedroom, Jay let out a sleepy grunt, barely stirring. You flicked on the bedside lamp to a dim glow, stepping into his line of sight. He blinked once, confusion painting his features. Then he actually registered the lace.

His half-lidded gaze roamed you from head to toe, lingering on the straps across your thighs and the mouthwatering curve of your hips. “Mmph,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Is that… new?”

You grinned, coming closer. “Wanna see the best part?” Without waiting for an answer, you lifted the edge of the delicate garter belt, letting him notice the open gap between your thighs.

His eyes snapped all the way open. “Fuck, are those… crotchless?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your hips, showing him exactly how very little was covered. The lace was basically framing your folds, leaving you entirely accessible. “Thought you’d like it, babe.”

A soft exhale left him as he tried to push himself upright. Sleep still clung to his movements, but the desire in his eyes was quickly burning away any drowsiness. “You’re so… fucking… I can’t even think.”

You slid onto the bed, hooking a leg over his hip. “So don’t think,” you teased, brushing your lips against his ear. “Just do what you do best… service top, right?”

He let out a quiet laugh, pressing a hand to his eyes. “God, you’re gonna kill me. I’m supposed to be passed out right now.”

Your answer was a playful nibble at his jaw. “But you won’t pass out. Because look at what I’m wearing—for you.”

He parted his fingers, peeking at you through them. “Yeah, well, you know I can’t resist that.” His hand dropped, sliding around to cup your ass, fingertips brushing the lace. “I mean, shit, you’re basically exposed but still so fucking sexy.” He swallowed hard, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. “Okay, okay, I’m awake now.”

Leaning back, you very purposefully let him see the parted crotch of your panties. “Let’s put them to use,” you murmured, your voice low.

Jay bit his lip, half a smirk forming. “You really want me to devour you right now, yeah?”

“You say that like it’s a question.” A single tug at his lounge pants exposed the growing outline of his cock, straining for attention. You pressed a palm over it, feeling him twitch. “I want to feel that mouth of yours first, though.”

He groaned, “Fuck… I can’t say no to you, can I?” Carefully, he pushed himself up, fluffing a pillow behind his head. The faint shadow of a grin on his lips. “Come here, let me see those crotchless panties up close.”

Your stomach fluttered as you crawled forward, positioning yourself above him—straddling his chest. You hovered for a moment, letting him admire the black lace hugging your thighs, the sheen of your arousal already evident.

His gaze flicked from your eyes to that sinful opening. “Christ,” he whispered, “they're so fucking—” He shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

Taking it as a cue, you moved up, planting your knees on either side of his head. His hands automatically flew to your hips, steadying you. The closeness, the warmth—it was intense. One of his hands slid beneath the lace, and his breath caught when he felt how soaked you were.

“Damn,” he murmured, voice rasping with lust, “already this wet?”

You smirked, “I’ve been thinking about this all night.” Lowering yourself an inch more, you whispered, “You ready for me to ride your face, husband?”

A flash of pure hunger lit his eyes. “Fuck yes.” Then, half-lidded gaze locked on yours, he tugged you down the final distance, pressing his mouth directly to your exposed folds. The first caress of his tongue had you shivering, your entire body drawn tight.

“Jay…” you moaned softly, threading your fingers into his hair. The angle was perfect: he didn’t even have to remove the panties, just push the delicate lace aside with his nose, leaving you completely accessible to that talented mouth.

He started slowly—soft, deliberate licks that explored your folds. Each pass of his tongue was accompanied by a low hum of approval, a subtle roll of your hips. Then, gathering more confidence, he parted you further, letting his tongue delve deeper, swirling around your clit in lazy circles. You inhaled sharply, nails scraping his scalp, which earned a muffled groan from him.

Husband material, indeed.

“Shit…” you gasped, thighs trembling around his face. “God, you’re so— so good at this—“

His only response was a low chuckle, the vibrations making your toes curl. He pressed his tongue flat against your bundle of nerves, flicking it with just enough pressure to make your head spin. Each ragged breath, each swirl of his tongue, coaxed you closer to the edge.

Desperate to balance yourself, you gripped the headboard, half-riding his mouth in a rhythm that matched your ragged moans. The black lace framed his cheeks, reminding you again how easy it was for him to devour you in these crotchless panties. You bit your lip, panting harder.

He seemed to sense you edging near your climax, because he slid one hand up your thigh, hooking around the garter strap. With the other, he reached up to dig into your hips, urging you to bear more weight. And you obliged, pressing down, letting him bury his face fully against your heated core.

Your breath caught. “Jay… I’m gonna— oh fuck—“

He took that as permission, latching onto your clit with suction and a flick of his tongue that ripped a choked sob from your throat. The orgasm crashed over you, wave after wave of trembling pleasure, your thighs clamping around his head. He rode it out with you, licking and kissing through each aftershock.

When you finally released him, he gasped for air, lips slick with your arousal. But the grin on his face? Absolutely triumphant.

“Feel better?” he teased, voice still rough with lust. Before you could answer, he reached out, tugging you down for a messy kiss. You tasted yourself on his tongue, a heady mixture of heat and satisfaction.

You pulled away, chest heaving, eyes glazed. “Fuck, Jay… that was—“ “Yeah?” he murmured, half-smiling. “Think you can still handle me inside you, or did I wear you out?”

You let out a breathless laugh, “Oh, I can handle you. Don’t forget who started this.” Sliding off him, you kicked aside the sheets. “Now hurry up, big boy… you’re not going back to sleep until I’ve made you come at least twice.”

A crooked smirk tugged at his lips as he positioned himself over you, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his sweats to shuffle them off. “You’re trying to kill me, huh?” Then, leaning in to nibble your ear, he whispered, “Glad you woke me up for this, wifey.”

Your only response was a blissed-out hum as he lined himself up, the crotchless panties conveniently parting to give him full access. Husband material? Absolutely. Service top? One thousand percent.

And you were about to enjoy every second of it.

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

Jake lay on his stomach, hair damp from a rushed shower, half-naked in a pair of boxers that barely clung to his hips. The clock on the nightstand blinked an unholy hour—he had football practice at sunrise, and he’d been moaning for the last hour about how he needed rest. Yet the moment you snuck onto the bed behind him, hooking your fingers under his waistband, his body betrayed all that whining.

“Stop,” he mumbled into the pillow, voice muffled and trembling with fatigue. “I—swear, I’m dying, I can’t do this.” Even as he spoke, you felt him twitch under your touch, a half-muffled groan escaping his lips. His half-lidded eyes flicked open, shooting you a watery glare. “You... you’re so damn pushy.”

With a soft smile, you trailed your nails along his back. “But you’re already half-hard, Jake,” you murmured, pressing a kiss just below his shoulder blade. “Look at you, complaining about sleep when your body obviously wants more.”

He huffed a pitiful laugh, letting his head turn on the pillow so you caught a glimpse of his flushed cheeks. “I—I can’t help it,” he stammered, eyes fluttering shut again. “If you keep going, I’ll... I’ll do something insane. I can’t even stand.”

A surge of excitement twisted in your belly. “Then eat me out from behind,” you suggested, your voice carrying a teasing, sultry note. “It won’t take much movement.”

Jake froze, letting out a ragged exhale. “God, you’re unstoppable. Fine. But if I pass out mid-lick, it’s on you.” He rolled slowly onto his side, hooking his arm around your waist to nudge you into position. His half-dead eyes scanned your body as you shoved your shorts down, arching your back, cheeks aflame. “Jesus,” he muttered, voice shaky, “you’re... so wet already. Are you really that needy?”

A tremor ran through you at his drowsy, borderline mocking tone. “Mhmm,” you breathed. “All yours, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” he groaned, pushing your thighs apart as he knelt behind you. “I’m too tired for sweet talk.” He tugged your underwear free, letting it drop onto the sheets. The next second, his warm breath ghosted across your folds. “If I say something messed up, it’s your fault for pushing me this far.”

And with that, he latched on, tongue dragging a wet stripe through your slick. The shock tore a sharp moan from your throat. “Oh—Jake,” you gasped, fingers clenching in the sheets. “That’s— oh god—”

“Shut up,” he slurred, half-laugh, half-growl. “You asked for it.” He pressed his mouth tighter, swirling his tongue around your clit in sloppy, uncoordinated but devastating motions. Every time you jerked or whimpered, he let out a whiny grunt, eyes barely open, jaw slack with exhaustion. “Fuck, you taste so good. Hate you for making me do this when I’m half-dead. You— you little whore, waking me up... oh, shit.”

Your cheeks flamed at the nasty name, a sob-laced moan slipping out. “Jake, oh my god—”

He let out a broken giggle, hooking an arm around your hips to pin you in place. “I told you,” he muttered. “No filter. You’re basically my cocksleeve, right? Couldn’t even let me rest.” Another swirl of his tongue, and you felt him bitelightly at the undercurve of your ass.

A startled cry left your lips. “Jake, that hurts—”

“Shit, sorry,” he said, sounding half-dazed. “I— can’t help it.” Then, in a swift, delirious move, he latched onto the same spot, sucking until you knew it’d bruise. “Marking you up. My messy little bitch.”

Tears burned at your eyes from the mix of pleasure and stinging pain. Your nails dug into the mattress, breath coming in short, ragged pants. “N-never heard you talk like that,” you managed, voice trembling with arousal.

Jake half-laughed, half-whined. “Yeah, well, I never let myself go this far. Tired as fuck—makes me nasty.” He sealed his lips around your clit, sending a white-hot spark through your core. The sloppy suction and swirl of his tongue drove you to the brink in record time.

He let out a pitiful moan, half-lidded eyes threatening to shut completely. “Hurry up,” he mumbled, mouth dragging along your folds. “Come on my tongue so I can pass out. You’re so fucking tasty— shit, I love this, but I might die. So hurry.”

That final taunt threw you over the edge. You let out a wail, thighs trembling violently as a wave of ecstasy slammed through you. He groaned, lapping you through every aftershock until you collapsed forward, sweat beading along your spine, tears stinging your eyes from the intensity.

Jake pulled away, panting, chest rising and falling. “God,” he grumbled, pressing his forehead to your lower back, “that was insane. I can’t believe the shit I just said. My brain is mush.”

You gave a shaky little laugh, trying to catch your breath. “I... loved it,” you admitted, cheeks aflame. But a surge of leftover arousal still hummed in your veins. Turning your head, you shot him a pleading look. “Jake... I still want more.”

He stiffened, letting out a half-yell of frustration. “You want more?” he nearly shrieked, voice cracking. “I’m half-dead, woman. What else do you want from me?”

Biting your lip, you shifted around until you were kneeling to face him. “Let me ride you,” you whispered. “Just once. We can finish quick. Please?”

He glared at you with watery eyes, fury warring with raw lust, cheeks flaming. “Ugh, fine,” he snapped, hooking an arm around your waist. “Come on, then.”

He flopped onto his back, yanking down his boxers enough to free his cock. You saw how stiff he was, the tip gleaming with his own arousal. “Do it,” he mumbled, voice slurring. “Ride me. But if I fucking black out, that’s on you.”

Heart racing, you straddled him, letting your knees frame his hips. Leaning down, you murmured a soft “Thank you,” but he just grunted.

“Don’t thank me,” he mumbled, hooking his hands under your thighs. “Use me, you goddamn succubus.” Another delirious laugh, then in a shocking move, he grabbed your chin, tilting your face down. “Open,” he commanded, half-lidded gaze glinting.

You parted your lips in confusion, and he spat lightly into your mouth, the humiliating shock making your entire body jolt. “There,” he slurred, cheeks aflame. “You want filthy? I’m fucking filthy. Now move.”

A stunned moan escaped you. You swallowed reflexively, your mind spinning at the primal gesture. Then, carefully, you aligned yourself and sank onto his length, a gasping cry tearing from your throat as you fully impaled yourself.

He whined, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, that’s— so tight,” he whimpered, nails biting into your hips. “Can’t believe I’m letting you do this. You better ride me well, you slutty— oh god, you see? I can’t shut up.”

You started moving, thighs burning, the angle hitting deeper than you anticipated. He hissed, moaning loudly, half-laughing at how overwhelmed he felt. “Shit, you’re so wet,” he rasped, voice cracking into a higher pitch. “Keep going, keep grinding. I can’t do anything or I’ll collapse.”

Tears clung to your lashes from overstimulation, your earlier orgasm making you extra sensitive. His filthy words poured out in a half-slurred stream: “That’s it, fuck, you ride me so good. My pathetic whore, always wanting more, can’t get enough of my cock, can you? Gonna make me come so fast, oh god—”

Your own breath stuttered, hips rolling faster, each bounce driving you closer to a mind-shattering peak. “Jake,” you sobbed, nails scraping his chest. “I’m gonna— oh fuck— I can’t believe how filthy you are.”

He let out a pitiful yelp, hooking an arm behind your back to pull you down, letting his teeth graze your shoulder. “I’m filthy because of you,” he hissed, voice fracturing. “I— I want you screaming, baby. Scream for me.”

It all came crashing down: your body locked up, a desperate scream tore from your lips, tears streaming as your orgasm blindsided you. Jake moaned brokenly, hips jerking up even in his half-conscious state. He spilled inside you with a ragged cry, arms trembling to keep you close.

For a moment, you both stayed locked together, hearts racing, sweat glistening. Then Jake let out a raw, shuddering breath, hooking his hand around your neck in a softer hold, pressing quick, frantic kisses along your jaw and collarbone.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice still high and whimpery but now laced with guilt. “Oh god, I’m so fucking sorry, my baby,” he stammered, the tears in his eyes no longer just from exhaustion but from sudden remorse. “Did I hurt you? Did I say something awful? Fuck, I bit you, I— spat in your mouth, called you a whore. I’m so sorry, my beautiful wife, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Your heart flipped at the sudden shift. “Jake,” you breathed, wiping his sweaty bangs aside. His cheeks were glowing, tears threatening to spill. “No, it’s okay,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I liked it, I promise. You didn’t hurt me in a bad way. It was perfect for me.”

He let out a shaky sigh, hooking an arm around your waist to bury his face against your chest. “I can’t believe I said all that. M’ just so tired, I can’t filter. I’m so sorry, my baby, my sweet girl— please forgive me,” he mumbled between kisses to your collarbone, each one almost frantic with guilt. “I love you, I love you— I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You cradled his head, tears pricking your eyes for a different reason now. “I love you too,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his damp forehead. “It was so intense and raw, but I’m okay, truly.”

He let out another half-sob, half-laugh, relief flooding his features. “Thank god,” he murmured, letting his eyes finally drift shut as he clung to you. “You’re my baby, and I called you all those names— I just— oh my god.”

“Shh,” you soothed, brushing his cheek. “We’ll rest now, okay?”

He gave a small nod, exhaling the last of his tension. “Rest,” he echoed, voice spent. “I can actually sleep.” Another watery chuckle, then he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he repeated in a near whisper, arms wrapping around you in a lazy embrace.

You settled against his chest, letting him roll onto his side so you both could fit under the covers. Despite the sticky heat and bruises you’d surely find in the morning, a drowsy peace enveloped you both. He drifted off, still half-mumbling apologies, and you held him close, heart full—knowing that no matter how filthy the night had been, the love that followed was unwavering and sweet.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

Sunghoon was drifting in that half-awake, half-asleep realm—eyes heavy-lidded, cheek pressed into the pillow, hair messy from tossing around. He had one arm slung across his stomach, the other dangling off the bed, looking like he might doze off at any second.

You, on the other hand, had far too much energy. And far too many thoughts about your craving for roughness—particularly choking. But rather than just blurt it out, you wanted to theorize, to talk about the deeper psychology behind it… with him, while he was half-asleep.

So you scooted closer, your knee brushing his thigh. He grunted, eyes flickering open to a sliver.

“Sunghoon,” you started, voice low, “can we talk about something? Like, a deep… philosophical something?”

He exhaled, shifting onto his back and letting out a low groan. “Oh my God,” he muttered, obviously not thrilled. “You… want me to have a deep philosophical conversation right now?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “It’s about choking.”

He squinted, brow furrowed. “Choking. As in… me choking you.” His gaze darted to your throat, then back to your eyes.

“Mhm,” you confirmed, pushing a stray hair from his face. “I’ve been thinking about why I want it. Is it about trust? About letting go of control? Or, like, the raw primal side of us—”

He let out a weary groan, rolling his head toward the ceiling. “You’re a psycho,” he mumbled, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “Who the hell sits here and tries to dissect choking kink like it’s some academic thesis when I’m literally about to pass out?”

You tried not to laugh, pressing your palm to his chest. “I just think it’s interesting. I mean, it’s not just ‘I want you to choke me’—it’s why do I want you to choke me? Don’t you ever wonder about the deeper—”

“Shut up,” Sunghoon cut in, eyes pinching shut as if he could block you out. “Seriously. I’m too tired for your ‘fascinating deep dive’ on kinks.”

You arched a brow, half-smiling. “You can’t just bury your head in the sand.”

He let out a sharp exhale, turning onto his side so his back was partially to you. “Yes, I can,” he grumbled. “I can bury my head in this pillow. Then maybe I won’t have to listen to you psychoanalyze choking.”

Undeterred, you scooted closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “But Hoonie, imagine how hot it’d be if you pinned me against the wall, your hand around my throat, talking about how you’ll—”

He jerked away, letting out a soft snarl. “You’re seriously insane. Why the hell are you wanting a full lecture on me choking you? Just—shut up or I’ll… I’ll shut you up.”

You blinked, pulse skipping at the edge in his tone. “That sounds promising,” you teased, eyes glinting with excitement.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, half-laughing despite himself. “You want me to choke you so bad?”

You nodded earnestly. “Yeah. And maybe call me your little slut or something—”

He shot you a scandalized look, half-lidded eyes burning with a mixture of exhaustion and sudden arousal. “Jesus,” he breathed, raking a hand through his messy hair. “You seriously don’t know when to quit.”

You grinned. “Nope.”

For a moment, he just stared, seemingly debating whether to actually indulge you or roll over and pass out. Then, with a low grunt, he shifted, turning all the way to face you. His hand came up, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat—not applying pressure yet, just resting there.

“This what you wanted?” he mumbled, gaze flicking over your face.

Your heart thumped as you nodded, pressing your neck into his palm. “Yes. I like it rough, and I trust you to not actually kill me,” you said, half-laughing.

He let out a short, exasperated snort, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a menace.” Then, without warning, he tightened his grip—not painfully, but enough to send a bolt of arousal straight to your core.

A surprised gasp escaped your lips. “Hoon—”

“Shut up,” he repeated, voice suddenly dripping with that dark amusement you’d been craving. “You talk too damn much.”

Your cheeks flamed, the mixture of slight pressure on your windpipe and his rough tone making your skin prickle. “So you are interested in the ‘philosophy’,” you tried to joke, but he tightened his hold just enough to cut you off.

“I said shut up or I’ll do it for you,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded with sleep but blazing with intent. “Guess the best way to keep you from yapping is by fucking you speechless.”

Your pulse skyrocketed. “Then do it,” you challenged, letting your hand curl around his wrist lightly in a silent sign of both caution and consent. “Show me how you’d shut me up.”

Sunghoon let out a soft grunt, hooking his free arm around your waist to pull you flush against him. You could feel the hardness beneath his boxers pressing into your thigh—so apparently, he wasn’t too tired to get turned on.

“God, you’re so—” he started, but cut himself off, leaning in to capture your mouth in a rough, hungry kiss. The hand at your throat stayed in place, a persistent reminder of his quiet dominance. Every time you tried to speak, he muffled it with his lips, swallowing your protests or giggles.

A muffled moan left you, your body arching into his. He parted from the kiss only to growl, “Turn over,” voice heavy with drowsy impatience. “I can’t choke you properly like this.”

You complied in a heartbeat, flipping to your back. He followed, pinning you underneath him, knee nudging your legs apart. The weight of his hand on your throat never wavering, though it wasn’t enough to cut off your air—just a firm, possessive hold.

“How’s this?” he muttered, half-lidded eyes scanning your face. “Better for your psycho talk?”

You swallowed, breath shaky. “Mmm, yes. Love it,” you whispered, letting your hand cup his cheek. “Now maybe—”

He tightened his grip slightly, a cocky smirk curving his lips. “What part of shut up don’t you understand?”

Heat pooled between your legs, your lips parting in a silent moan. “H-hoon,” you stammered, cut off by a slight squeeze that halted your voice.

“Still talking,” he teased, leaning down to brush his lips over yours. Then, he thrust his hips forward, letting you feel his erection straining through the thin fabric of his boxers. “You want me to fuck you so badly, you can’t stop hammering on about it, huh?”

A strangled whimper escaped you, nodding fervently. The pressure on your neck, the sleepy yet intense glint in his eye—all of it was turning you on beyond belief.

Sunghoon snorted softly, sliding his hand from your throat to grab your jaw instead. “I’ll do it,” he murmured, hooking a thumb under your chin to tilt your head up, “but next time, pick a better moment for your philosophical kink talk. Deal?”

Before you could respond, he lowered his head, kissing along the line of your jaw while his free hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. The chill of his fingers against your heated skin made you gasp, and he smirked at your reaction.

“God, you’re soaked,” he mumbled, eyebrows arching in mild surprise. “You really do get off on this, huh?”

