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nanamiskentos · 1 hour ago

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LAY DOWN THE LAW — 五条悟 GOJO SATORU

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo Satoru is the city's hottest attorney and your maddeningly smug boss. Ten years of will-they-won’t-they office tension come to a head when a late night at the firm finally pushes you both over the edge, right onto his desk, and then some. You might be the secretary, but tonight? You’re the one running the court, with your hand shafted around a very big . . . gavel.

FEATURING Gojo Satoru x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, MDNI, Workplace AU, Boss x Secretary, Suits!AU, Lawyer!Gojo, power plays