You exhaled shakily, “Mm. Yeah. Hard choking… your rough side… everything.”

Sunghoon let out a quiet chuckle that bordered on an exasperated sigh. “You’re fucking insane,” he repeated, though he pressed a sweet, fleeting kiss to your lips that took the sting out of his words. “But I guess that makes two of us, because I’m into it.”

He parted your thighs, tugging your shorts down enough to expose you. Sliding himself free, he lined up, and in one swift push, sank into you with a low moan that made your toes curl.

He pinned you by the throat again—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you from speaking easily. The sensation danced on the edge of adrenaline and euphoria, exactly what you’d craved.

“You want me to… slam you so hard you can’t think?” he panted, voice shaky from both fatigue and lust. “‘Cause I can do that.”

Your eyes fluttered, a wave of arousal washing over you. “Yes, please,” you gasped, reaching up to grab his wrist lightly, ensuring you could tap out if it got too intense.

He started thrusting, each roll of his hips pushing you deeper into the mattress. Your breathing stuttered around his hand, and it was glorious. Each stroke fed the craving you’d asked for: that borderline savage, primal taking, balanced by the knowledge he’d never actually harm you.

“Oh God, Hoon,” you moaned, nails raking down his bicep. “This is—”

He cut you off with a tighter squeeze, delivering a sharper thrust that stole any chance of finishing your sentence. “I said shut up,” he teased, though you could see the corners of his mouth tugging in a faint smirk. “Don’t you get it?”

Your retort died in your throat, replaced by a series of moans as he slammed into you harder, faster. The bed creaked with the force, and every breath you managed was ragged, tinted with the exhilarating rush of being pinned at the neck.

It didn’t take long before your body tensed, that coil in your lower belly about to snap. Sunghoon must’ve felt it, too, because he groaned, eyelids drooping with pleasure. “Fuck,” he muttered, “you’re so tight—gonna come too soon.”

You tried to reply, but all you got out was a choked moan as the orgasm washed over you, limbs trembling. He followed in short order, a broken cry escaping his lips as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each wave of ecstasy. His grip on your throat eased, letting you gulp down air.

Panting and spent, he collapsed half on top of you, one arm bracing him so he didn’t crush you entirely. “You… are a fucking… menace,” he breathed, voice rough. “But God… that was so good.”

You gave him a languid smile, sliding your hand up to brush his damp hair from his forehead. “Thanks for indulging me,” you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

He closed his eyes, letting out a tired laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Next time, remind me not to call you a psycho or you might bring up a million more kinks.”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Admit it, you love that I’m psycho.”

A half-snort. “Maybe,” he teased, snuggling closer. “But if you ever start another deep philosophical conversation about choking when I’m half-asleep, I might just choke you out of spite.”

“Promise?” you teased, eyes shining with amusement.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, letting his head flop onto your shoulder. “Shut up and go to sleep,” he murmured, voice drowsy again.

You both drifted off in that warm afterglow, your throat bearing the faintest trace of his grip—and your heart absolutely brimming with satisfaction. Because for all his complaints, Sunghoon had given you exactly the intense, borderline savage scene you’d been craving… with all the trust and love behind it.

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

Sunoo lay on his back, eyes half-shut, body sinking comfortably into the mattress. He wasn’t completely knocked out, but he was definitely hovering on the edge of slumber—breathing slow, shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm. From the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you could see his hair falling softly across his forehead, lips parted in a faint sigh. He looked adorable, all relaxed and unguarded.

A spark of arousal buzzed through you as you took in the sight of him, that subtle line of bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. You really wanted him, but not in the usual way—this time, you wanted your mouth on him. Swallowing the slight nerves, you slipped onto the bed, edging closer until you hovered just above his side.

“Sunoo,” you whispered, running your hand over his chest in gentle circles. “You awake?”

He breathed out a quiet exhale, lids fluttering open a fraction. “Mmh,” he responded, voice thick with sleep. “A little. Why?”

“Well,” you said, letting your palm drift lower toward his stomach, “I was thinking… I really want to take care of you tonight. With my mouth.”

His eyes opened a bit more, revealing that soft, drowsy confusion. “You… want to do that right now?” he murmured, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I’m kinda… half-asleep.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “I know. But just let me do the work, okay? You can lie there and relax.”

Sunoo let out a soft grunt, shifting onto his back more fully. “Alright,” he conceded, the corners of his mouth curving in a faint smirk. “Though I can’t promise I’ll be, like, super talkative or anything.”

You chuckled, leaning in to press a light kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t worry about talking. Just let me make you feel good.”

With that, you lifted the blanket, revealing his waist. He was wearing a loose pair of boxers, and from the slight shape beneath the fabric, you could tell his body was already responding, if only a little. Your hand slipped under the elastic, wrapping around the warm length of him. He inhaled sharply, eyelids falling shut again.

“Oh,” he breathed, biting his lower lip in a subtle show of anticipation. “You’re serious about this, huh?”

“Completely serious,” you teased, stroking him with a gentle motion to coax him fully hard. “Does it feel nice?”

He let out a low hum. “Yeah. Feels… good.” He wasn’t whiny—but the light rasp in his voice suggested a battle between comfort and arousal. “I was, like, thirty seconds away from dozing off, but now… you’re making me want more.”

“Mm, that’s exactly what I’m aiming for,” you murmured. “Lift your hips a bit?”

He complied, letting you slip the boxers down enough to free him. You settled between his legs, the blanket sliding down to pool around your knees, and watched as he dragged in a steadying breath. You couldn’t help but smile at how relaxedhe still seemed, even with the flush creeping into his cheeks.

Slowly, you lowered your head, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. Sunoo’s breathing hitched, and you heard him mutter something too low to catch—possibly your name. Then, you licked a gentle stripe across the head, tasting the faint salt of his skin. His stomach tensed under your palm.

“S-still tired?” you asked, voice quiet, lips ghosting over him.

He opened one eye halfway. “Tired, yeah,” he admitted, “but I’m definitely not complaining.” A lazy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he let out a calmer breath. “Keep going.”

You did, taking him in deeper, inch by inch, letting your tongue swirl around him. Sunoo parted his lips in a soft moan, not loud, but filled with enough warmth to make your blood race. His hand drifted to your hair, a gentle touch that neither pushed nor pulled—just a sweet sign of appreciation.

“Feels… amazing,” he murmured, breathing more heavily now. “Like I could drift off, but also… can’t, because you feel too good.”

Your heart fluttered at that. You began a slow, steady rhythm—bobbing your head, stroking the base with your hand, letting each motion draw out another quiet moan or short, content sigh from him. He didn’t whimper or whine—he just exhaled in these controlled, hushed groans, the edges of sleep still clinging to his voice.

“God,” he whispered, eyelids flickering shut again. “You’re so good at that.”

Encouraged, you took him deeper, relaxing your throat, letting him feel more of your warmth. His spine arched slightly, and you heard the sheets rustle as he bunched them in one fist.

“Mm,” he hummed, letting out a shaky breath. “You’re… making it hard to stay calm.” Even half-asleep, there was a sweet chuckle layered with arousal in his tone.

You smiled around him, pumping the rest of his length with your hand in time with each bob of your head. The slick sound of your mouth on him filled the quiet bedroom, and he exhaled in something that approached a groan, head lolling to the side.

When you glanced up, you saw that his eyes were still mostly closed, though his mouth formed a small ‘o’ with each ragged breath. “You good?” you asked softly, lifting your head just enough to speak.

He nodded, letting out an unsteady sigh. “Y-yeah, keep going. Please.” Another short laugh. “I can’t… believe how chill this feels”

You took that as your cue to slip him back inside your mouth, swirling your tongue against the underside. This time, he gave a longer, deeper moan, hips pressing up involuntarily—though not forcefully enough to choke you. You found a perfect synergy in that moment: him too sleepy to control everything, and you fully in the driver’s seat.

Eventually, his breath grew more labored, each inhale trembling with need. The subtle push of his thighs told you he was close to the edge. You hollowed your cheeks, moving quicker, coaxing him toward that release.

“Ah— oh, fuck,” he muttered, voice taut, a slight tremor in his thighs. “I’m— I think— yeah, ‘m gonna… oh God—”

His back arched off the bed, a sudden wave of pleasure making him jerk. He came with a few short thrusts, and you stayed with him, swallowing everything he gave you, feeling his entire body shudder beneath your hands. A breathy, almost disbelieving moan escaped him, half-lost in the pillow he’d turned his face into.

The aftershocks lingered, and you eased off him slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He blinked up at you, eyes drowsy but deeply satisfied.

“That was…” he breathed, a serene smile curving his lips. “God, you’re… incredible. I can’t even form words properly.”

You crawled back up to his side, pressing a gentle kiss to his flushed cheek. “You don’t have to form words. Just rest. I got what I wanted,” you teased softly.

A soft chuckle left him, and he slipped an arm around your waist. “You’re so smug,” he murmured, letting his eyes drift shut again. “But I’m not complaining.” Another quiet breath, and he nuzzled into your hair. “Loved it, truly. Thank you.”

You snuggled closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “Anytime, Sunoo. Sleep well.”

He let out one last contented exhale, drifting back toward that drowsy serenity. Because even if he was exhausted, he’d let you do anything to keep you satisfied—and you both wouldn’t have it any other way.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

Jungwon sprawled on the bed, face half-buried in the pillow, shirt ridden up around his ribcage, one foot sockless. He looked so done with the world—like all he needed was unconsciousness to recharge his soul. The moment you crawled on the mattress, he let out a theatrical groan.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice thick with fatigue, “just…don’t. I’m literally about to pass out.”

You snickered, resting a palm on his exposed waist. “You always say that, but then two minutes later, you’re losing your mind.”

He nudged your hand away, letting his head roll to the side so he could half-glare at you. “Because you never give me peace,” he grumbled. “You’re always whispering disgusting things until I can’t think straight. I’m exhausted, and you’re about to—”

You silenced him by lifting two fingers to his lips. He blinked, eyebrows arching in confusion, but parted his mouth anyway, letting you slip them in. The instant his tongue met your skin, a tremor of lust sparked in your belly. He sucked lazily, half-lidded eyes drifting shut like he might as well indulge before dozing off.

He popped them out with a soft, wet sound, cheeks noticeably pink. “I can’t believe you,” he groaned, flicking a glance downward. “You see this?” He gestured at his shorts, where a distinct bulge now strained. “I was about to sleep. Now I have a boner. This is your fault.”

A smug grin curled your lips. “Your body can’t resist me,” you teased, trailing your hand to the waistband of his shorts.

He grunted. “No, my body can’t resist your filthy mouth. Big difference.” Then, with a dramatic sigh, he pushed your hand away. “I’m so done. Done.”

You let your palm slip lower, purposely brushing his stiffening cock beneath the fabric. He sucked in a breath, eyes widening. “Stop,” he hissed, half-laughing in exasperation. “God, you’re unbearable. Just say your nasty line about wanting me to ‘fuck you ‘til you cry.’”

You leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I want you to fuck me ‘til I cry, Jungwon. That’s exactly it. And I know you want that too, even if you’re too tired to admit it.”

He twisted, half trying to turn away, half pressing closer. “I swear to God, you’re an actual menace,” he spat. But you felt the twitch under your fingers, proving he couldn’t resist. “Fine,” he mumbled. “If I ruin you, don’t come whining tomorrow.”

In a flash of frustration-laced lust, he flipped you onto your back, pulling down your shorts in one yank. You barely had time to blink before he thrust inside you—harsh, sudden. Your eyes watered from the abrupt stretch. A startled cry tore from your lips.

“Fuck,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Jungwon—holy—”

He exhaled shakily, setting a pace that felt half-punishment, half-lust. “You asked for rough,” he grumbled, each thrust knocking a breathy sob from your throat. “I was about to conk out, and now I’m pounding you. Don’t whine about it.”

Tears already pricked at your eyes from the intensity, stinging and exquisite all at once. “D-don’t worry,” you whimpered, voice hitching. “I love it—God, you’re so—”

“Shut it,” he murmured, an edge to his tone, though his cheeks flamed red at the sight of tears spilling down your cheeks. “You want to cry? Fine, cry for me.”

The tension built alarmingly fast, each collision of his hips pushing you higher. Tears blurred your vision, your nails biting into his arms. Suddenly, that coil in your belly snapped, a hot rush of fluid spattering out. You let out a raw scream, mortified yet overwhelmed by pleasure.

Jungwon froze mid-thrust, eyes wide. “What the—?” He felt the warmth drenching his thighs, and a flicker of disbelief crossed his face. “You just…did you squirt?”

Fresh tears streamed as you half-sobbed, half-laughed. “I—I think so. Oh my god, I’ve never—”

“Holy shit,” he breathed, blinking down at the slick coating your inner thighs and his stomach. “That’s…” A shaky laugh escaped him. “That’s fucking hot.”

Without warning, he pulled out, ignoring your tremors, and shoved your thighs apart to inspect the wetness. You burned with embarrassment and leftover pleasure, tears still dripping. “Jungwon,” you started, but he was already leaning down, pressing a slow, messy lick to your oversensitive folds.

A gasp wrenched from your chest, oversensitivity slamming into you. “Wait—no—I can’t—”

He groaned against your skin, lapping up the fluid with a low, humming satisfaction. “God,” he muttered, “I was so done with you, but I need to taste this.” His tongue slid in broad, lazy strokes, ignoring your sobs of overstimulation.

You could barely see through the tears, your body twitching. “I—I’m so sensitive, oh my god—”

“Too bad,” he mumbled, pulling back at last, chest heaving. He looked at you with a crazed mix of exhaustion and pure, unhinged lust. “I can’t believe how unbelievably fucking hot that was. I didn’t even know you could do that. Didn’t think I could get so turned on by it.”

Your cheeks flamed, tears still welling. “I—I didn’t know either,” you whispered. “I thought you were tired…”

He snorted, wiping the back of his hand across his chin. “I am tired. But guess what?” He nudged his still half-erect length, letting you see how it bobbed for attention. “You just woke me up. And now, I want more.”

A watery laugh escaped you. “You’re unstoppable,” you teased.

“Apparently,” he said dryly, hooking a hand under your knee. “Now, come here, baby. Sit on my face. Squirt on my face this time.”

Your heart stumbled, adrenaline spiking. “You can’t be serious— I might actually die if I come again.”

He flashed you a half-deranged grin. “Then die. Don’t think you can just do that once and get away scot-free.”

Before you could form a coherent protest, he manhandled you upward, guiding your trembling thighs until you hovered above his mouth. Tears still clung to your lashes, the entire bottom half of your body throbbing. “Careful,” you choked, bracing your arms on the headboard.

Jungwon gripped your hips, ignoring your oversensitivity. “No complaining,” he muttered, eyes gleaming with challenge. “If you squirt again, it better be on my face. Understand?”

You gave a weak nod, tears slipping anew. The moment you lowered yourself, he latched on, mouth devouring your slickness in messy, hungry motions. You let out a wail, overstimulation rocking your core. “Jung— oh God—”

He hummed a response against you, the vibrations almost too much. Your thighs shook, tears dripping off your chin. You felt his tongue swirl around your clit, each motion a jolt of borderline painful pleasure.

Sobs caught in your throat. “It’s— too strong, oh god, please—”

He just pulled you down more firmly, his grip relentless, his own breath ragged. Even from above, you could see him half-rolling his eyes like, This is what you get. “Wanted me so bad, wanted to cry,” he murmured between licks. “Deal with it.”

Surprisingly, you didn’t squirt again this time, but you came dangerously close, tears pouring as you trembled on the edge of blacking out. Finally, he released you, chest heaving, face shining with your fluids. He managed a tired smirk, eyes glazed with leftover adrenaline.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low. “You’re crying, you’re half-dead, and I’m still fucking hard. This is your fault.”

You collapsed to his side, breath stuttering, tears still on your cheeks. “I—I know,” you croaked, adrenaline crashing into exhaustion. “Sorry, guess that means no sleep for either of us.”

He snorted, half-laughing at the absurdity. “Guess so.”

Then, ignoring every complaint he’d had about being done, he buried his face in your neck. “You might’ve awakened something in me,” he muttered, eyes drifting shut with a lazy grin. “So next time, watch your filthy mouth… or maybe don’t.”

Despite everything, warmth spilled through you at his words. “I won’t,” you whispered, resting a shaky hand on his cheek. “I like turning you into this insane version of yourself.”

Jungwon just let out a short laugh, hooking an arm around your waist. “Then don’t blame me when you cry and squirt all over the place again,” he quipped, pressing a small, affectionate kiss to your temple.

Your entire body still hummed with leftover pleasure and oversensitivity, tears drying against your skin. But there, wrapped up in his arms, both of you wide awake and sticky, you couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. Sleep? That could wait.

Because with Jungwon complaining and you pushing every button, the night had only just begun.

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

Riki was sprawled face-down on his bed, still wearing his loose training shorts, hair damp from a quick shower. He looked done for the day—exhausted posture, half-buried face in the pillow, letting out random grunts that signaled just how close he was to passing out. The bedside clock read 10:47, and he had to be up at 4 AM for football practice. Yet here you were, creeping onto his bed, brimming with a plan that definitely wasn’t “sleep.”

He let out a muffled groan the second he felt the mattress dip under your weight. “Don’t,” he mumbled, not even lifting his head. “I’m a dead man walking in six hours if I don’t sleep. Whatever insane idea you have, can it wait?”

You grinned, moving to sit beside him. “But,” you cooed, laying a gentle hand on his back, “I want to try your favorite position.”

He froze for a second, letting out a short laugh that sounded half in disbelief. “My—my favorite position? That’s what this is about?” A resigned sigh left him, and he half-turned his head so one eye peeked out from the pillow. “You pick now, of all times, to bring that up?”

You shrugged, rubbing soft circles over the dip of his lower back. “I can’t help it. You talked it up so much, said it was the best feeling in the world. If it’s your favorite, I’m curious.”

He groaned dramatically, rolling onto his side, blinking up at you like he was the sole survivor of a disaster. “I do love it. But it’s, like, really…involved. And I have to be up at four. If we do this, I’ll get, what, five hours of sleep max?”

“And you’ll be unstoppable on the field,” you teased, sliding your hand up to his waist. “Trust me, you’ll feel amazing.”

He parted his lips to argue—only to draw a sharp breath when your hand brushed dangerously close to the obvious bulge forming beneath his shorts. “You see?” he complained, half-laugh, half-whine. “I was literally about to pass out, but you had to show up with that filthy grin and mention my favorite position. Now I’m awake in the worst possible way.”

Your grin spread wider. “Worst for your sleep schedule, maybe. Best for me.”

He snorted, pushing himself up on one elbow. “Fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face in exasperation. “Fine. But I swear if you make me come so hard I can’t function in the morning, it’s on you.” He pressed his lips together, cheeks pink. “And if we do this, you better not bail halfway. My favorite position’s kinda—intense.”

“Deal,” you said sweetly, hooking a finger into the waistband of his shorts. “Show me. Or are you too chicken?”

That got him. “Oh my god, you’re the worst,” he muttered, cheeks burning as he scooted onto his knees, motioning for you to get into place. “You remember how I told you to—yeah, yeah, just turn around.” He gestured for you to face away from him, then pulled at your clothes, yanking them free of your hips. “I still can’t believe I’m doing this. I should be unconscious.”

You bit your lip, a flush creeping up your cheeks as you positioned yourself the way he’d once described—one leg bent, the other extended a bit, letting him fit behind you. “Then don’t think,” you teased softly. “Just do.”

He exhaled a half-laugh, half-groan, hooking one arm around your waist. “Don’t blame me,” he warned, “when you can’t handle how good this is.” Then, in a quick motion, he pushed his shorts down enough to free himself, pressing his cock against you. You shivered at the heat, bracing for the rush.

When he thrust in, it was sudden, deeper than expected, and you let out a shocked moan. He dropped his forehead against your shoulder, letting out a shaky exhale. “See?” he mumbled, voice vibrating with frustrated lust. “This is why it’s my favorite. Angles, control…so good.” A half-smile twitched on his lips, despite his annoyed tone.

You whimpered a bit, arching into him. “Okay, I get it,” you breathed, heart pounding. “It’s—really intense from this angle.”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Told you. You said you wanted to try it.” Carefully, he adjusted his stance, starting a slow, deliberate rhythm that made the muscles in his arms flex as he guided your hips to match him. Each motion was potent, a targeted friction that drew gasps from your throat. His tiredness seemed to fuse into this almost savage focus on the pleasure. “God,” he whispered, voice cracking, “you feel so…holy crap.”

You couldn’t form coherent words, overwhelmed by how every thrust hit that perfect spot. Your nails bit into the sheets, a half-laugh falling from your lips. “You’re sure you’re about to pass out?” you teased, breath hitching.

He grumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Shut up,” he whispered, laughter stirring in his chest. “I’m so tired, but my body’s going insane.” He rolled his hips, hitting even deeper, and you let out a strangled moan that made him smirk. “Mmm, yeah, that’s it,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering. “This is it. Best position for a reason.”

Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the relentless strokes that seemed to find every nerve. It was filthy and comedic all at once—Riki complaining about his schedule yet pounding into you like he had all the time in the world. Overstimulation built quickly, pleasure surging, your cries getting louder.

“R-Riki,” you gasped, voice quivering on the edge. “I’m so close—”

“I can tell,” he muttered, breath ragged. “God, I can barely keep my eyes open, but I can feel you clenching. That’s insane.” He upped the pace, a low moan slipping out when you squeezed tight, your walls fluttering around him. His own voice wobbled with nearing release. “We’re finishing this fast, okay? I can’t do a marathon tonight.”

You nodded frantically, each thrust a jolt to your system. Overstimulation soared, your body threatening to snap. “I’m close, I’m—”

“Me too,” he cut you off, letting out a soft whine of disbelief. “That’s what you get for messing with me right before bed. Gonna—gonna come—” He let out a guttural moan, hips snapping roughly as he lost himself in the final moments.

You fell headlong into orgasm with a cry, your nails scraping the sheets, body seizing around him. He followed you with a broken groan, spilling inside you as his thighs tensed. For a moment, you both froze, locked together, breathing ragged. Then he stumbled back, pulling out with a shaky laugh that wobbled in his chest.

“Damn,” he panted, half-laughing through the haze. “That was—like, the best worst idea. I’m definitely half-dead now, but I can’t even be mad.”

You let out a tired laugh, letting your arms and legs sprawl. “So…worth it,” you managed, face flushed, body still humming from the overstimulation. “Your favorite position is no joke.”

He dropped onto his back next to you, chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. “I told you,” he murmured, a lazy grin on his lips, “I’m unstoppable in that position. Good thing we went quick, though, ‘cause I can literally feel my eyelids shutting as we speak.” He peeked over at you, cheeks still warm. “You satisfied, demon?”

“Very,” you replied, wiggling closer to press your lips to his damp shoulder. “Now you can sleep, unstoppable football star.”

He chuckled, letting his arm drape over your waist to tug you in. “If I show up tomorrow and pass out mid-drill, it’s on you,” he teased, burying his face in your hair. “But I guess it was worth it.”

As you both settled under the covers, hearts still pounding, you marveled at how he remained half-lidded with exhaustion yet so unbelievably satisfied. Tomorrow’s early morning might be brutal, but neither of you regretted diving into that comedic, filthy chaos for the sake of his favorite position. If anything, it just made the night that much sweeter—and the morning that much more hilariously challenging.

fin.

guys this was insane sorry abt that where did all thsi even come from

[trashytracktales]

Miami heat | OP⁸¹

🟤 summary ──── Winning the Miami Grand Prix was the second-best thing that happened to Oscar. The first? Saying yes to Logan’s invitation to celebrate.

🟤 pairing ──── Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

🟤 rating ──── explicit

🟤 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, drinking, smut, swearing, public setting, thigh riding, unprotected sex, manhandling, hair pulling, light dominance, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, mirror play, possessiveness and marking, Logan cameo.

🟤 word count ──── 5.6k

🟤 date ──── May 21, 2025

🟤 a/n ──── Hi lovelies! Since it was my birthday today (surprise 🥳🥳) I HAD to treat myself with this one. If you know me, you know I am absolutely obsessed with Oscar’s thighs [exhibit ONE, TWO, THREE...]. I fear it’s not just a phase, mom, this is who I am. I’ll go back to your requests now & we’ll read each other soon ♥︎

“JUST A COUPLE of drinks,” said Logan and, apparently, that’s all it took for Oscar to postpone a date with his hotel bed.

It would’ve been quite lame, he thought, to go to sleep after winning a Grand Prix on American soil.

With that in mind, half an hour after he finished all his duties at the track, the aussie sat nestled into a booth, shoulders relaxed and fingers curled around a chilled glass of something sweet and citrusy.

Logan had gathered a group of friends, already half-tipsy by the time Oscar arrived. As usual, he was quieter than the rest, laughing when he should, content to let the buzz of conversation pass over him.

Until she caught his eye.

He watched her slipping into the booth, sitting next to Logan with such an ease that made it feel like the night had been waiting for her to actually start. His first impression was that she is stunning, and not just physically speaking, though that alone made Oscar forget how to sit properly. There was more to it, something about her presence that made everything else fade. Because from the moment she turned her eyes on him and smiled, everybody else simply blurred into the background.

And now, Oscar can’t stop looking at her.

Not even when someone at the table congratulates him on tonight’s win.

Not even when Logan throws an arm around his shoulders and asks for more drinks.

There’s an undeniable glow to her that has him in complete trance, some effortless kind of beauty wrapped in softness and pure femininity. It hits him all at once, starting with the irrational need to know her, and the urge to keep her attention, to make sure he’s the one she remembers when they’ll part at the end of the night.

When the next round of drinks lands, she slips in beside Oscar to congratulate him in a whisper, which draws his attention to her full lips. But that doesn’t last long. The heat of her thigh presses now flush against his, bare skin to bare skin, and that almost terminates him. The girl doesn’t wait for him to thank her, instead, her palm brushes over his arm, a small touch that lasts no more than a second.

For that one second, Oscar’s lounging casually with his drink in hand, but the next, he’s shifting in his seat like the air’s gone too hot around him. He downs the rest of his drink in order to cool himself from the inside out, then tugs nervously at the hem of his shorts, while trying to adjust himself discreetly under the table. Still, she notices, and it makes her lips twitch, like she’s hiding a secret only they know about.

What is certain is that his pulse blooms in his chest, and without thinking, Oscar drapes his arm over the back of the booth, claiming the space behind her. It makes his heart race, even though he knows how silly it is to get protective over someone he just met.

His fingers lightly brush her shoulder, and though he’s still, in theory, paying attention to the others, the gesture catches her attention, and she understands what it means in no time: mine, for now.

In this new position, they’re close enough to feel each other’s scent, and her perfume coils into his senses. A sweet smell that reminds him of Fantales, some caramel candies Oscar used to sneak from the kitchen cupboard as a kid. The memory makes him smile, taken aback by the unexpected trip to the past.

Her fingers skim the base of her glass.

His leg starts bouncing slightly.

Her laugh curls warm around his ribs when someone makes a joke.

And when his knee bumps hers under the table, they both go still.

Oscar looks at her, happy to find out that she’s already looking at him. Their eyes lock, and everything else falls away.

Until Logan decides to get up like a whirlwind of noise and glittering eyes, drunk enough to grab Oscar by the wrist and her by the hand, dragging both of them after him.

“Come on,” he slurs, “Let’s shake our asses.”

They follow him, laughing, weaving through the crowd, with the bass vibrating beneath their feet and neon lights spinning lazy halos above their heads. The music is loud, atmosphere inviting, making it impossible not to move.

Somewhere between the second and the third song, Logan disappears from their sight into the mass of bodies, and they’re left behind in the middle of the dance floor. They don’t even notice until they start to dance side by side. Separate at first. Just enough space to feel like they aren’t doing anything dangerous.

But the crowd pushes closer, the bass gets heavier, and with each second, the gap between them evaporates. With that, eyes find each other in the dark and smiles linger a second longer than they should.

At this point, it’s only natural to let it happen.

They collide, soft but inevitable, and Oscar’s hands go to her waist like it’s instinct. His grip is firm, and it pulls a gasp from her lips before she can catch it.

The girl doesn’t pull away. She likes the way she fits there, right against him, as if it’s something her body already knew. Her hands drift without conscious thought, her palms pressing flat against his abdomen, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. Then higher, across his chest, up to his shoulders, and finally down his arms.

Oscar’s biceps flex under her touch, strong and taut, and his grip on her tightens in response.

Before they realize, she’s wrapped around him entirely, her body molded to his, moving with him to the music. Her scent is dizzying, driving Oscar straight out of his mind. As if he’s controlled by some external force, he ducks his head without thinking, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like he needs it to survive.

She shudders, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against her skin. It drives her mad that she can’t hear him properly because of the music, but she feels the low vibration, and something inside her snaps.

Or maybe it finally clicks.

Oscar’s hands slide lower, down her sides, around her hips, then firmly palm her ass, pulling her with him in his inviting, heated personal space. The sudden pressure draws another moan from her, right into his ear, and her reaction lights him up from the inside out. It also encourages Oscar to keep his hands on her, shamelessly, their faces so close they’re basically breathing each other in. Her lips are slightly parted and her eyes flick to his mouth, lingering for just a fraction, then dart back up.

She wants to kiss him.

He looks like he wants it, too.

But slowly, the girl ends up shaking her head. It’s not a no per se. It’s rather a we shouldn’t.

Luckily, Oscar couldn’t care less. His eyes are already begging, full of lust and that want she saw in him earlier. He’s not pushing, but he’s insistent, asking a stupid question without words: why not?

As expected, she doesn’t have an answer, yet she’s looking at his lips again like they’re already hers. She could die in order to find out how he kisses. Where his hands go when he’s not holding back. What kind of sounds he makes when he’s diving all in. How long it lasts. How deep. How wet.

It doesn’t take her long to glance around the club, just enough to think. Then, without a word, she laces her fingers through his and tugs him behind her as if she’s on a mission.

Oscar follows like he’s still in a trance, heart pounding in his ears with every step he takes behind her.

The bathrooms are hidden near the back, sleek and modern, far quieter than the rest of the place. The lighting here is cooler, silvery, and the stalls are private, each one with a full mirror and its own sink, separated by thick doors and expensive privacy.

She pulls him into the last one, the lock clicks and, in a blink of an eye, he’s on her.

Oscar presses her back against the door with a firm heat, hands braced on either side of her face as his mouth crashes onto hers. The kiss is hungry, open-mouthed and curious, all tongue and breath and need. She tastes like everything he imagined she would: sweet and impossibly addictive.

Her hands are already under his shirt, palms exploring the planes of his stomach, the rise of muscle, and everything she can reach, really.

His knee wedges between her legs for support, and she arches into him with a quiet whimper, mouth breaking from his for long enough to breathe it out. At that, Oscar groans low in his throat, a delicious sound that will haunt her dreams from now on. His hands slide down to her waist, holding her in place while he’s studying her face, searching for any trace of hesitation. There’s none.

Because he’s a tall man, she’s forced onto her tiptoes just to stay with him at the same level as they kiss, but the strain catches up quickly, and when she finally lowers herself, her hips settle onto the firm pressure of his thigh.

Oscar freezes for a beat, then leans in close, “You smell so good,” he says dumbly, just as his body presses more into hers in order to make her whimper again, only for him.

As if he’s done this so many times before, his fingers trail down her side, tracing the curve of her waist with so much intent that makes her shiver. When his hands dip lower, ghosting over the hem of her skirt, she catches his arms lightly, but doesn’t stop him.

Oscar pauses, eyes flicking up to meet hers, asking a silent question and thinking already that this became quickly their way of communicating. Her response is equally quiet, but clear: she shifts nervously, spreading her legs just enough for him to access her with ease.

The girl braces herself against the door, knuckles white as she fists the front of his shirt, breath stuttering out of her lungs. And it doesn’t last long. Not when she’s perched on his thigh, the thin fabric of her underwear barely a barrier between them.

She closes her eyes as she moves slightly, testing the limits of what she can do in a position that doesn’t help her height. And without a doubt, the press of muscle beneath her is firm, and the sensation ripples through her, forcing her to continue her seductive dance, without assistance.

“Oscar,” her voice is just a whispered plea.

He gets the memo, his hand traveling instinctively from her waist, brushing down to her hip. His fingers hook into the waistband of her panties and tug them gently down her thighs, making her gasp in anticipation. The cool air against her skin gives her chills and, suddenly, Oscar is all heat.

“You’re okay?” he asks curiously, breathing against her temple.

She nods, pressing in closer. “Yes. Just…” her voice trails off, brain shutting down as her bare skin drags against his thigh, core aching, her fingers curling into his shirt.

She barely manages a desperate roll of her hips, when her hesitation makes Oscar chuckle gently.

“Are you okay?” he repeats the question more demanding.

She nods against his neck this time, but she doesn’t say anything. Her hips twitch in response, like her body wants it more than she’s willing to admit out loud.

“What is it?” Oscar insists, lips curving into a smirk; he knows what it is, just wants to hear her speaking her mind.

She bites her lip, both embarrassed and frustrated, still grinding against him as if she has no willpower to stop. Shaking her head in disbelief at how her own body betrays her, she whispers, “I don’t know.”

“Then show me,” he says softly, his accent dripping like honey from her ears. “Let me help. We can stop if it doesn’t feel right.”

The girl hesitates only for half a second before moving again, the friction sending a rush of heat up her spine. It’s ridiculous how easily her body responds, how quickly she’s sweating, flushed, soaked, and yet it doesn’t matter. Not when his hands are steady on her hips, not when he’s humming in unison with her sharp breathing, shutting down every rational thought in her head.

“That’s it,” Oscar encourages her, “Use me. Take what you need.”

She lets out a soft whimper, eyes closing as the words melt straight into her stomach.

“You’re doing so well,” he adds, continuing to guide her. “Feels food, doesn’t it?”

“So…” she tries to reply, but she has to swallow the moan that threatens to spill out, her whole body trembling with how turned on she is.

The thickness of Oscar’s thigh fits perfectly between her legs, parting her folds with every slow grind, the pressure against her clit maddeningly good and so, so right, like he was made for her to ride it. Every movement lights up the atoms in her body one by one, and it takes everything in her not to fall apart from how deliciously he fills the space between her thighs.

All this time, Oscar watches her face closely, feeding off her expressions. He flexes his thigh beneath her, just to see her reaction, and when she gasps, he starts moving, lifting and shifting to meet her grind.

Soon enough, he can feel the subtle, desperate throb of her clit through the damp heat between them, and his voice drops low. “Ride it harder, sweetheart,” he says, fingers digging into her hips. “Don’t shy away.”

Her senses explode all at once, like someone struck a match inside her. The fabric of his shorts rides up with her, the heat of his skin burning on hers. Her nerves are buzzing, overwhelmed by the drag of her slick folds against the muscle of his thigh. The speed at which she loses herself is embarrassing, her rhythm faltering already, breath catching in her throat; she would be mortified if it didn’t feel this goddamn good.

She can’t protest much, though. Oscar’s thigh itself is a sin: thick and solid beneath her, strong from years of training, and just soft enough in the right places. It might be the euphoria talking, but she wishes that she could use him like this whenever she wants, ride his body until she forgets her own name. And the way he flexes beneath her, patient and ready to take the lead if necesarry, makes it all too easy to imagine just that.

His jaw flexes the moment he feels her losing it. Her slick heat leaves a trail on his thigh with every slow grind, and the sensation shoots straight to his gut. His mind races, wild with thoughts of what it would feel like to sink his fingers into her, to taste her desperation on his tongue, to bury himself deep in that warmth she’s giving so freely now. He squeezes her harder without realizing, fingers digging in, lifting her just slightly off the ground as he rocks her against him.

“See how perfect you are?” he asks, feeling the way her hips stutter. “Come on, baby, soak me. Show me what I do to you.”

“Osc…ar,” she pants, clinging to him, hands fisting into the back of his shirt, face buried in the crook of his neck. His scent envelops her, clean and dizzying, and her breath comes fast and wet against his skin.

The friction, the rhythm, the pressure, it’s all too much.

Oscar watches her, mesmerized. “Right here, beautiful,” he assures her softly, but the tension in his voice betrays how affected he is only from seeing her so lost in pleasure.

“I’m…”

Oscar’s hand goes up her thigh, his thumb finding the sensitive spot at the apex with practiced ease. She jolts when he touches her there, the motion instinctive. He knows exactly what he’s doing, the rhythm steady and precise, and it sends a rush of heat spiraling through her spine. She sees stars behind her eyes, every nerve ending sparking as more pleasure builds too fast for her mind to catch up.

“There you go,” he breathes against her ear. “I feel you.”

He does. The way her hips start to tremble, the small stuttering jerks of movement that speak louder than words. She’s a mess, pulsing under his fingertips, and the way she grips with every wave of pleasure makes him nearly lose it, too. His fingers hover just shy of slipping inside her pussy, and the thought alone, that all it would take is one tiny push to fill her, to ease that aching need, drives him insane.

“Fuck, you’re so desperate,” he points out in awe. “You need more, don’t you?”

She whimpers in response, hips faltering, and he feels her heat start to coat him, warm, all over his thigh. His jaw goes slack for a second, mind spiraling with the image of what it would feel like to actually slide his fingers into her, his tongue, his cock — anything, everything — just to feel that perfect pull around him the exact moment when she comes.

Her hips stutter again, bringing him back to the present moment, and Oscar swears under his breath as he feels the shiver roll through her body. All around him, her body tenses, clings, and the only thing she can do is hold on, lost in the mess of a sensation so superficial, and the sound of his voice, his scent, him. Just him.

“I’ve never…,” she begins, trying her best to catch her breath. “Never did that before,” she ends up saying, a small laugh escaping her lips.

She surges up to kiss him as a thank you, messy and breathless, her lips trembling as the aftershocks roll through her. His hands fly everywhere, until she finally slows, head resting against his chest.

When she looks up again, Oscar is watching her with the same fire in his eyes. Holding his piercing gaze, her hand darts down to the waistband of his shorts, intent yet impulsive.

But he catches her wrist, stopping her.

“You don’t have to,” he says, voice low but conflicted.

She smirks. “Why not? You look like a guy with good reflexes,” the girl purrs, leaning in.

Oscar’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I am,” he agrees, smiling politely. “But you don’t have to,” he repeats, thumb brushing over her soft skin.

“No, I know,” she insists. “I mean, it’s fine. Unless you talked to Logan—”

In one smooth motion, Oscar spins her around and bends her over the marble sink, the cool surface biting into her skin. She whimpers at the sudden position change, lifting her gaze to the mirror, only to catch the reflection of them both: her flushed and excited, him looming behind her, all heat and tension.

Oscar’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, unreadable for a moment, but his voice is calm. “Did anything ever happen? With you and Logan, I mean.”

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice.

Oscar watches everything from the way her lashes flutter to how her body reacts to his question. Pleased with her answer, his palm skims slowly down the curve of her back, then to her hips, where his touch grows firmer.

“Good,” he nods, his knee pressing between hers, nudging her legs apart.

Moments later, her hands grip the edge of the sink, her skirt hiked up. She arches her back slightly, giving him a clear invitation with the way she rolls her hips, a playful gleam in her eyes. Behind her, Oscar moves like a man possessed, pushing down his shorts, enough to pull himself out. Calculated, he fits himself against her, one hand braced on her lower back, the other guiding himself. And when he’s inside, they both breathe out in relief: her at the fullness, him at the slick heat that welcomes him like she was meant for this.

She starts meeting him thrust for thrust once he begins to move, her moans echoing against the cold tile, the mirror fogging up as the air thickens with heat and desire.

“Good, you have his permission to fuck me,” she breathes heavily, “Or good, you’ll fuck me without even telling him?”

Oscar chuckles, pace deepening. “Good, I only need your permission,” he clarifies. “And I’m pretty sure I got it the second you dragged me in here.”

At that, her head dips forward, between her shoulders, overwhelmed by the stretch, the sound of their bodies moving together, and the raw heat that surrounds them. But Oscar isn’t letting her disappear into sensation. Not this fast.

His fingers wind gently through her hair, a firm but tender hold as he pulls her head up. “Up,” he orders in a gentle voice. “Let me see you, yeah?”

Their eyes meet again in the mirror as she tries to nod, but she can’t, thanks to his strong grip.

“Yes,” she says instead, without looking away.

She can see the flex of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches with restraint, the way his eyes lock on hers like he has something to prove to her.

With that thought in mind, Oscar lets go of her hair only to grip her hips with renewed purpose, fingers digging in with hunger. She feels his desire and need for control in every part of her body, and she likes it. It makes her push back into him, begging for more, meeting him with equal intensity.

Oscar’s chest rises with every breath, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he moves inside her. He looks like he is restraint personified, where every ounce of him is burning, yet held just barely in check for her.

It becomes messier in no time, the rhythm unraveling as control gives way to need. He spreads her wider with a low groan, and the sound alone sends another pulse of fire through her. But instead of protesting, she moans his name again, her body pushing against the pressure. Again and again.

“Fuck, Oscar,” she whimpers, closing her eyes just to focus on the way he fucks into her from behind. “That’s so good, please. Please, don’t stop.”

Exhaling in spasms, Oscar is able to find that spot inside her again — the one that makes everything tilt sideways. The one that breaks her piece by piece, and puts it together the same exact way. He’s not just ruthless in his movements. He’s precise, and every snap of his hips is a calculated promise.

“Yes,” she keeps echoing, her voice going higher, only to crack at the intensity.

“Keep going, you sound unreal,” he leans in, brushing his lips to the shell of her ear.

She pushes back into him, needing much more. “Harder,” she breathes.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, the word punched out of him like her command knocked the air from his lungs. “Since you asked so fucking nicely,” he adds sarcastically, but he gives it to her almost instinctively.

After that, Oscar’s movements grow more unrelenting, until every thrust seems to echo with the tension built up all night. His hands smooth up her back, then down again, gripping her like he’s terrified she’ll break under his force.

“You feel…” he groans, watching the way he sinks into her, “Ah, heavenly,” Oscar continues. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

She gasps, and he presses in deeper, then slows while dragging his cock out, letting her feel every inch of him before snapping his hips forward again.

“Oscar—” she chokes out.

“Yeah, baby. Tell me,” he whispers, “Tell me what you need.”

Truth is, she doesn’t even know anymore. She just knows it’s him. All of him. Everywhere. All the time.

She looks at him through the mirror, eyes glassy, lips trembling, and thinks she’s never seen anything as heartbreakingly hot as Oscar in this exact moment.

His hands trail up her spine again as if it’s already muscle memory, wanting to feel the way she shivers underneath him. Then he brings them beneath her shirt, palms gliding along her stomach before cupping her breasts through the lace of her bra, his thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks that make her gasp and arch into his touch with her entire body.

The slip takes both of them by surprise, his cock sliding free of her slick heat, making them groan in disagreement at the sudden emptiness.

“Hold on,” Oscar instructs, already grabbing her.

She barely has time to blink before he’s spun her around, back hitting the cool tile wall, his hands under her thighs. He lifted her so effortlessly, and now her legs lock around his waist just as he thrusts back into her. The new angle’s different, way deeper, and her head falls back with a loud moan.

“God, Oscar,” she gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders, then burying into the hair at the back of his head. “I feel you in my fucking throat.”

He lets a small laugh against her neck, lips brushing her jaw as he speaks, “‘Cause you’re so fucking tight,” he fires back proudly. “Can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you like this.”

In her defense, she can’t either. Can’t even come up with a lie, let alone a good excuse. But her body does it for her anyway: convulsing in pleasure, fluttering around his thickness as her climax crashes over her. She clutches at him, lips parted in a silent cry, lost to everything but the sound of his voice praising her, and the way he fills her completely. Her entire body is clenching as the orgasm rips through her, hot and blinding, hips rolling without rhythm, unable to stop herself from grinding into every inch of him as she comes.

Oscar is so close, and he has to still deep inside her, a strained moan escaping his throat as he feels her grip his length repeatedly. She’s swollen, sensitive in all the right places, and he swears he can feel her pulse around him, velvet heat dragging him to the edge.

“You feel so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “This is fucking torture.”

She feels him throb against her walls, hard, the tension in his body barely restrained. And just as her legs begin to tremble and the aftershocks ripple through her, Oscar pulls out in a desperate motion. He doesn’t trust himself to stay inside longer than that. Not when she feels that good. Not when she just coated him in the pleasure that he gave her and made it nearly impossible to think.

Dizzy, the girl slides down his body to her feet, barely steady, but her hand finds him easily. He’s hot, slick, straining. Without even thinking, she wraps her fingers around his cock, firm but tender, her thumb pressing to his tip and circling through the wetness gathered there.

His breath shudders out of him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears, forehead dropping on hers, hips twitching against her palm.

Somehow, she’s stroking him with just the right pressure, enough to make Oscar whimper as if he’s in pain.

Their mouths find their way back to each other, parted but not kissing, breath blending in that hazy space they’ve built. He thrusts into her palm, muscles pulled taut, chasing the edge she’s holding him on with such frustrating, perfect control.

In no time, his body goes rigid and then Oscar exhales a delicious sound that’s barely audible, but full of release, white heat spilling over her fingers and dripping down her hand. His own moves to gently push hers away, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she kisses him, her lips finally catching his with a lazy kind of gesture.

“Let me,” she whispers, brushing her thumb along his skin. “That’s so hot.”

“You’re hot,” Oscar shoots back, as if it’s just a silly game for kids.

Looking for some support, he leans in, bracing one palm against the wall beside her head, while his other hand slides down her stomach with purpose. She’s taken aback when his fingers find her hole again, still aching, still swollen with need.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers sink into her, curling in just the right way that makes her eyes roll back and her knees nearly buckle.

“I like odd numbers,” he explains, breathing hoarsely into her skin. “Come on, one more.”

“Oh, shi—” she whimpers, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

She cries out, the sensitivity making her jolt, but she doesn’t pull away — wouldn’t ever dream of it. Not when Oscar holds her steady with one arm around her waist, the other working between her thighs, patient but purposeful. She buries her face in his neck, breathing fast, tasting salt and skin and something that feels dangerously close to a tenderness she won’t be introduced to.

Not tonight, at least.

In the mirror across from them, she catches a glimpse of their reflection, and she likes what she sees, maybe too much: the broad muscles of his back shifting beneath his shirt, arms braced to keep her upright, his body completely encompassing hers. The sight of it and how small she looks in his hold, how thoroughly he’s taken over every inch of her, sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through her.

His shirt is damp against his chest, biceps flexing with every motion of his hand. He’s methodical, and the control in Oscar is intoxicating, all steady strength and relentless focus on her.

“Is there something you can’t do?” she jokes.

His eyes close for a moment, playful yet annoyed, in a way. “Yeah,” he replies. “I can’t take you home and fuck you properly.”

Her back arches against the wall, mouth open in a silent cry as she comes for the third time. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, thighs trembling, heart pounding. And he holds her there, breathing calmly while he helps her riding it out.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple.

When her breathing steadies too, he gently withdraws his fingers, keeping his arm wrapped around her waist. She’s still reeling when he brushes a strand of hair off her face, and then lowers to a crouch.

Without breaking eye contact, Oscar picks up her panties from the floor, the damp lace curled in his palm. Initially, she reaches for them, but he pulls back at the last moment, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Oscar,” she warns.

He smirks and tucks them into his pocket, pulling his shorts up from where they were hanging around his thighs. “Mine.”

She frowns. “Not fair. I have nothing to keep from you.”

“Nonsense,” he leans in, presses his lips just below her jaw, and sucks gently, until her skin blooms under his mouth. “That count?”

She sighes, eyes bright. “Maybe a—”

But before she can finish, a toilet flushes in a nearby stall, and the sound freezes them both. Their eyes meet instantly, making them laugh at the timing, the kind of laughter that shakes their shoulders.

Closing his eyes, Oscar lets his head fall against hers, grinning like a fool. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Thank you for… this.”

“Team effort,” she says, placing a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, sweet like a promise. “When do you leave?”

Oscar lifts a brow. “Why? Miss me already?”

The girl rolls her eyes with a small snort. “Just curious.”

He looks in her direction suspiciously as they try to fix their clothes in silence, still buzzing with the weight of everything that just happened inside the small space. Her fingers tremble slightly as she smooths her skirt, and Oscar’s watching her in the mirror, eyes soft but studying.

Maybe she does. Maybe it’s stupid, but the thought of waking up tomorrow and not having this gnaws at her more than she wants to admit. Because suddenly, the night feels like it’s slipping away too fast, and she doesn’t know how to ask for more without sounding like she’s asking for too much.

Oscar can feel the switch in her behavior, and before she can reach for the door handle, he steps closer, stopping her.

“Hey,” he says in a gentle voice, almost like he’s trying not to scare the thought from her mind.

She looks up, and before she can say anything, he kisses her. Soft and lazy and sweet and with no rush. Nothing like before. His lips move slowly over hers, and he exhales into her mouth like he’s been holding his breath. His tongue brushes hers with such delicate care that makes her knees weak all over again.

When they finally part, she’s breathless in a whole new way.

“If, God forbid, you do end up missing me,” he teases lightly, but he sounds so honest, “I’d like to see you again.” He hesitates, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to hers. “Not just for… you know,” he says, heat creeping up his neck. “I mean, that was woah! But, you know.”

She smiles, nodding. “Yeah, I know. I’d like that, too,” she agrees. “Now let’s go back. Logan probably thinks we’re fucking in here.”

Oscar looks at her, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Probably?” he repeats.

“Well,” she shrugs, eyes flicking up to meet his, “He’s a smart cookie, and Miami heat does tend to enhance the senses.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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[abbotjack]

Irregularities

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : j.abbot@aghosp.org Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh ��� The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

[girlinterupptedsblog]

You send your best friend nudes on aciddent

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader (Best Friends)

Summary: you wanted ro send nudes to guy you were talking to and without even realizing you sended them to rafe. He shows up at your house and he fucks you pretty

Warnings:(Explicit sexual content (18+), Rough, raw, and unprotected sex, Best friends-to-lovers tension, Possessiveness/jealousy, Strong language, Slight dominance themes, Mentions of nudes/sexting, Brief edging/denial)

-------------------------------------------------------

Your house was too quiet. Too empty. The kind of silence that made you restless, forcing you to find something—anything—to keep yourself occupied.

You had already scrolled through every possible social media feed, tried binge-watching a show, and even considered taking a nap, but nothing seemed to cure the boredom eating at you. The guy you’d been talking to—the one you had a… thing with—hadn't texted you all day, and for some reason, that only annoyed you more.

With a sigh, you plopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling before an idea popped into your head. A reckless, stupid idea. But an exciting one.

Grabbing your phone, you opened the camera app, biting your lip as you hesitated. Then, without thinking too hard about it, you started posing, taking pictures of yourself—fully naked.

The longer you did it, the more confident you became, experimenting with angles, capturing the way the dim lighting cast shadows over your skin. By the time you finished, you were beyond pleased with how good you looked.

Your finger hovered over the screen as you scrolled through the pictures, feeling the rush of power that came with it. Maybe if you sent them to him—the guy you’d been talking to—he’d finally give you the attention you deserved.

Without another thought, you selected a few of your best shots and hit send.

The moment was thrilling. You smirked to yourself, placing your phone aside as you basked in the satisfaction of it all. You left your phone unattended for a while, assuming he’d take his time responding, so you didn’t bother checking right away.

It wasn’t until an hour later, when you absentmindedly picked up your phone to see if he had replied, that your stomach dropped.

36 new messages.

But they weren’t from him.

They were from Rafe.

Your heart stopped. Your entire body froze as dread crept up your spine. Confusion clouded your mind until you clicked on his name, your blood running cold as you read the first message.

Rafe: Tell me you didn’t just send that to me.

Your breath hitched. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you scrolled.

Rafe: Are you serious right now?

Rafe: Fucking answer me.

Rafe: Jesus Christ, what the fuck?

Rafe: Are you out of your mind?

Panic overtook your senses as you finally understood what had happened. Your fingers shook as you scrolled up, only to confirm your worst nightmare.

You hadn’t sent those pictures to the guy you’d been talking to.

You had sent them to Rafe.

Your best friend.

The same Rafe who had seen you at your worst, who had been there through everything, who—until now—had never seen you like that.

You felt sick.

Rafe: I swear to fucking God, tell me that was a mistake.

Rafe: Are you ignoring me on purpose?

Rafe: Do you even realize what you just did?

You stared at the messages, paralyzed with horror, your mind racing with what to do. There was no taking it back. No pretending it never happened.

Your phone buzzed again, and another text popped up.

Rafe: I’m coming over.

Your stomach flipped.

Oh. Fuck.

You barely had time to process the messages before loud, impatient knocking shook your front door. Your heart jumped into your throat.

Shit.

Rafe was already here.

Panic surged through you as you scrambled off your bed. You weren’t even dressed—still completely bare from your little photoshoot. With no time to properly throw on clothes, you grabbed the first thing within reach—an oversized shirt that smelled faintly of cologne. Rafe’s cologne. It was probably his shirt, one he had left behind on one of the countless nights he crashed at your place.

You barely managed to pull it over your head, the hem brushing mid-thigh, before the knocking got louder.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Open the damn door."

His voice was sharp, edged with something you couldn’t quite place—urgency, frustration… something more.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed out the shirt, schooling your expression into something nonchalant. Like you didn’t just send your best friend a full spread of naked pictures. Like you weren’t freaking the fuck out inside.

You swung the door open, greeting him with a bright, innocent smile. "Hey, Rafe."

His eyes flickered over you immediately, scanning your barely covered frame. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. "You’re fucking joking."

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. "About what?"

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a sharp breath before stepping inside, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. "Don't do that. Don't act like you didn't just—" He stopped himself, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes dragged down your body again, lingering on your bare legs.

You crossed your arms, biting back a smirk. "Didn't just what?"

His jaw ticked. "Send me those pictures."

You shrugged. "It was an accident."

His blue eyes snapped to yours, dark and dangerous. "An accident?" He took a step closer, forcing you back slightly. "Tell me, how exactly do you 'accidentally' send someone half a dozen nude pictures?"

You swallowed hard, nerves creeping up your spine, but you refused to back down. You weren’t about to let him see how flustered you were. "I meant to send them to someone else."

His expression darkened, something flickering behind his eyes at your words. His voice dropped, lower, rougher. "Yeah? Who?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren’t sure why, but suddenly, saying his name—the guy you’d been talking to—felt wrong. The way Rafe was looking at you, staring through you like he was barely holding himself together, made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

His fingers twitched at his side. "Who were they meant for?"

You hesitated. "It doesn’t matter."

"Like hell it doesn’t," Rafe snapped, stepping in again, this time leaving no space between you. Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his chest barely brushing yours. His gaze flicked to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking onto your eyes again. "You were really about to send those to some other guy?"

Your mouth felt dry. You blinked up at him, struggling to find your voice. "It’s not a big deal—"

His laugh was humorless. "Not a big deal?" His fingers curled at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. "You seriously don’t get it, do you?"

"Get what?" You whispered.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his jaw clenched so tightly you swore he might break his teeth. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up to look at him. Your breath caught in your throat.

"Don’t ever send shit like that to another guy." His voice was low, dangerously soft. "Not when you have me."

Your heart stuttered. "Rafe—"

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly like he was at war with himself. His grip on your chin tightened just enough to make you dizzy. "Do you have any idea what you just did to me?"

You swallowed, your skin buzzing under his touch. "I—"

"You think I didn’t like it?" He scoffed, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "You think I’m mad because I didn’t want to see you like that?"

Your stomach flipped.

He leaned in, his lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "I’m mad because now I can't stop fucking thinking about it."

A sharp breath left your lungs.

His other hand trailed down, gripping the hem of your—his—shirt. His fingers brushed against your bare thigh, sending shivers up your spine.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The second you didn’t tell him to stop, Rafe took that as a green light.

Before you could process it, his hands gripped your waist, and in one swift motion, he lifted you off the floor. A startled gasp left your lips as he placed you on the nearest surface—the hallway counter—knocking over a few things in the process.

Your legs instinctively spread, your oversized shirt riding up your thighs, exposing just how bare you were beneath it.

Rafe wasn’t blind. He saw everything.

And fuck, he wasn’t about to pretend he didn’t notice how worked up you already were.

A dark smirk tugged at his lips as his hands slid up your thighs, fingers tracing your soft skin. "You didn’t even think about putting something on, huh?" His voice was low, teasing. "Almost like you wanted me to see you like this."

Heat crawled up your neck, but before you could snap back, his fingers were already moving.

Without hesitation, he slipped between your thighs, brushing against your slick heat. A breathy moan slipped past your lips as he ran two fingers through your folds, feeling just how wet you were for him.

"Shit," Rafe groaned under his breath. "Look at you."

Your head tilted back slightly, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he teased you, his fingers barely dipping into you before pulling away again. Your hips bucked slightly, chasing the friction, and he chuckled.

"Needy, huh?"

"Rafe—" Your voice was a quiet plea, but he wasn’t feeling merciful tonight.

He pushed two fingers inside you with ease, the stretch making you gasp. He wasted no time, his fingers curling just right, pressing against that spot that made your entire body shudder.

"That’s it, baby," he murmured, his free hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread for him. "Fuck, you’re already squeezing me."

Your legs twitched, the pleasure overwhelming as he pumped his fingers inside you, slow but deliberate. His thumb found your clit, rubbing small, calculated circles that made you whimper.

"Bet you weren’t even thinking about that guy when you took those pictures," he taunted, his pace never faltering. "Bet you were thinking about me."

You didn’t answer, but your body betrayed you—the way you clenched around his fingers, the way your thighs trembled.

He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours, but never closing the distance. "Say it," he murmured. "Tell me who you really wanted to send them to."

Your pride held on, but your body was already giving him the answer.

You didn’t answer his question. You couldn’t. Saying it out loud would mean admitting it—to him, to yourself. That you never meant for those pictures to go to anyone but him. That the only person you wanted to see you like this, touch you like this, was Rafe.

But your silence didn’t matter. Your body told him everything he needed to know.

You gasped, yanking his wrist, pulling his fingers out of you before you could tumble over the edge. Rafe’s brows furrowed, his fingers glistening in the dim light, but before he could question it, your hands found his waistband, tugging at his jeans.

He let out a low chuckle, but it was rough, almost breathless. "That desperate, huh?"

You ignored him, too focused on shoving his jeans down. The second they pooled around his ankles, you took a moment—your breath hitching as you took him in.

Fuck.

You already knew he was big, but seeing it—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip—had you swallowing hard.

Rafe didn’t give you time to think. He grabbed your hips, dragging you to the edge of the counter, spreading you wider. He didn’t bother with teasing or stretching you any further—he knew you could take it.

And you did.

The moment he pushed inside, a strangled moan left your lips, your hands flying to grip his shoulders.

"Shit," Rafe gritted, his fingers digging into your skin as he bottomed out in one sharp thrust.

It was rough. Raw. Deep.

He didn’t give you time to adjust—he pulled back just enough before slamming into you again, knocking the breath from your lungs. The counter rattled beneath you with every thrust, his grip bruising, his pace relentless.

"Look at you," he groaned, watching the way your body took him, how you clenched around him with every movement. "This is what you wanted, huh? Not him—me."

Your nails scraped down his back, a broken moan escaping as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot that had you seeing stars.

"You feel that?" Rafe panted, his forehead pressing against yours. "This is mine. You're mine."

You couldn’t even argue.

Not when you were falling apart around him, your body trembling as you came, his name spilling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew.

And Rafe? He followed right after, burying himself deep, groaning your name as he spilled inside you, claiming you in every way possible.

[lov3lycosmos]

Ateez's Favorite Sex Positions ❦

Genre: smut MDNI

Pairings: Ot8 (individually) x fem!reader

Warnings: just multiple sex positions, some dirty talk, and very explicit wording

Cosmos note: i was bored and tired so don't mind this lazy/shitty layout...skz one coming soon and I promise I'm working on requests im just a bit slow <3

my library!

Seonghwa — Cowgirl (because he gets to be your throne AND your toy)

Seonghwa loves cowgirl because it’s you on display, and he gets to lay there with that cocky little smile while you ride him like he’s your favorite toy. But don’t be fooled — his hands are on your hips and he’s in control the whole time, just letting you think you’ve got the power. “Look at you,” he’ll whisper, staring up at you like you're art, “Using my cock like that… you gonna make yourself cum, baby?” And if you get all bratty and go slow? He’ll thrust up into you so hard you lose rhythm, grinning as you cry out and fall forward into his chest.

You bouncing on him, hair stuck to your face, tits out, nails clawing at his shoulders? He’s obsessed. He’ll bite your nipple mid-moan, slap your ass, then fuck up into you so good you start shaking. “Thought you were in control, didn’t you?” he’ll pant, pulling you down to kiss you like he’s starving. Best part? He doesn’t stop till you collapse, babbling and leaking down his thighs.

Hongjoong — Missionary (but filthy, slow, and possessive as hell)

People think Hongjoong’s favorite is missionary ‘cause it’s romantic. And sure, it starts soft — a slow grind, one hand cupping your cheek, kissing you like you’re porcelain. But that ends fast. The second he’s in, he’s destroying you in slow motion, hips rolling like he's writing music with your body. He’ll start talking all low in your ear like, “You take me so good. Look at you, baby. So fucking pretty underneath me.” And he loves when your legs wrap around him, trapping him in while he goes deeper, just to make you moan louder.

The filth comes out the second you say his name too breathlessly. Suddenly his hand's on your throat, his rhythm turns punishing, and he's saying "You want it deeper? Louder? Beg then. Go ahead. Let everyone hear who's fucking you like this." And when you do? He’ll smirk, spit in your mouth, and kiss you right after like he’s blessing you. That man’s short but he fucks like he’s 6'5 with a vendetta.

Yunho — Doggy (because he’s deep, dominant, and lowkey feral)

Yunho is the sweetest sunshine man… until you’re on all fours in front of him, ass in the air, begging. Then he’s a menace. He grips your hips like handles, pulls you back on his cock so hard the sound alone would get you banned from public housing. “That’s it, baby,” he pants, breath shaky, “You’re so fucking wet… dripping for me already?” He loves spreading your cheeks to watch himself slide in, and he’ll slap your ass just to hear you whimper.

He gets vocal too — panting your name, saying “So fucking tight… you’re milking my cock, shit,” and going deeper every time you cry out. And when you try to crawl away? Oh, sweetheart. He drags you back by the waist, one hand tangled in your hair, moaning “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not done until I say you are.” Deep strokes. Heavy thrusts. Wet skin. Pillow ruined. You ruined. That’s Yunho’s love language.

Yeosang — Spooning (but slow, dirty, and completely messed up)

Yeosang spooning you is sweet at first — all warmth, kisses to your shoulder, and that soft voice asking, “Can I?” But once he’s in, it's filthy whisper central. His hips move so slow it’s mean, just to feel your walls flutter around him while he rubs your clit in tiny teasing circles. And don’t even try to hide your moans — he’ll laugh, nuzzle your neck, and say “You’re so loud for me. Think the neighbors know who fucks you like this?”

He loves that you can’t escape. Legs tangled, arms wrapped around your waist, his cock buried so deep you swear he’s in your stomach. And when you start shaking? He holds you tighter, whispering filth right in your ear while you fall apart. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Just like that. You’re mine, yeah?” Spooning with Yeosang = slow, possessive overstimulation + full body worship.

San — Standing (because sex is a sport now)

Sex with San when you're standing? It’s pure chaos. One second you’re doing dishes, next second your panties are yanked down and he’s got you pressed to the counter, whispering “Couldn’t wait. Been thinking about this all day.” He loves the strength it takes to keep you steady — gripping your thighs, lifting you just enough, slamming into you like he’s trying to rearrange your guts. You’re trying not to scream, and he’s grinning like the devil.

And the mirror? His favorite tool. He’ll bend you slightly, fuck you while watching your face change in the reflection, and moan, “Look at you… watching me fuck this pretty little body. Don’t close your eyes — I wanna see everything.” Bonus points if your shirt’s still on. He’ll shove it up just to see your tits bounce with each thrust, biting your shoulder as he finishes with a broken, desperate groan.

Mingi — Reverse Cowgirl (because he’s the biggest freak and wants the full show)

Mingi’s a certified ass man. Reverse cowgirl has him in hell (the good kind). You on top, back arched, ass bouncing as you grind down onto his massive cock? He’s gripping the sheets and moaning so loud it’s embarrassing. He lives for that sound of skin-on-skin while he watches himself disappear inside you. “Holy shit, baby… ride it just like that. Fuck, you're perfect.”

And when you start losing your rhythm? He’ll take over, slamming up into you so hard you collapse forward, gasping. “You wanted to ride? Then ride me ‘til you can’t walk.” He’ll spank you mid-thrust, fingers digging into your hips like he’s marking you. When he cums? He’s groaning your name like a prayer, cock twitching while he fills you up, panting “Gonna cum so deep it leaks out for hours…”

Wooyoung — Lotus (because he’s obsessed with body contact and praise)

Lotus is Wooyoung’s heaven. Your legs wrapped around him, arms clinging to his shoulders, while he fucks you slow and deep? Yeah, he’s a mess. “You’re so warm, baby. You feel that? That’s all mine.” He’s rubbing circles into your back, kissing your jaw, and talking nonstop. “Taking me so well. You’re such a good girl for me.” His pace stays steady — hard enough to make your breath stutter, but close enough that you can’t escape his kisses.

And when he gets emotional? He’s moaning “I love you” between each thrust, holding your face and whispering, “I’ll never get tired of this.” But don’t get it twisted — the moment you cum, he’s burying himself to the hilt, groaning “Give it to me, baby. Cum all over this cock.” Then he keeps going through your aftershocks, praising you until you’re crying and shaking in his arms. Like I said — clingy, emotional, and fucking lethal.

Jongho — Full Nelson (because power + control + stretch = his dream)

Jongho might be the quiet one, but when he pulls you into a full nelson — legs up, back arched, arms pinned while his cock slams into you at a downward angle so deep you see stars — it’s game over. He loves how exposed and vulnerable you look beneath him, pussy stretched wide, moaning like you’ve never been touched before. And the sound of you gasping for air while he whispers “Just take it. I’ve got you.” Yeah. He’s obsessed.

His strength lets him hold the position easily, so he’s fucking you dumb without breaking a sweat. “This angle drives you crazy, huh? Bet no one’s ever hit it this deep before.” He’ll smirk when your legs tremble, leaning down to kiss your neck while he keeps going, “I’m not stopping until you give me another one. Cry for me, pretty.” Jongho might be composed outside the bedroom — but inside? He’s turning you into a mess and loving every second.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc @ari-hwanggg @alondra6011 @sk1ndx0

[cinnasite]

“now she’s running from this d*ck, i told her stay with it”

꩜ pairing: caitlyn kiramman x female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 908

꩜ synopsis: you slip up and call your girlfriend “mommy”. the rest is history.

☆ art cred: @/xjdkg89q on twt :3

You're not sure how many times Caitlyn has made you come already.

Reduced to tears and beyond wrecked, your hands move to push your pussydrunk girlfriend away while your core yells at you to let yourself be royally ruined. After all, you did sort of ask for it.

The sheets are damp, your thighs sticky with your glistening slick, and she’s still not done with you. The strap-on inside you is thick and curved just right, pushing in deep with every merciless thrust as her fingers rub tight, fast circles over your clit.

She’s above you, rutting into you hard—strong and controlled like normal, like she knows exactly how you fall apart and has no intention of letting you hold yourself together.

“Such a mess already,” Caitlyn tuts, utterly calm, as if this is another regular day. “But, you’re not satisfied yet, aren’t you? Gods, just look at you. Fucking gorgeous.”

You choke out a high-pitched whine, nails digging into her biceps, as you try to keep up—your head spinning, your body convulsing.

"C-Caitlyn," you breathe out, barely able to process anything. "Hah—don't stop."

“I won’t, baby,” she pecks your cheek, deceptively affectionate and almost ruthless. “You don’t get to run from this.”

She thrusts deep without warning, hard enough that your back arches off the bed. It’s ridiculously obscene that it rips a pathetic sound out of you—half-moan, half-plea.

"O-oh, fuck! Ngh, feels s’ good, m-mommy—!"

Immediately, time freezes.

Your blood runs cold when the haze in your mind clears and reality comes tumbling down. 

No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening.

Caitlyn’s hips stutter, her body suddenly heavy above yours as she looms there and gapes at you. The room goes silent except for the rapid thud of your heartbeat.

You hadn't planned to say it. You swear.

It, quite frankly, slipped out, tangled in desperation—your brain too fuzzy, your mouth too loose. And now it flickers between you like something sinfully electric.

Your eyes widen, “I—I didn’t—”

Her hand grabs your jaw and tilts your face up, a squeak escaping you at the sudden movement.

Caitlyn's expression is surprisingly unreadable. Her mouth is slightly parted and her eyes blaze dangerously blue. Not angry, no, but… hungry.

“Say it again,” she whispers, her demand crackling with charged want.

You blink up at her, stunned.

“Caitlyn—”

“No,” she interjects, her words sharper than before. “That’s not what you called me, sweetheart. Say it again.”

Your pulse trips. You don’t even mean to obey, you’re embarrassed for heaven’s sake; it happens naturally.

“…Mommy.”

Once you let the title hang in the air, that’s it. Something inside her snaps.

She nearly growls, low in her throat, and then she’s moving, grabbing your wrists and pinning them hard to the mattress above your head with one hand. The other braces against your thigh as she fucks into you again, this time with real intent.

“That's my good girl,” Caitlyn pants, rough now, feral. “So, so needy you couldn’t help yourself.”

Your legs quiver as she pounds into you, the wet slap of her hips hitting yours echoing through the room. The tip drags hard against your sweet spot, her rhythm relentless.

“You wanted mommy to take care of you, didn’t you?” she hisses, dragging her mouth along your throat. “Wanted to be ruined by her cock, stuffed like a little slut.”

“Y-Yes—” you can’t think. You surrender to the pleasure, incoherently babbling, “I need it so bad, mommy. S-shit, please—”

“Oh, you need it?” she mocks, deliciously cruel. “Wasn’t even meant to come out, was it? But you can’t stop calling me that, can you?”

You shake beneath her, too gone, too broken, too everything.

“I bet you’ve been thinking about it,” Caitlyn continues, grinding into you even deeper, her physique commanding every inch of your skin. “Thinking about mommy tying you down and fucking you dumb. Claiming this pussy like it’s hers. Isn’t that right?”

You cry out, thighs trembling under her grip.

“It’s yours, mommy—mmf—a-always been yours—”

“Fuck.”

Her fingers dig into you harshly. She leans down and kisses you hard, biting your lower lip before pulling back. Her face is flushed and focused, hair an absolute mess, brow furrowed like she’s concentrating on every thrust.

“You want to come for mommy, princess?” she asks, and it’s so filthy the words punch straight through you.

“Yes,” you moan shamelessly, teetering on pornographic. “Please—please let me.”

“Then take it,” she groans. “Be a good girl and take it.”

Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave. You scream, legs jerking, as pleasure rips through you, abrupt and shattering. You don’t even realise you’re sobbing until Caitlyn finally stops moving, letting you breathe.

She stays buried to the hilt inside you, slowly rocking her hips enough to make your oversensitive body twitch and whimper.

Her expression softens to its usual protectiveness.

“There she is,” she coos at your beautifully fucked-out state. “That’s my girl. All spent. All mine.”

You nod, barely conscious, lips swollen and cheeks wet.

She finally lets go of your wrists and cradles your face in both palms, her thumbs brushing away the tears gently.

“You’re going to call me that again,” Caitlyn says in a tone that caresses like fine silk yet cuts like a vicious blade. “Next time, you’ll beg for it and I’ll show you what it really means to be mommy’s girl.”

[colouredbyd]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!

cowboy!remus lupin x fem!reader

synopsis : a sunshine-soft baker moves to town, all ribbons, sweet talk, and a habit of staring a little too long at the cowboy next door. remus lupin tries to focus on his chores, but it’s hard when she keeps calling him remmy and baking him sweets. neither mean to flirt—but the heat’s been rising like bread in an oven, and something’s bound to give

warnings: NSFW, explicit sexual content, graphic language, strong sexual themes, dirty talk, sexual tension, suggestive themes, public or semi-public sexual encounters, alot of dirty thoughts, implied exhibitionism, explicit scenes of desire, lots of cum, eating out, oral sex, no penetrative sex, getting caught dry humping, spitting, fingering, eating out, panty sniffing?, making out, grinding, kinda riding? porn but with plot.

w/c: 5.8k

a/n: 100% inspired by this, all i can say is i should be ashamed for writing this...(to anyone who knows me: im sorry about the horse scene I COULDNT HELP IT)

part two masterlist

Remus Lupin swears he’s got self-control, the kind that’s been hammered into him by years of quiet mornings and grueling afternoons. 

He wakes with the sun, hands steady and weathered, working the land like clockwork—feeding cattle, fixing fences, cleaning stalls, the rhythm of routine keeping the ache at bay.

Black coffee steams beside him, boots lined neatly by the door, shirts buttoned up and clean, a man shaped by order and slow, simple needs. 

Not much stirs him anymore. Not since the war carved its scars deep into his bones, the kind of ache that settles like rain-soaked dust, dull and constant.

But then, you open your bakery—just two weeks ago—and suddenly, the world shifts beneath his boots.

The last thing Remus Lupin wants to do is lay blame—he’s a grown man, weathered by war and wind, with the calluses to prove it—but in a way, you’re the reason why.

The mere thought of you is enough to make this cowboy go buckwild.

It starts innocent, if only in theory.

He’s out in the field at dawn, meant to be feeding the cattle, fixing the fence, maybe even—God willing—cleaning the horse stalls. But the second your name crosses his mind, he’s gone. Useless.

He stands there with hay in his hands and a slack-jawed expression like he’s been shot in the chest with a buttercream bullet. Doesn’t even notice when the old barn cat winds around his boots or when the horses whinny for their breakfast. He just thinks about you.

And it’s always you.

You, with your little bakery nestled on the corner of Main and Maple, a bright splash of life in the dusty town.

You, wrapped in sundresses kissed by morning light, apron smudged with flour, humming soft songs as you tuck wildflowers into window boxes like secrets meant only for the breeze.

You, waving at every passerby like you’ve belonged here forever—even though you just arrived two weeks ago—and smiling at him like he’s the only thing worth pausing the world for.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’ve shattered him with nothing but kindness and sunlight.

Remus had rules once—wake before dawn, work hard, want less than a man can bear—but you slipped in with your sugar-dusted hands and your laugh like a promise, and now his quiet world is a storm. Because he can’t stop watching you.

Can’t stop craving the curve of your smile, the way flour dusts your cheek like a trace of sin, the softness in your voice when you greet him with that simple, ���Morning, cowboy,” like you know exactly how those words strip him bare inside.

And what it does to him—God, it’s sinful, a temptation he’s only just learning how to fight.

You make his hands tremble, his mind stray into wicked places, and his mouth go dry with need. He’s stumbled over his own damn boots more times this week than he has in years, and every misstep is because of you.

The way you lean over that counter, offering him a piece of warm apple pie “on the house,” your scent mingling with the sweetness, setting his skin on fire.

The way you hum, soft and low, like a secret lullaby meant just to tease him. The way your dress sways around your knees, like you’ve never known a single touch that wasn’t hungry, like every inch of you is aching to be claimed.

Today, you slide a wrapped croissant into his palm—blueberry, he guesses, but all he can taste is the ghost of your fingers pressed to his skin, and he nearly drops it, heat pooling low and thick in his gut.

“Thanks,” he manages, voice rough like gravel scraped raw and worn down by too many restless nights and secret pains you can almost taste in the air between you.

You smile at him, warm and bright, like the sun itself had carved that grin just for him, a gentle blaze cutting through the cold edges of his quiet world.

“See you next Sunday?” you ask, voice soft but threaded with a promise that feels like it could burn through stone.

He tips his hat, trying to hide the way his ears bloom a shy, stubborn pink beneath the fabric, but you see it all—the way he’s unraveling just a little, like he’s been waiting for this moment more than he’d ever admit.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, voice low and steady but soaked in something fierce and fragile all at once.

And you know, with every fiber of yourself, he won’t. Even if it kills him.

Because Remus Lupin may be a man of quiet restraint, of slow mornings stretched thin with hesitation and a heart bruised and battered far beyond what any soul should carry—but for you?

For you, he’s already halfway gone, swallowed whole by the gravity of your presence, lost somewhere between the ache and the hope you stir deep inside him.

You don’t see him turn back after he walks away, but he does—just for a heartbeat, a breath stolen in the quiet chaos of his own racing heart.

Remus glances over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp but soft all at once, catching one last fleeting glimpse of your silhouette framed in the window’s fading light.

You’re already moving, already weaving through the room with that effortless grace, already smiling at the next stranger who crosses your path, slipping away from him like the fragile morning light that dances through the leaves—too quick, too fleeting to hold onto.

He tells himself to stop thinking about the ghost of your fingers brushing his skin, the way your voice hums in his ears even now, a sacred hymn that refuses to fade.

He tells himself to forget it, to shove it deep beneath the weight of reason and restraint, but you linger in his blood like a whispered curse he can’t shake.

Meanwhile, miles away, before the sun even has the courage to rise, you’re waking with the world still wrapped in a lavender yawn.

The air holds that delicate chill of dawn, the kind that promises something new and untouched, and you slip on your short linen sundress, the fabric light as a sigh against your skin. A soft pink ribbon finds its way into your hair, tied just so, fluttering like a secret only you know.

You step out into the cool hush of morning, breath mingling with the mist that clings to the lake behind your cottage, where the world feels paused, sacred, and waiting.

The geese shuffle towards you, their honks soft and shy, and you coo at them with a sweetness that drips like honey from your lips—tossing cracked corn from your palm, murmuring, “You handsome little gentlemen,” and teasing, “Don’t be mean, Harold, everyone gets breakfast.”

In this stillness, this fragile quiet, you hold the whole world in your hands.

You like this moment—the solitude, the gentle promise it carries—because here, just here, you are the only girl in the world.

After the geese are fed and the lake has kissed your ankles like a shy hello, you follow the winding road into town, the sun barely half past seven but already spilling warmth across your skin, filling your chest with a sweetness that feels like it could burst.

“Morning, Miss Lily!” you call, your voice bright and light as you wave to the florist tending dahlias on her porch.

Her eyes crinkle with a smile, and she teases, “Well, don’t you look like a postcard—off to steal some hearts today?”

You laugh, adjusting the basket perched on your hip, “Just flour, I promise.”

She shoots back with a knowing grin, “Flour and trouble, more like.”

You wink and keep moving, bare feet gliding over the cobblestones like a secret only the earth knows — light, quiet, familiar.

The morning sun is already warm on your skin, and your soles are still damp from the pond, where you’d been feeding the geese just minutes earlier, ankles muddy, bread crusts tucked in your apron pocket. You’d kicked off your shoes to keep them clean and never quite bothered putting them back on.

Children dart past, chasing laughter through the square, their shrieks bright and wild.

You crouch without thinking, catching the youngest boy by the elbow before he trips on his own shoelaces. “Whoa, careful there, darling,” you murmur, fingers working fast to tie a double knot as he steadies against your shoulder.

He nods solemnly, wide-eyed, before beaming when you press a lollipop into his palm from your apron’s front pocket. “You’ll have to tell me if it’s too sour,” you tease, tapping his nose.

He scampers off with a sticky grin, and you turn just in time to see a little girl hovering near your skirts, shy fingers twisting in her dress.

You kneel again and offer her a warm smile, pulling from your apron a carefully wrapped chocolate chip cookie — tied with red ribbon, baked fresh last night, soft in the center just the way she likes.

“There you go, Hazel,” you whisper, smoothing her curls from her forehead. “It’s the last one, so guard it with your life.”

She giggles, cheeks pink, and runs to show her mother, cookie clutched in both hands like treasure.

Then it’s onward to the bakery—your pride wrapped in pink walls nestled between the apothecary and the old bookshop, ivy crawling up the windows like whispered promises.

Rose-gold lettering gleams softly above the door, lace curtains framing the scent of vanilla, sugar, and warm peaches that wraps around you like a hug.

The bell chimes as you step inside, the shelves half-full from yesterday’s labor: lemon loaves, rosewater scones, lavender honey buns waiting to be kissed by morning light.

You hum quietly, lighting candles and watering the violets on the windowsill, feeling the quiet pulse of this place you built with your hands and your heart.

And then—just like that, as if summoned straight from the reckless corners of your mind—he’s there.

Remus Lupin.

Striding through the dusty street like a dangerous fantasy you never dared dream. His boots scuffed and weathered from god knows what, the worn denim of his jeans stretched tight over hips that speak of muscle and sin, every damn curve making your blood race and your mind spiral.

His shirt hangs half-open, teasing the sharp angles of his collarbone, the warm, rough skin beneath dusted with dirt and sweat, as if he’s just come from wrestling something wild and primal.

His hat is tipped low, but when his eyes lift and catch yours through the glass, everything inside you snaps taut and wild.

You try to hide it—pretending to wipe the counter, fingers trembling and heat burning your cheeks—but it’s a poor disguise.

“Morning, sweetheart,” his voice drips with honey and something darker, low and smooth, and it hits you right in the gut like a shot of whiskey.

“Good morning, Lupin” you breathe back, syrupy sweet, though your body is humming with a different kind of hunger, the kind that curls in your stomach and drips heat between your thighs.

His ears flush pink, and you swear it makes him ten times hotter, the shy confidence battling with the raw, untamed man beneath.

He shifts the bag of apples in his hands, eyes flickering up to yours like he’s trying to read a secret only you hold.

“Brought you something,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words taste damn good on his tongue. “Apples. From the orchard.”

You tilt your head, smile teasing, “That’s sweet of you, Remus. What, trying to win me over with fruit now?”

He chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes your skin prickle. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to come see you. You know, without looking like a damn fool just standing outside your bakery all day.”

Your breath catches. “Oh, so you’ve been watching, huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice rougher now, like he’s barely holding himself together. “God, I—I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve got me—fuck, you’ve got me all tangled up.”

But all you can think about is the way those hands must grip—rough and sure—how they’d feel pressed against your skin, tracing the lines of your body as if memorizing every inch, every shiver, every desperate need.

How close he could get before the ache inside you explodes. The wild scent of earth and sweat and something raw and hungry clings to him like a second skin, and it wraps around you like a promise of sin.

Your smile is all sunshine and soft wickedness. “You keep doing this and I’m going to start thinking you like me.”

He pauses, blinking. “I—I mean”

You giggle and take the bag from his hands, fingers brushing once more.

“I’m just teasing,” you say, even though you're not, not entirely.

He nods, flustered, already backing toward the door like a man escaping a wildfire.

“Have a good day,” he manages.

“You too, handsome.”

You catch the way his shoulders stiffen, how he trips just slightly on the step.

And gods, it’s almost unfair—the effect you have.

But then again, you saw the way Miss Dervish from the tailor’s shop stared at him like she was ready to mount him like a broomstick right there on Main Street.

Remus Lupin really has all the ladies in town ovulating at the mere sight of him.

Truth is: the whole damn town is in love with Remus Lupin.

But only you get to see the way he looks at your mouth when you laugh. Only you get to make him blush like a boy.

And if he keeps showing up in those jeans, with that voice and that jaw and those hands that look like they could ruin and worship all at once—you’re going to forget how to bake entirely.

By midday, the bakery hums with warmth and chatter, full to the brim with townsfolk craving something sweet.

Your apron is dusted in flour and your lips are berry-stained from tasting jam. The sun outside is golden and bold, filtering through the windows like it’s falling in love with everything it touches—especially you.

You hum as you knead dough, hips swaying gently to the old French jazz playing on the radio.

There’s strawberry juice on your wrists and sugar under your nails. A tray of pies is cooling by the window, their scent thick and syrupy, while rows of rose-shaped butter cookies wait to be iced.

But something’s missing.

Chocolate.

And not just any chocolate—your favorite dark cocoa from the little cupboard at the Lupin farm, the one you tucked away weeks ago when Remus helped carry crates after the harvest fair. He’d told you to stop by for it anytime. So you do.

Not because of the chocolate, though. Not really.

You wipe your hands, untie your apron, and slip out the back door into the sun, your ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

The road to his farm is all wildflowers and bees, the kind of walk that makes you hum to yourself and twirl your skirt, completely unaware of what exactly you're walking into.

You spot him before he sees you.

Remus Lupin. On horseback.

And everything in you goes quiet.

He’s riding slow through the lower pasture, one hand on the reins, the other lifting his hat just enough to rake his fingers through his tousled hair before setting it back in place.

His shirt is undone even more now, clinging with sweat to the sharp slope of his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal those tanned, veined forearms that belong in sin. The muscles in his thighs flex under worn denim as he guides the horse in a slow, powerful trot, hips rising and falling with maddening ease.

You freeze, caught like a deer in the fading light.

His every move is a slow burn—the way he eases off that horse, boots landing heavy on the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to make your pulse slam against your ribs.

God, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you’re helpless to look away, your mouth suddenly too dry to form the words you want to say.

Your thoughts spiral, filthy and urgent—how those hands might grip your waist, rough and possessive, pulling you flush against him so close you’d feel every breath, every beat of that steady heart beneath calloused skin.

You imagine the low growl in his voice if he ever lost control, thick and desperate, the kind that shreds all your carefully built walls down to nothing.

And then there’s that hat—the stupid, perfect thing perched on his head, begging to be yanked off like a silent challenge.

You want to reach out, fingers trembling, to drag it free and whisper the words you’d never dare speak aloud: fuck me, Remus.

But you don’t. You can’t. You just watch, helpless and aching.

His gaze locks on you, slow and deliberate, and your breath stutters, caught on the razor’s edge of something fierce and unspoken.

He steps closer, the scent of leather and sweat wrapping around you like a promise, shirt clinging to the lines of his back like a second skin, each movement designed to make your heart race and your mind spiral into sin.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and honeyed, amused like he’s got some wicked secret only you’re about to discover. “Didn’t see you there.”

You force a smile, too sweet, heart already stammering like a busted engine. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just came by for the cocoa.”

He nods, eyes drifting to the horse beside him, and then his hand lifts slow and sure, stroking the mare’s neck with a touch so gentle it makes your skin itch in all the wrong places.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, thick and warm, like a promise you’re not sure you want but can’t resist.

“Was out riding my favorite girl Dai.” His palm slides along the mare’s side, fingers curling like he’s tracing a secret, a sacred line.

“Weren’t you such a good girl, huh?”

And damn, the way he says it—“good girl”—it’s filthy, all slick sin wrapped in a whisper.

The way his fingers trail over Dai’s bridle, so soft, like he’s touching something precious, something he wants to own, to protect.

You try not to squirm, but your legs suddenly wobble, knees weak like you’re caught in a heatwave you didn’t see coming, and there’s this fire burning low between your thighs that has absolutely nothing to do with flour or sugar or any damn thing you should be thinking about right now.

His eyes flicker back to you, catching the blush flaming across your cheeks, and that twitch at the corner of his mouth tells you he knows exactly the kind of mess he’s making you into—helpless, hot, aching for a touch that hasn’t even happened yet.

“You alright?” he asks, voice teasing but laced with something deeper, something that makes your breath hitch.

You nod, way too fast, words catching on a tremor you can’t hide. “Fine. Just… warm.”

“Mm,” he says. “Bet you are.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, like a rumble that shakes your bones. “That’s my favorite girl,” he says, patting Dai’s neck again, “and I reckon you’re my favorite baker.”

You have never in your life wished more to be a goddamn horse than right now.

Because the way he says it, the slow slide of his gaze over you—like he’s already imagining running those rough hands down your back, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, whispering all the things he’d do if you let him—makes your insides twist and writhe in delicious agony, caught between wanting and knowing you probably shouldn’t.

But fuck, you want it. You want him. Every filthy, sinful inch of him.

And when he turns toward the farmhouse, his voice is casual, almost teasing.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go get you that cocoa. Unless you forgot what you came for.”

You definitely did.

But you follow him anyway, biting your tongue, wondering if you can survive five more minutes with this man in his boots and half-unbuttoned shirt and sinful drawl calling anything a good girl.

He walks ahead a few paces, and even from behind, he’s maddening—long legs, golden shoulders beneath that half-undone shirt, a slow, easy swagger that feels like temptation incarnate.

You try not to watch him. You try not to think about what his hands would feel like if they weren’t holding reins or flour sacks. You try not to imagine what his voice might sound like pressed right against your ear.

You fail. Miserably.

The air is warmer inside the farmhouse, thick with the scent of pinewood and tobacco, and your eyes need a second to adjust as you step through the door behind him.

But you don’t get far.

Your toe catches on something—maybe the edge of the rug, maybe a boot left by the door—and your balance tilts out from under you in one horrible, slow-motion stumble.

“Oh—!”

But he’s there.

In an instant, large hands catch you by the waist, grounding you before you even fall.

One arm wraps behind your back, steady and sure, and suddenly you’re pressed flush against him, breath caught between your teeth and heart thundering in your ears.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he says, voice gentle, eyes flicking down to check you over. “Would’ve hated to see you hurt yourself.”

You laugh a little too quickly, palms resting on his chest for balance. “I—I’m okay. Just clumsy.”

He doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes your waist without thinking, and it sends a spark right through you.

Your body is burning where he’s touching you. And his eyes—soft brown, full of quiet amusement—study your face like you’re some kind of puzzle he wouldn’t mind spending a few lifetimes figuring out.

Then, slowly, he lets go.

“Chocolate, wasn’t it?” he murmurs, stepping back and guiding you with a light hand on your lower back. “Think I’ve got just the kind you like.”

You nod, heart in your throat. “Y-yeah. The one with the orange peel in it.”

He smiles. “Knew it. Sweet with a little bite.”

You try not to read into that. You really try.

He leads you to a wooden shelf near the back of the kitchen, cluttered with old jars, dried herbs hanging in bunches, tins of tea, and a few blocks of dark chocolate wrapped in paper and tied with string.

He crouches to rummage through the lower shelf, muttering softly under his breath.

Meanwhile, your gaze wanders again. The way his fingers handle everything with such care.

And—damn it—the way the back of his shirt clings to his waist, damp with sweat, tucked just loosely enough into those low-hung jeans.

You’re not sure how long you’re standing there trying not to ogle him when he straightens up and hands you two wrapped bars.

“Right here,” he says, tapping one. “One with orange, one with cinnamon. Just in case.”

You beam, holding both to your chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs, easy. “Wouldn’t want you runnin’ out mid-pie. That’d be a tragedy.”

You turn to leave, already backing toward the door, your heart full and fluttering.

But before you go, you glance back over your shoulder.

“Thanks, Remmy,” you say softly, voice light and sweet, ribbon swaying behind you as you walk away, leaving him standing there with a tent in his pants.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But you’ve gone and made a mess of all that.

He hasn’t been able to sit still since.

The moment you left, the house felt too empty. The kitchen too quiet. Only the faint scent of orange and cinnamon lingered in the air—sweet, stubborn reminders of you—and Remus couldn’t stop staring at the counter where your fingers had just been.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, pacing slow in his kitchen, heart pounding like he’s fresh out of a goddamn rodeo.

It’s the way you said Remmy again, all soft and sweet like the syllables were something you wanted to wrap in lace.

The way your fingers brushed his when you took the chocolate.

The way you stumbled and he caught you, hands on your waist for one second too long—and how he’s still not sure if that flutter in your chest was nerves or something else.

Something hopeful.

Something dangerous.

He leans against the doorframe, staring out across the sunlit fields, pretending like the quiet out there might calm the storm in here. It doesn’t.

He can still see you standing in the road, squinting up at him on horseback like you were about to fall on your knees.

Can still hear the breath you took when he slid off Dai and murmured good girl to the horse, his hand smoothing over her mane—and how your eyes never left his mouth.

He tells himself he’s imagining it.

He tells himself it’s the heat, the dust, the soft haze of summer playing tricks.

But his hands still ache from where they steadied your fall. His chest still burns from the way you smiled, like he’d given you the whole damn world for the price of chocolate.

And his thoughts—his thoughts are filthy, honey-thick, clinging.

You’re too sweet. Too soft. Too kind for the way he wants you.

He wants to press you up against the counter of that bakery, sugar and flour in your hair.

He wants to take that sundress off slow, like he’s unwrapping something too delicate for a man like him.

He wants to kiss your throat, taste your laugh, ruin your lip gloss.

And worst of all—he wants to hold your hand after.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But for you, he’s starting to lose the only good sense he has left.

Which is why, only a few hours after you left, Remus Lupin found himself walking into town like a man possessed.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a visit. Just being polite.

But his boots hit the pavement harder than they should, dust kicking up behind him as he strode past Mrs. Macmillan’s garden and the old chapel, not sparing a single glance for the women who giggled behind parasols or the way someone’s daughter nearly walked into a fence watching him go by.

He didn’t notice them. Not their perfume, not their waves, not their sun-warmed stares.

His eyes were fixed ahead—on the pink-tinged little building with ivy creeping up the sides and a wooden sign that read The Wildflower Oven. On you.

The bell above the door rang softly when he stepped inside, and he nearly forgot how to breathe.

There you were.

Bent slightly over the counter, piping delicate swirls of icing onto golden vanilla muffins, ribbons tied in your hair like you were spun from sugar yourself.

You were humming something soft, something dreamy and old, and when you glanced up—when your eyes landed on him, bright as sunlight through a summer orchard—you smiled.

“Hi, Rem,” you said, warm and easy.

Rem.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

That little nickname, all familiar and fond and sinful in the way it curled off your tongue.

His heart gave a desperate lurch in his chest, and he felt—viscerally—the tight pull of desire low in his stomach. His belt was suddenly too snug.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he managed, stepping toward the counter as you finished your muffin with a final flourish.

“Didn’t expect to see you again today,” you said, licking a bit of frosting off your finger. “What brings you here? Another chocolate craving?”

He watched your tongue flick over the tip of your finger like you didn’t even know what you were doing. Or maybe you did.

Maybe you knew exactly how you looked, sunlight on your skin and icing on your lips, a walking fever dream of every soft thing he’s ever wanted.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice thick.

You laughed, and he knew he was done for.

You moved to grab a towel, but he caught your wrist before you could, gentle but firm, eyes locked to yours.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured. “I know I shouldn’t.”

But you tilted your head, curious. “Shouldn’t what?”

“This,” he said—and then he pulled you in.

His mouth met yours like he’d waited a lifetime. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t polite.

It was needy, hot, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him as he pressed you back into the counter, scattering a few napkins and flour-dusted tins.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands gripping his shoulders, and he groaned when your hips shifted against his.

The friction nearly undid him.

You were so soft, so warm, and he wanted all of you. Every kiss, every sigh, every inch of skin under that sundress he’d memorized with his eyes.

You whimpered when he kissed down your neck, when his hand slid beneath your apron and gripped your hip hard enough to leave heat in its wake.

“Remus,” you whispered, breathless.

He pulled back for half a second, just to see you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and shining.

“I’ve been thinking about this all damn day,” he confessed, his voice rough with restraint he no longer had. “You’ve been driving me wild, honey. You walk around this town looking like that and expect me to act right?”

Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “Maybe I don’t want you to act right.”

That was all it took.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as his mouth slammed back onto yours, hips thrusting forward on pure instinct.

The counter shook beneath the weight of your desperate bodies. The kiss deepened, savage and hungry. You clung to him like you’d shatter without his touch—maybe you would.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a leg and wrapped it tight around his waist, lowering yourself onto his rock-hard cock.

A guttural groan spilled from his lips as his hands crushed your waist, pulling you harder against him, grinding you with agonizing slowness.

“Shit, baby, can’t do that to me,” Remus groaned, voice thick and ragged against your mouth.

“I really fucking need you.” His hands tore at your dress, breaking the kiss to rip it off, then devoured your breasts with greedy fingers and mouth. He sucked your nipples hard, tugging like he needed to mark you as his.

You peeled your legs free and steadied yourself on the counter, tossing the dress aside. Remus freed his cock, rock-hard and leaking slick precum onto his jeans. Shameless, he stroked himself slow and steady.

“Keep ‘em on.” His voice was low, rough with need as he didn’t let you slide your panties off. Instead, he wrapped his arms tight around your hips and pulled you down so your back pressed flush against his broad chest.

With an effortless lift, he hoisted you up, spreading your thighs just enough with his free hand, pressing his aching cock right between them.

“Remmy…” you breathed out, tilting your head back to kiss along his sharp jawline, soft and slow.

His cowboy hat sat slightly crooked on his head, the worn brim shadowing his dark eyes—an irresistible invitation. Your fingers reached up, bold and trembling, and slowly you pulled the hat off his head, letting it slip free like a promise.

You lifted it carefully, the faint scent of leather and sun-soaked days lingering in the fabric, and slipped it over your own hair, the brim dipping low over your eyes, hiding your flushed cheeks.

Remus’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening with need as he stared at you—his hat on your head like a secret you were daring him to unravel.

You were officially trying to kill him. Remus Lupin—death by pussy. A noble death, really.

His hands clenched your waist tighter, hips pressing harder against yours. “Gods, you in my hat…” His voice was low, rough with want, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned softly, heat pooling deep and thick between your legs, your voice barely more than a whisper, “You’re so big.”

“Shit, y-you’re squeezing,” he murmured, voice ragged as he looked down. Your hips moved gently, rocking back and forth, thighs curling tenderly around his cock that throbbed hard against your thin fabric.

You both gasped sharply the moment his cock brushed against your soaked, sensitive clit.

Remus couldn’t stop touching you, not if he tried. One hand toyed with the frilly hem of your panties, teasing and pulling, while the other wrapped snug around your heaving chest, fingers kneading and claiming.

“Spit on it, baby,” he growled low, heat dripping from every word.

You leaned your head down, eyes locked on the slick glistening wetness smearing your inner thighs, and without hesitation, spit right on the tip of his cock—just like he wanted—earning a deep, guttural moan vibrating straight through you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cursed, pressing your thighs tighter together, trapping his twitching cock between them, moving just enough to drive you wild.

When he finally came, the bite he left on your shoulder was painful and possessive, hot and rough as he spilled his release all over the front of your panties.

He dragged the tip of his cock through the slick mess, spreading it, marking you thoroughly.

“What are you doing?” you blinked down at him, breath hitching. Remus knelt on the floor, hands sliding your legs apart and resting them gently on his broad shoulders.

“Cleanin’ you up.” His lips burned against the soft skin of your inner thigh, tongue flat and warm as it licked away every trace of his mess, slick and sticky.

His dark brown eyes, shadowed beneath furrowed brows and heavy lashes glistening with moisture, lifted to meet yours just as he reached your center.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, heart pounding in the quiet tension.

Remus wrapped his mouth around the stained front of your panties, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate hunger.

His fingers trembled as they slid the fabric aside, revealing slick heat slicked with his cum underneath. He swallowed hard, lips curving into a satisfied grin pressed against your stomach.

“Can I touch your pretty pussy?” His voice was rough, desperate, a shiver running down your spine.

You nodded quickly, breath catching as his cold fingertips ghosted over your swollen clit.

A thick bead of spit fell from his mouth, slick and wet, coating your slick folds before he replaced his fingers with his tongue, warm and insistent.

Your hand dove into his hair, gripping tight as you pulled him closer, needing every inch of him against your burning heat.

His low moan vibrated against your skin, lips and nose grazing your clit, and damn—he could smell you, raw and intoxicating, making him lose himself completely.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he breathed, pulling away just long enough to praise you, hand already palming that aching, swollen cock again.

The pain only made him harder, the desperate urge to touch himself uncontrollable.

With a wicked glint in his eye, he snapped the elastic against your sensitive skin drawing a startled whimper from your throat.

“Rem, I’m gonna come!” you whimpered, that tight knot in your stomach about to unravel.

If his mouth wasn’t still buried between your thighs, you’d have caught the smug smirk spreading across his face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked a finger into the waistband and pushed your panties to the side, exposing you to the cool air—and to him.

His palm pressed firmly against your lower stomach, moving in slow, possessive circles until you cried out his name, the sound raw and needy.

“Sensitive, yeah?” he murmured, lips trailing soft kisses over your clit, making you jerk and shiver.

You tried squeezing your legs shut, but Remus was relentless—elbow hooking under your thighs to pry them open wide, resting your legs on his shoulders as he dove back into your slick heat.

“Please, Rem, someone could come in!” you gasped, attempting to push him away.

“Just a little more, baby,” he slurred, tongue flicking expertly around your trembling hole.

“Gotta come,” he muttered, sharpening the tip of his tongue and plunging it deep inside you, making you gasp and tremble with pure, desperate need.

He curled his tongue inside you before pulling back and spitting wetly inside, the slick fabric pressed against your pussy.

Your eyes snapped open as his fingers slid in alongside the soaked cloth, stretching you deliciously.

“Fuck, you’re sweeter than any damn pie,” he groaned, voice thick with need as he pushed himself up.

“Gonna cum all over this cunt.”

Hovering over you, your legs wrapped instinctively around his torso, clutching him tight. His cock slapped hard against your clit before he began grinding the swollen tip back and forth, moaning deep and loud.

Breath ragged, he sighed softly as hot spurts of cum dripped slick between your folds, the bunch of fabric trapped inside catching most of the mess.

“Fuck, fuck, such a good girl f’me.”

He let his whole weight collapse onto you, hands bracing on your shoulders to pull you impossibly close.

“So fuckin’ good, baby, best damn pussy in this town.” he muttered, words thick with filthy adoration, peppered with profanity.

Sliding down, he planted soft, worshipful kisses on your collarbone, trailing lower to your chest and stomach.

You grabbed your dress off the counter and fumbled to pull it back on, fingers trembling as you tried to find the sleeves.

“Here—c’mere, baby,” Remus murmured, stepping in to help, his hands steady where yours shook. He took his hat and put it back on his head and then guided the fabric up over your shoulders, smoothing it down gently before reaching for the ribbon that had slipped loose in your hair.

“Hold still, love,” he said, voice soft, almost fond, as he tied it back into place. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips—slow, sweet, grounding.

Before you could turn away, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He caged you gently between his chest and the counter, forehead dropping to yours. “You know,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips, “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your smile curved wicked. “Even right now?”

“Especially right now.”

You reached down, curling your fingers through his until his hand was yours again. Slowly, deliberately, you brought it to your mouth—and licked the remaining mess from his fingers, eyes never leaving his.

Remus Lupin was, quite officially, dead and gone for—completely wiped out at the sight of you licking his own cum off his fingers, the sweet angel baker of the town now standing before him as the most gloriously obscene vision he’d ever laid eyes on.

Yeah, Remus was absolutely, undeniably done for.

But then—

CRASH.

The bakery door slammed open with the force of a thunderclap, bell jangling like an alarm.

A deep roar of an engine echoed behind it, followed by the unmistakable snarl of tires on pavement and the lingering scent of leather and smoke.

And standing in the doorway, sunglasses low on his nose, helmet under one arm and a slow smirk tugging at his mouth—

Was Sirius Black.

“Am I interrupting?” he drawled, voice like trouble and sin.

[cumironi]

A FLEXIBLE BIMBO’S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL RUIN, NAMASTEEE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. thousand for pilates and your expensive juice while your boyfriend is working his ass off. is it acceptable? obviously not that’s why they’ll help you streeeeech.

warning(s). non-sorcerer, modern AU, reader is a spoiled college brat, age gap relationship (31yo man / 23yo reader), possessive behavior, manhandling, leg-on-shoulder sex position, power play, rough sex, standing sex, impact play (spanking), overstimulation, internal ejaculation / cum leaking, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, pussy drunk characterization, full nelson position, handpinning, wall fucking, orgasm denial, delayed climax, size kink, wet and messy sex, nipple play (biting, sucking), overstretched pu$$y, cumplay, emotionally repressed men snapping sexually, physical restraint (arm pinning, leg holding), reader being folded like a pilates reformer machine, window fucking, public exposure risk (urban apartment), swearing / explicit language, casual misogyny with affection, mental breakdown via dick, all characters are consenting adults.

GOJO SATORU

you don’t even hear the front door slam. too busy lounging on the couch in his hoodie—oversized and smelling like his stupid expensive cologne, with your phone balanced against your knee, legs thrown up like a princess in exile. a cucumber mint smoothie sweating beside you. freshly blended. still cold. probably fourteen dollars.

you hear his footsteps instead. that deliberate, heavy stride of a man who’s either bringing you dinner or about to fuck up your entire life for sport.

you don’t look up.

but you feel it.

that vibration of a presence when gojo satoru walks into the room pissed and amused in equal measure. like he’s caught you stealing gold bars again. like he’s gonna make you beg for the next one. he tosses something. paper. it hits you in the chest and flutters down.

you blink.

“…did you just throw a receipt at me?”

his sunglasses are off. he never wears them at home unless he’s about to deliver bad news in a dramatic monologue. “that’s a pilates receipt,” he says. “for fifty-six thousand yen.” a beat. “for one month.”

you lift your eyes lazily. “that’s the introductory rate.”

his hands come to his hips. god. those fucking hips. “and what exactly are they teaching you in this luxury cult that justifies you spending my hard-earned salary on getting tied to a piece of wood and shoved around like a meat puzzle?”

you lick smoothie off your straw.

“they work my core. build length. alignment. it’s a holistic approach to mobility and flexibility.” he stares at you in silence for a full ten seconds. his nostrils flare. “…you think you’re flexible?” he says at last. you blink slowly. you can feel the grin starting before it curls into your mouth.

“i’ve seen what you do to me,” you say sweetly. “so yes. i think i’m very flexible. you’re lucky i don’t invoice you.”

a second passes. a long one.

then—he’s moving.

fast.

you let out a delighted yelp as he grabs you off the couch, your smoothie flying somewhere behind you like a casualty of war. your legs kick, flail, but his grip is iron. the hoodie rides up to your waist as he tosses you over his shoulder.

“satoru—satoru—”

“shut up,” he says, smacking your ass, “and show me how much i’m paying for.”

the first time he folds you in half, it’s on the kitchen counter.

his hand’s between your shoulders, pressing you flat to the cold marble. your knees are up beside your ears. your panties are gone. his sweats are halfway down his thighs. and his cock—god, his cock—is already inside you, thick and veiny and curved just enough to punch something inside you you’ve never had anyone reach before.

he’s not even moving. just holding you there. impaled.

your calves tremble. your toes curl.

“not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh. “but these pilates people… do they fold you like this, baby? get your knees touching your fucking shoulders like this?” you try to breathe but there’s no air. just the stretch. the deepness. the weight of him inside you, pulsing.

you nod, eyes fluttering.

“liar,” he breathes, and slams into you.

your scream echoes off tile. his thrusts are punishing. slow. like he’s testing your range of motion. pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in with a controlled, maddening precision that leaves you shaking.

“look at you. soaking all over my counter. and you have the audacity to use my card for yoga class when you’ve got me right here? i should break your fucking spine.” you whine. moan. shudder. he’s so deep—you feel like you’re going to come just from the position. from how your body is folded under him, stretched wide, vulnerable.

he grabs your ankle. lifts it higher. you nearly scream again.

“god, look at this. baby. you’re literally bent in half. you wanna waste my money? make it worth it.”

round two is on the floor.

your legs are straddling his shoulders. your arms are pinned under his knees. and your entire torso is rolled up like he’s about to pile-drive you through the floorboards. “this one’s called happy baby,” he murmurs, licking your clit slow and messy. “except i don’t think there’s anything holy about what i’m doing to you right now.”

you can’t speak.

your thighs are shaking. your pussy’s swollen, wet, overstimulated from the last orgasm and being edged through two more. he keeps licking. slow and relentless. circling that tender spot just enough to make your stomach curl and twist, like you’re being stretched from the inside out.

“fuck,” he whispers. “your little hole’s fluttering. you gonna come again? just from my tongue?” you try to wiggle, but he tightens his grip. makes a noise against your clit that vibrates through your spine.

you break. completely. shuddering against his mouth, gushing against his chin as you come again, full-body, screaming his name. he groans, hips grinding into the floor, hungry for it. like he gets off just from wrecking you.

by the time he’s finally inside you again, this time from behind, kneeling over you with your arms pulled back into a stretch that arches your chest off the bed—he’s panting.

you’re soaked.

his cock slides in easy. and he just holds you there. hips flush. dick fully buried. sweat dripping down his chest onto your back. “jesus christ,” he groans. “this pussy—this fucking pussy—baby, i think you broke me.”

you make a sound. a weak, ruined whimper.

he chuckles.

softly.

leans down. kisses your shoulder. cheek. presses his chest to your back and rocks into you with slow, loving strokes, fucking you now like he means it. “you win,” he whispers against your ear. “fuck the pilates. i’ll stretch you every morning.”

a pause.

“but i’m charging you for the smoothies now.”

GETO SUGURU

it starts in the kitchen.

you’re wearing that outfit. leggings that cling to your ass like a second skin, high waistband hugging the curve of your hips. cropped tank top, no bra, just the hint of nipple pressing against the fabric like a test of his restraint. hair twisted up messily, neck exposed.

you’re blending something. bright green and expensive-smelling.

he walks in from work and drops his keys with a low clink, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

then, “you’ve been at that place again.”

your spine straightens.

“what place?” you don’t even turn around. voice all air and innocence, like you’ve already decided you’re going to lie through your teeth. “don’t fucking play with me,” he says, tone level, low, a blade unsheathed. “i saw the charge. that pilates studio. twenty-four thousand yen. again.”

you sip. “they added advanced core conditioning.”

“did they add a private fucking chef too? you spent more on smoothies this month than on textbooks.” you don’t flinch. just smirk into the glass. “i’m investing in my longevity.”

and that’s it.

the silence that follows is deep and weighted and final.

because he doesn’t argue when he’s past the point of talking. he acts. the next thing you feel are his hands on your waist, dragging you away from the counter with no warning, smoothie glass thunking to the floor, half-spilled. he spins you, lifts you—lifts you—and slams your back into the cool surface behind. you yelp, arms catching the edge behind you as he shoves his thigh between your legs and presses. hard.

“you want flexibility?” he growls, mouth hot on your jaw. “mobility? deep core engagement?”

his hands grip your thighs and spread them wide, pushing them up and open until you’re practically doing a split across the marble. the stretch burns—but it’s not enough to distract from the thick press of his thigh grinding up against your pussy through the leggings, damp already. “i’ll give you a fucking full-body workout.”

you moan, but it’s cut off when he grabs your jaw—tight—and forces your face toward him. “you think this ass is yours to flaunt on some reformer bed? think they stretch you like i do?” he’s furious. but there’s something underneath it. darker. hotter.

you’re being owned. corrected. and you love it.

“no one touches me,” you gasp.

he snorts. low and sharp. “except when you beg for it.”

he strips you bare in the living room.

throws your top to the floor. tears the leggings down your legs like they offended him. you squirm, bare now, flushed from neck to thigh. he doesn’t even bother undressing fully—just shoves his slacks and boxers down enough to free his cock, hard and thick and already leaking.

“get on the floor,” he says, voice gravel.

you obey.

he grabs your ankle and drags you to him, and it’s not gentle. your skin scrapes on the carpet. your breath hitches. but you’re soaked. he folds your knees to your chest, pushes both legs back until you’re open and exposed and trembling. “you think this position is in your class?” he growls, staring down at your cunt, glistening under the light. “you think they stretch you like this?”

you’re so open you can’t breathe. your thighs tremble from the pressure. your cunt pulses with need.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow at first. just enough to stretch your entrance wide. then he rams forward with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust that punches a sound out of your throat you’ve never made before.

your eyes roll back. your hands claw at the carpet. you’re full, painfully, impossibly full. he’s so deep it aches. “feel that?” he hisses through his teeth, dragging his cock out slow, letting your walls grip every ridge of him. “this is the only stretch that matters.”

he fucks you like a hammer. like he’s working out every ounce of frustration with the way your body folds around him. he bends your legs back until your knees press into your chest and your ass lifts off the ground. your pussy squelches, loud, raw, soaking. the slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

he leans down, mouth to your ear.

“they stretch your pussy this deep?” he hisses.

“n—no,” you choke.

he grabs your throat—firm, not choking. just holding.

“say it again.”

“no one—no one does but you.”

he kisses you then—rough and filthy, tongue sliding into your mouth like it owns you. he doesn’t stop fucking you even as your moans catch in your throat. he wants it there. to feel it. to taste it. to make it real.

he flips you over onto your stomach without pulling out.

you gasp as your face hits the carpet, and then he’s grinding into you from behind, deeper now, weight heavy over your back, one hand fisted in your hair.

you sob into the floor.

“stay right there,” he growls. “arch your fucking back—good. that’s it. hold it.” he pistons into you from behind, his hand smacking your ass hard, again, again, until it burns. “legs shaking already?” he pants. “you’re such a spoiled little brat. wanna run your mouth, waste my money, act like your pussy isn’t mine.”

he pulls your head back by your hair and bites your neck—hard.

“say it.”

“it’s yours—fuck, suguru—i swear—”

he fucks you even harder.

and when you finally come—shaking, convulsing, sobbing into the carpet with your pussy gripping him like it’ll never let go—he groans, low and guttural, and spills inside you in thick, hot waves. he doesn’t pull out. he stays there. buried. deep. panting.

hours later—your face still mashed against the floor, limbs trembling, thighs bruised—he finally slides out. you feel the slow drip of his cum down your thigh. then his fingers. he pushes it back in with two of them. slow. possessive.

“no more pilates,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-slick hair off your temple. “you want to stretch, baby, you come to me.”

you blink up at him, broken and beaming.

“…can i still get the smoothies?”

he laughs once, low and sharp.

then grabs your ankle again.

“bend over the couch. you’re not done.”

NANAMI KENTO

you should’ve known something was wrong when he texted you at 4:41 p.m.

“i’ll be home by five. don’t go anywhere.”

no emoji. no dot dot dot. just those words. clean and dry like a corporate bullet.

you thought he was bluffing. he doesn’t leave the office early for anything. he eats his lunch standing up and answers emails with a frown so deep it might be surgical. but he walks through the door at 4:58 p.m. briefcase down. tie still on. and he doesn't kiss you. he sets a folded piece of paper on the counter. a receipt. you don’t even need to look at it.

you know what it is.

“you spent sixty-five thousand yen,” he says without looking at you, sliding off his watch. “in one week.” you chew your lip, standing in the kitchen like a caught rabbit in leggings that cling to your ass, sports bra sticking to your chest. “they had a stretch reformer bootcamp this week,” you offer weakly.

his brow twitches.

“that’s what you call it?” he asks, walking toward you, loosening his tie. “bootcamp? to lie on your back while some barely-trained teenager straps you into resistance bands and calls it exercise?”

“they do more than that—”

“i can see what they do. your little videos. those slow leg lifts. the air-humping. the stretching. you think that justifies the bill you sent me?” he’s standing close now. close enough that his cologne—clean cedar, leather, citrus undercut with heat—wraps around you like a noose. you smirk, defiant even as your heartbeat stutters. “i’m flexible now,” you say, voice light. “isn’t that worth something?”

he exhales slowly. closes his eyes.

and when he opens them again—

“strip.”

he doesn't let you undress yourself. he does it for you.

rips the waistband of your leggings down with one brutal tug, dragging them past your knees, your thighs, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something expensive he owns.

he peels your bra up, off, tossing it behind you with a flick of his wrist.

then his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive. he turns you. pushes your back against the cold wall of the hallway. one palm finds your throat. not choking—just there. heavy. dominant.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low as his other hand slips between your legs. “how flexible?” your breath catches. you’re soaked already. your thighs part on instinct, the pulse of need between them aching and slick. he pushes two fingers in. slow. precise. your body clenches.

his voice is a near-growl.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “you’re dripping just from me undressing you. and you spend my money so some stranger can put your legs in the air?” you moan. try to speak. he curls his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp, then pulls them out and shoves them into your mouth.

“taste it.”

you suck, eyes fluttering.

he grins, slow and mean.

“we’re doing this my way tonight.”

you don’t even understand what’s happening until you’re on the bed, face down, arms yanked back—hard—and your body is suddenly off the mattress. lifted. bent.

“nanami—?”

his hands are under your knees. your arms are over his, bent back. your entire body is suspended in the air, your back arched, your thighs spread wide. his chest is to your back. and you’re held in place by the cage of his arms and the brutal grip of his thighs against yours.

he growls into your neck, “you want flexibility? i’ll show you full extension.”

then he pushes into you.

you scream.

he’s thick. hard. ruthless. your pussy stretches around him so tight you think you might tear. he buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust, cock carving into you like he’s claiming space. you can’t even move. your legs are pinned wide. your arms pulled back. your back arched so deeply that your chest is jutting forward, helpless and trembling.

and he starts to fuck you.

deep. measured. powerful.

his hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every brutal grind of cock against your swollen, aching cunt. your body bounces in his grip, caught, dangling, used. “this what they teach you?” he hisses into your ear. “this angle? this depth? you feel that, baby?”

you sob. nod. can’t speak.

“say it.”

you struggle, mouth open, words choked out with every thrust.

“they—don’t—fuck—me—like—you—do—”

he groans, fucking harder.

“they better not.”

he adjusts his grip, pulling your knees higher. deeper angle. you choke on a scream as he hits something so deep your vision goes white. his mouth is on your shoulder now, teeth dragging over skin, lips slick with sweat and spit and need. he doesn’t stop. not when your pussy spasms around him, clenching like a fist. not when your orgasm crashes into you like a scream trapped inside bone.

he fucks you through it. never slowing. never relenting.

“you want a stretch? i’ll keep you bent like this until your muscles seize.” he groans. pants. and then—he comes. deep inside you. cock pulsing. his hands locked on your body like a cage. he holds you there, suspended, filled.

like a lesson.

after, he lowers you onto the bed like something delicate. ruined. you’re trembling. twitching. your thighs won’t close. his cum leaks out of you in slow, thick drips. his hand brushes your hair back. “next time you want to stretch,” he murmurs, voice rough and dark, “you ask me.”

you nod.

he leans down. kisses your temple. “and if i see one more charge from that place—” his hand slips back between your thighs. “—i’ll fuck you in the lobby.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the door slams behind him with enough force to shake the floorboards.

you’re mid-pose. stretched out over a yoga ball in front of the TV, leggings practically painted onto your ass, some workout influencer with a honeyed voice instructing you to breathe through the sacral engagement.

you turn your head, a smirk curling at your mouth.

“hey, babe—home early?”

toji doesn’t answer. he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds something up between two fingers. a receipt. long. curled at the edge. “three sessions in one day?” he asks, voice flat. “you training to be a contortionist now?”

you blink, innocent.

“they had a flexibility workshop.”

“flexibility,” he repeats, stepping forward. “you need them to teach you that?”

you open your mouth to retort—but it dies in your throat when he closes the distance. one hand goes straight to your throat. the other to the back of your head. he grips you—hard—drags you up off the yoga ball, and before you can breathe, he’s got you slammed flat over the kitchen counter. "you think i pay for you to stretch out that tight little pussy in some fancy-ass studio with floor-length mirrors and soy candles? huh?"

your hips writhe, but his hand slaps down hard on your ass.

“answer me.”

“n-no, toji—fuck—i—”

he grabs the waistband of your leggings and rips them. not tugs. not slides. tears. the elastic pops. your panties with them. you’re bare now, bent over the cold counter, pussy slick and already dripping because of course you're soaked from this.

he slides his fingers between your legs. hums.

“so wet just from me walking in. you like getting caught.” you gasp, biting your lip, and he shoves two fingers in. hard. fast. curls them until you cry out. "yeah. that’s what i thought. you fucking brat."

he takes you right there.

no prep. no warning.

one hand between your shoulders, the other pinning your wrists to the counter. he rips his belt open, pulls his cock out—already hard—and thrusts inside in one brutal, merciless motion.

you scream. your body bucks. your eyes roll back.

he’s thick. too big. stretching you wide with no time to adjust. it burns—but god, it’s good.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your ear. “wanted to see if those yoga freaks could get you as deep as me?” he slams into you again. again. your pussy’s clenching, spasming, trying to take him. failing. it’s too much. and you’re shaking already. his grip moves to your hair. yanks your head back. you’re drooling, eyes unfocused.

he laughs.

“you’re so fucking dumb when i fuck you like this. i should film it. send it to your instructor. ‘here’s your little star pupil—can’t even spell her name with a cock in her.’”

then he really gets mean.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing. tosses you onto the floor in the living room—next to the yoga mat, your smoothie still sweating on the side table—and grabs you. pulls you into his lap. traps your arms. lifts you up, and suddenly—your knees are over his thighs, your legs spread, and your arms are pinned up under his.

full nelson.

you’ve got no leverage. no control. your whole body is open, suspended, split wide.

and then—

he sinks into you again.

hard.

you scream. back arching. vision blurring.

his cock hits everything from this angle. it's like he's splitting you in half. you can't even fight it—your arms are trapped, your legs forced wide, and he’s using your own weight to fuck you down onto his cock over and over again, bouncing you like a toy. “there’s your stretch,” he snarls. “you feel that? you’re so fucking open, i can see my cock through your stomach.”

you sob. try to nod. can't speak.

he’s relentless.

fucking up into you, holding you like a ragdoll, your pussy wrapped tight around him, spasming with every thrust. he’s groaning now—raw, rough, sweat slicking his chest. “you earned this,” he pants. “all that money you spent—now you’re gonna pay it off.” he slams up again. your moan is wrecked.

“with your fucking cunt.”

when you come, it’s violent.

your body seizes, twitching hard in his grip. your pussy milks him. chokes on him. you’re sobbing—babbling nonsense—legs trembling around his waist.

toji groans.

and comes.

deep inside you. thick and hot. filling you up so much you feel it dripping before he even stops. he doesn’t let you go. he just holds you there. cock still buried. chest heaving. “there,” he mutters. “that’s a real full-body workout.”

a beat.

“and baby?” he leans in, voice low and dark against your ear. “next time you spend my fucking money without asking—i’ll fold you backwards.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you’d been running your mouth all day.

legs sore from class, tank top sweat-slicked, face flushed with that post-workout glow like you’d actually worked for something.

“my hamstrings are tight,” you’d whined, flopping onto the couch, pushing your ankle onto his thigh like you wanted him to touch you. “we did these deep lunge extensions—my instructor said i’m really flexible now.”

sukuna didn’t say anything then.

just looked at you—eyeing the curve of your ass in those fucking leggings, the way you stretched like you knew he was watching. the bratty smile you gave him when you took the last of his cigarette and didn’t say thank you.

he waited.

waited until now—late evening, when the lights are low and the room smells like smoke and sex and skin—and you’re backed against the wall, your tank top riding high, your panties hanging by a thread, and your leg thrown over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

like you’re just that flexible.

he’s inside you already.

deep.

fucking inches deep.

his cock stretches you wide, thick and brutal, the kind of stretch that burns in your thighs and pulses in your cunt, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his hands are gripping your hips hard—fingers bruising, rough, possessive—and your heel’s hooked over his shoulder, your other leg barely holding your weight as your back arches into the plaster.

and he just smiles. slow. dangerous.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, hand sliding up the inside of your raised thigh, gripping the meat of it, squeezing. “this how they stretch you in those little classes of yours?”

you try to speak. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

he chuckles.

“nah,” he says. “they don’t stretch you like this, do they?”

he thrusts. once. deep.

your breath shatters.

he’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. your pussy clenches. your hips jerk. your fingers claw at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps you right there, leg hoisted high, body bent and trembling.

“fuck, baby,” he grins, cock sliding out slow before slamming back in. “you’re opening up so easy. maybe those classes are working.”

you moan. broken. breathless.

his hand wraps around your throat.

“you like this, huh? standing here, pussy stretched open, one fucking leg in the air like a good little slut on display?”

he rolls his hips, angling his thrusts to grind against your g-spot, relentless and deep.

you sob. your thighs tremble.

“fuck—sukuna—please—”

he groans, filthy and low, lips brushing the curve of your jaw.

“you feel that stretch in your hips, sweetheart? in your cunt?”

he thrusts again—hard—makes your whole body bounce against the wall.

“this is real flexibility,” he growls. “this is what i pay for.”

his mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, your tits—teeth grazing, lips sucking, tongue trailing fire down your throat. and the whole time, his cock keeps slamming into you, dragging moans from your chest you didn’t know you could make.

you’re babbling now. drunk on him. on how deep he is. on the burn in your thighs and the slick squelch of your soaked cunt every time he pulls out and drives back in. “so fucking tight,” he pants. “and still taking it all. you feel how wide i’ve got you open?” his thumb drops to your clit. rubs circles—mean, precise, perfect.

you cry out. jerk.

“uh-uh,” he hisses, pinning your hips. “don’t move. hold the leg. keep it up. you want to be flexible, brat? show me.” your muscles scream. your body shakes. but you obey. because he’s so deep. so rough. so fucking good.

he kisses your throat.

“attagirl.”

when you come—it’s violent. sudden. full-body.

your vision flares. you scream, cunt clenching around him so tight he groans, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck as he fucks you through it, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up.

and when he comes?

it’s deep.

a growl ripped from his chest, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up with so much cum it leaks out around him even before he pulls out. you’re shaking. leg still hoisted. mouth open. whole body limp. he finally lowers your leg.

lets you collapse against him, his arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head like you’re breakable. then, low against your ear: “that’s the only stretch that matters.”

SHIU KONG

he doesn’t say a word when he gets home. not when he finds your receipt on the bathroom counter—fifty-two thousand yen for a reformer stretch package. not when he sees you on the couch, barefoot, bare-legged, sipping an iced matcha like it wasn’t paid for with his blood money.

just drops his phone. loosens his tie. and walks over to you with that expression—tight mouth, heavy brow. all controlled violence. you glance up. blink.

“what?”

he sits beside you.

silent.

and grabs your jaw.

not roughly. not yet. just enough to tilt your face to his. “get on the floor,” he says, calm. cool. deadly. “face down. knees wide.”

you pause.

“…what?”

his hand slides to your throat. squeezes, just a little. eyes dark.

“you heard me.”

he doesn’t strip you all the way. just yanks your panties down and pushes your little workout shorts to the side, your tank top rucked up above your hips. he wants you dressed for this. dressed like the spoiled little slut you are.

“this is called frog pose, right?” he murmurs, gripping your ankles and dragging them wide. “hips open, knees bent. cute little ass in the air.” your face burns. the stretch in your thighs is deep, your cunt already throbbing from being so exposed, so vulnerable. your chest is flat to the rug, back arched, legs splayed.

and then you feel it.

his cock.

thick. hard. dragging along your slit, teasing. mean.

“you want mobility?” he mutters. “i’ll give you mobility.”

he pushes in—slow. thick. stretching you until your mouth opens around a gasp and your fingers clutch at the carpet. your pussy sucks him in, inch by inch, until he’s deep, hips flush against the meat of your ass.

and then he stays there.

hands on your lower back. holding you open.

"fuck," he breathes. "look at how deep i am in this position. you feel that?" you try to move—try to rock back onto him—but his palm lands hard across your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “don’t move,” he growls. “just stay open. let me fuck you like this.”

and then he starts.

his hips snap forward. hard. again. again.

each thrust punches a cry out of your chest, muffled against the carpet, your body rocking from the force of it. he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind your back, pins them with one hand, and uses the other to shove your hips down, locking you in place. “this what you pay them for?” he growls. “to stretch your hips? your back?”

he slams into you, balls slapping, breath hot over your spine.

“they fuck you like this, sweetheart?”

you shake your head, sobbing.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“say it.”

“no—fuck—no one does but you—”

he groans. thrusts harder. his cock hits so deep it feels like your guts rearrange every time. your knees tremble. thighs ache. the stretch is insane—but you can’t stop coming, pussy clenching, walls fluttering, drooling around his cock with every filthy grind of his hips. "jesus," he pants, “this cunt was made to stay open like this.”

and when he comes?

he stays inside. grinds deep. dumps every drop into your spasming cunt and keeps it in you with a hard slap to your ass and a hand dragging down your spine.

after?

you’re still face-down, body limp, legs aching from the stretch. shiu pulls your panties back up. kisses your thigh. smooths your hair. and murmurs, low and serious: “next time you want to stretch—” his hand cups your sore, slick cunt. “—you ask.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it starts with the door clicking shut.

you’re home before him, sprawled on his couch in one of his button-down shirts—open, loose, your tank top tight underneath, your bare legs tucked up beneath you. the TV is on. you’re sipping kombucha like you pay for it.

he enters in silence.

shoes off. briefcase down. suit jacket hung neatly over the hook. tie loosened. he doesn’t speak. not until he stands in the doorway between living room and hall, holding a piece of paper like a verdict. long receipt. high total. you glance over. sip.

“…that from the studio?”

he lifts one brow. folds it. sets it on the table.

"forty-seven thousand,” he says calmly. “for one week.”

you blink. “it's—private sessions.”

“i can see that.” he steps closer. “what exactly do they do to you in these sessions?” you tilt your head, smirk already crawling to your mouth. “stretch me out.” he breathes in. slow. nostrils flare. you can feel the temperature shift.

“get up.”

he doesn’t speak again until you’re backed into the bedroom, his hand wrapped gently—too gently—around your wrist, and his voice low.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

he leans in. kisses your cheek. “slowly.”

you do. piece by piece. he watches. the shirt slides down your arms. your tank top peels over your head. your sports bra falls away—no noise, no rush. panties next. his eyes stay on you the entire time. and when you’re finally bare, standing quiet, naked and still in front of him—

he moves.

you don’t realize what he’s doing until your back hits the window. one hand cups your thigh, pulls it up. higher. higher—until your knee’s nearly pressed to your chest, the other foot flat on the floor, your heel hooked over his shoulder. he adjusts his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb brushing just under your breast.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow. deliberate. devastating.

your eyes roll. your mouth opens in a gasp you don’t finish, because he’s deep—so fucking deep in this angle, cock hitting every spot you didn’t know you had. your pussy flutters, clenching around him already. “you’re silent now,” he murmurs. you try to breathe. try to speak. “what happened to that mouth?” he rocks his hips forward. not fast. not brutal. just deep. intentional.

in control.

“they stretch you like this?” he says softly, tone clinical. “push your leg up here, keep your pussy open while they slide inside?” you whimper. shake your head.

his voice stays level. “answer.”

“n-no—fuck, hiromi—just you—only you—”

his mouth presses to your neck. he still doesn’t speed up. just keeps your body exactly where he wants it—your leg over his shoulder, your hips tilted perfectly, his cock dragging deep and slow inside your cunt, every motion pressing you harder against the glass.

you’re dripping.

he feels it.

your slick is painting his cock, soaking the front of his slacks, your inner thigh shining in the low light.

“flexible,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up to your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast again. “but not enough.” he pulls out—slow—until just the tip remains. and slams back in. your scream shatters the quiet. his fingers grip your throat—not tight, just there, grounding. a point of contact. “you’ll hold this position,” he says. “until i finish.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours. never too fast. never losing rhythm. just deep, hard strokes. your leg high. trembling. your foot still braced on the floor, trying to hold balance while he uses you against the window like a study in anatomy.

your orgasm comes without warning—tight, sharp, full-body. your cunt clenches, spasming, walls squeezing so tight he groans. but he doesn’t stop. just fucks you through it, even deeper. “you’ll give me another,” he murmurs. “legs this flexible, you can take two.”

you sob.

“three.”

his hand dips between your legs. finds your clit.

“four.”

he finishes inside you.

still holding your leg high, cock buried deep, cum leaking down your thigh. your head lolls against the window. the city lights blur. he lowers your leg slowly. kisses your forehead. adjusts your hair with one hand. straightens your back. then murmurs— “next time you want a stretch, you’ll do it here. for free.”

[sheyfu]

from madrid with love, sae.

pairing. pro athlete itoshi sae x commentator reader (fem)

summary. itoshi sae’s soft launch era

warning(s). swearing // explicit language, the keyboard warriors make their appearances from time to time, oliver aiku being here is also a warning, the use of [name], the use of images that have actual ppl in it LMAO but wtv pic i put here doesnt depict reader ofc !! i'll leave it up to your imaginations to imagine how reader looks like lmao; ooc. lmk if i missed anything else !! this au has timeskips (not specified tho) so this whole au is basically like a month or two condensed into one !!

note. HI GUYS ITS BEEN A WHILE I HOPE YOURE ALL DOING WELL ‼️‼️ I HOPE U ENJOY THIS CRINGE ASS POST 😭😭 reading my works means u embrace the cringe 🙏🙏 also idk anything abt spanish so !! if i f up any of the endearments // nickames // anything pls lmk !! this is so cringe im sorry gang

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yourusername everyone say hi tootsie

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leonardo.luna mi querida did you see my ultimate scissoring???? ✂️😝😝

yourusername yes but dont ever say it like that ever again leonardo.luna yourusername :( are u against wlw :( yourusername leonardo.luna no.

user69 I DONT USUALLY PAY ATTENTION TO THE COMMENTATORS BUT HOLY SHIT THIS GAME WAS AN EXPERIENCE TY QUEEN (also hi tootsie my child 🙏🙏) ❤️ by author

user5 user69 RIGHT????? LIKE HOMEGIRL WAS SPITTING BARS user69 HOLYSHIRSHELIEKD IMEBFKDDBK

shidou.ryusei if i were to choose between sae and your thighs i would choose your thighs 100%

yourusername shidou.ryusei delete :| shidou.ryusei yourusername god even the two of you talk the same

mikkaiser It’s football, meine leibe

isagiyoichireal mikkaiser no one cares loser alexness isagiyoichireal thats mean >:( i care! >:( dont believe him, kaiser! mikkaiser alexness shut up

user100 so like,,,, are we gnna talk abt how sae was looking at her when she was interviewing him???? idk abt u but thats the look of down baddery

user111 user100 OMG?!?! I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO NOTHCED???? user8 user100 RIGHT?? HE WAS LOOKING AT HER LIKE SHE HUNG THE MOON OR SOME SHIT

user34 HI TOOTSIE !! ❤️ by author

yourusername tootsie says hi back <3 user34 I WON EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP I WON

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itoshisae. :)

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shidou.ryusei im fonna goon to this 🤭🤭

itoshisae. shidou.ryusei delete.

user46 BOOM SHAKALAKA YES GAWD

user23 SAE CAT DAD CONFIRMED?????

user34 user46 BROCIT LOOKS LIKE TOOTSIE user23 user34 ??? WHO’S TOOTSIE???? user78 user23 tootsie is yourusername ‘s cat !!

leonardo.luna HOLA TEAMMATE REASY FOR SOME ACTION ???? 😛😛😛😛

itoshi_rin kys. ❤️ by author.

comments on this post have been limited.

yourusername has recently added to their story!

[caption: 'smth abt sunsets in madrid 😮‍💨😮‍💨']

leonardo.luna replied to your story: I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE QUERIDA

yourusername YES BC I TOLD YOU WHERE I AM STUPID leonardo.luna youre with saebae. seen leonardo.luna DONT LEAVE ME ON SEEN seen

itoshisae. replied to your story: :) enjoyed today, amor. same time again tomorrow? ❤️ ❤️ by you.

shidou.ryusei replied to your story: WHO ARE YOU WITH

isagiyoichireal replied to your story: is this why you said no to our date ☹️☹️

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itoshisae. :))

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shidou.ryusei IS THAT .... A … A….. G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-GIRL?!?!?!?!?!? 😱😱😱😱😱

leonardo.luna GIVE HER BACK

isagiyoichireal i hate you.

itoshi_rin isagiyoichireal real shit

oliveraiku_ 😯

sendoshuto oliveraiku_ Shut the fuck up and get back to practice. oliveraiku_ sendoshuto respect your captain teppei oliveraiku_ You're into that???? 💀💀

comments on this post have been limited.

—

—

yourusername has recently added to their story!

[caption: lmao]

shidou.ryusei replied to your story: now wait a damn fucking minute...

yourusername what shidou.ryusei I KNOW THSOE BREACELETSEFIA yourusername ok so what shidou.ryusei threesome? yourusername i will fucking block you. shidou.ryusei :( seen

leonardo.luna replied to your story: querida i thought you were going to hang at his house????? wanted to crash :(

yourusername booooo leonardo.luna QUERIDA ☹️☹️☹️☹️ 😱 by you.

oliveraiku_ replied to your story: let me take you out next week?

itoshisae. replied to your story: ok but my arm looks so good there

yourusername: ok narcissus pack it up itoshisae.: you love me yourusername: :( ❤️ by itoshisae.

itoshisae. has recently added to their story!

[caption; two, four, ten. - from madrid with love, sae.]

shidou.ryusei replied to your story: threesome?

you have blocked this user.

itoshi_rin replied to your story: how does she even put up with you

isagiyoichireal replied to your story: SO YOURE THE REASON WHY SHE'S BEEN SAYING NO TO OUR DATES

leonardo.luna replied to your story: how dare you steal the loml.

itoshisae.: u were the one who set us up leonardo.luna: all the more reason to give her back to me!! itoshisae.: no leonardo.luna: sí cariño 👎 by you.

oliveraiku_ replied to your story: congrats

itoshisae.: sounds fake seen itoshisae.: :) seen

yourusername replied to your story: oh damn

itoshisae.: can't i post about my g-g-g-g-g-girlfwiend??? 🥺🥺 yourusername: what the fuck itoshisae.: open your door. yourusername: ?????

bonus.

tagging: @whatisnureotypical, @itoshivy, @lalaufey, @levihanmyotp, @katzline, @imhere2dosomething, @rybunnie, @definitelynotanalien, @arwawawa2, @anqelkoz, @duckydee-0

🐈‍⬛: thank you for reading! reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!

if you'd like to be part of my taglist, you can either access the taglist below! thank you and hope to see you there <3 (GUYS WE'RE GROWING ILYASM AAAAA)

© sheyfu on tumblr

[emisluvr]

‎ 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗪𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗖𝗛 ⸝⸝ 𝗦.𝗝𝗬

심재윤 as your needy and desperate bf ! ⭑ ── wc. 382 ୨ৎ mature drabble ✧ w. smut ( 18+ mdni! ) , begging , dirty talk , explicit language , unprotected sex ✴︎ tysm for 2k+ notes on my first post ! <3

‎ ꒰◞ ˕ ◟୨୧꒱ REBLOGS + FB !

you lie in your shared bed with jake, on the verge of falling asleep, until you feel him shift and lay right in front of you.

his hands start to wander all over your body, fingertips caressing every inch of your skin, silently stating just how needy he is. "hi, love, don't sleep yet, please.." he whispers, voice soft but undeniably begging for your attention.

"m-mmph," you mumble in response, pretending to roll over until he gently grabs your wrist, looking up at you with those brown doe eyes—irresistible and full of desperation.

"no, no, don't do that…" he whines, breath hitching. you look away, debating if you should give in to him. "i can't—i need you," he begs, voice low, desperate. "just.. just ride me, please, baby. i'll be good, i swear.."

and that’s exactly what you wanted to hear. his eyes light up as he watches you get up, making him lie down flat on his back, ready to let you take control.

you pull his sweatpants down to his thighs, watching his leaking cock spring free, then slip your panties off, letting them fall to the floor.

you lower yourself onto his length, feeling his cock fill you up, your warm, wet pussy taking in all of his inches. he shuts his eyes, letting out a soft groan.

"yeah, baby, just like that.." he whispers. your hips grind down on him, taking your time, dragging the pleasure out.

his breath hitches again, and he tries to hold on, but the desperation in his voice breaks free. "f-faster, baby, please..." he pleads. you start to quicken your pace, moving up and down faster, making him gasp as his hands tug at your oversized t-shirt.

"you feel so fucking good.." he groans, his hands moving to grip your hips tightly as you fuck him, the sound of skin slapping and breathy moans filling the room.

"don't stop, baby, please don't stop," he whispers, eyes half-lidded as he feels like he’s entered a new dimension of pleasure. with each thrust perfectly hitting your g-spot, as well as his cock twitching inside you, it signaled you both were close to cumming.

"quiet." you murmur, finger brushing his lips as you fuck yourself harder on him, bringing both of you closer to the edge.

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[godharuhi]

wet dream (bakugou x reader)

| summary: you’re not supposed to have a horny dream about one of your classmates, until you do.

| warnings: explicit language, wet dream, rough sex, one use of good girl

You never talked to Bakugou Katsuki.

You wouldn’t think or want to either; he was just another one of your twenty classmates, and one of the more annoying ones at that. Here you were in your third year of Hero school and he was still just as annoying as the first. He was arrogant, and loud, and clearly a narcissist with anger issues when things didn’t go his way. Sure, he was strong and talented, and clearly destined for success but that’s not enough for you to change your mind and think he’s a nice person. You had no idea how he had such cool, kind friends surrounding him all the time.

You and Bakugou never talked except for the rare, small excuse me when he and Kirishima are being assholes and blocking the classroom door, or a thanks when he frees up the gym equipment you need - meaningless, NPC interactions like that. So, you never gave him a second glance. You know you’re a blurred extra in his life too. His name shouldn’t even be in your thoughts.

So, what was this? Why are you thinking all this about him right now?

What was that?

You sat up in bed the second you woke up, sweating and breathing heavily as if you’d actually been there. One of those naughty dreams. Except, it’s still running so vividly in your mind that you smack your head over and over again, “What the fuck was that?! Stop it!” You scream at yourself. Yes, because it’s that traumatic!

Yet, your core is throbbing with an achy need for relief. Your floral blankets are messy and wrapped around your legs and you hastily kick them away from you to get rid of any more sinful friction. It’s hot. It’s so hot. Your face must have a fiery red glow because it’s entirely too hot.

You feel so dirty.

The usual faceless person who had been giving you some type of pleasure had been morphed into your classmate, and not just any classmate, but the meanest, loudest one you’ve secretly disliked since your first week of school.

Bakugou had fucked you in your dreams.

And you had enjoyed it.

How could you change what you superficially thought of as pointless rage into raw passion? Those terrifying blood hungry eyes could be a piercing gaze of dark maroon? His grunts, his growls, his powerful hits were exchanged for powerful thrusts, and his crude mouth that was usually swearing out naughty words was filtered through radio loops and warp holes into some type of dirty talk.

“God, you’re so…fucking…tight.” It was your classmate, Bakugou. His blond hair spiking in all directions, but looking softer than usual. His fingers dug into the plushiest part of your thighs as his brows knit in total concentration, eyes focused darkly at where he had dug himself to the hilt, your bodies connected with the sleekness of juices. You didn’t know why or how your classmate was between your legs but you didn’t care. He didn’t look like the angry boy from class - this was a god who had your cunt fluttering for him.

Merciless, he started at a brutal pace, gripping your thighs as handles to steady your body as he rocked himself into you with just as much power as he showed on the field. It felt so good. Bakugou had a mean dick.

“Why the fuck’re you clenchin’ down? You like…hah…getting slutted out?” Right now, you did. All you wanted was to feel good. Your back arched off the surface below you, a bed - his bed? - asking for more.

“You’re a needy one. Shit-” He pressed you into the mattress, wrapping his hands on your neck to keep you still when he started pounding you at an unholy pace that made you half-regret acting like that. But still, it felt good. Your arms came around his back to hold onto something while the pit in your core was blissfully stroked every second, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Oh my god, Bakugou,” all you cared about was the pleasure you were feeling, “Your dick is so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” His voice was deeper than anyone you’ve ever heard, “Betcha I can make this little pussy cry for my dick. That’s it, scratch me. Oh, fuck yes,” You couldn’t refuse his order when his husky voice was moaning like that, when you could feel the tremors in your pussy, when his thumb came to your clit and began to rub it like he owned it.

Even fucking you, Bakugou was giving it his all, fucking your brains out. “Good girl, taking my cock so well,” you’ve never even heard him praise someone else so hearing him call you his good girl, seeing that you were also pleasuring him, it did something to you. He was overwhelming and so rough and he was so proud you were managing it, it’s no wonder you melted and spread your legs for him.

“It’s so deep, it feels too good,” you moaned back with a crack in your voice, divinely transfixed by the look on this new face of his.

Bakugou’s thrusts were becoming sporadic, fast and hard hits on the space between your legs that was still throbbing. “Fuck yes, FUCK yess…want it inside? Beg me to cum in this pretty hole. C’mon, fucking BEG.” It didn’t help that he sounded like the one begging for you.

“Please do it inside me, please cum in me. Make me cum.”

His face scrunched together, his jaw slack and panting as ruby eyes were locked on you. So pretty, so hot, and unlike anything you’ve ever seen, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, oh FU -”

The space between your legs felt messy, slick, nasty.

Getting into your morning routine, you made yourself a zombie.

Were you seriously that horny last night?

Of all people - Bakugou? The idea of that mean blond anywhere near you should’ve given you the ick but now you’re doing your makeup and making a face when, unfortunately, you think, He’s hot.

But why him? You’re not friends, you don’t even talk to each other.

Why did some random guy have to show up in your sex dream? Was it because yesterday, you couldn’t stop staring at him jogging into the locker room. He had swiped his shirt off over his head in one yank, a delicate, lean waist with his larger, sweat-shiny chest out and bouncing? And then afterwards, right when you were going into the classroom, that same man had bumped into you, too busy talking with Todoroki to see you. He was all hard and bulky, versus you - soft and physically one of the weakest people in class - but you didn't even comprehend almost falling back because a hand gripped your arm and balanced you off to the side as he still walked past you. He didn’t even glance at you. Meanwhile, you had rushed to your seat in the back, face warm and kind of…impressed.

Truly, you were disturbed.

How were you supposed to walk into class today and see him?

[youthguk]

Entropy | jjk (m) | one-shot

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N 

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

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

Wc: 10k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

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

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

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

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

Jeon Jungkook fucks like it’s a contact sport.

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

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

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

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

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

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

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

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

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

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You lose Hyeri somewhere between the kitchen and the music.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I have,” you whisper.

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

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

Behind you, Jungkook follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shoot him a look. “Not anymore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

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

You laugh, quiet. “So thoughtful.”

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

Your pulse skips. “Show me what?”

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

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

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

“Sharp observation.”

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

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

“You gonna let me dry you off?”

You don’t answer.

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

Your knees threaten to give out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. It’s barely a breath.

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

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

“I think I do,” you whisper.

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

His eyes are on your mouth when you breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have no idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

And he groans, deep and raw.

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

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

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

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

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, dizzy. “Wha—”

“Mirror,” he says. “Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Eyes up. Watch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper. “Yes…”

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

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

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

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

“I could watch you come all night.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine while he pulls back.

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

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

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

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

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp, hips jerking. “Jungkook…”

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

You whimper. “Yes. All for you.”

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

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe.

He growls. “Nah. Say it right.”

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

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

And then he pushes in.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? You like this?”

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

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

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

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

You moan — helpless, wrecked, desperate.

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

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

“Say no one else fucks you like this.”

“No one. Just you—only you—”

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

“You wanna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please…”

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

“Yes—fuck, please, Jungkook—”

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

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

And you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—yes, please, Jungkook—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him in shock. “Jungkook.”

He grins. “For science.”

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

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

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

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

You smirk. “See you around, Jeon.”

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

“…I’m so fucking in trouble.”

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part 2

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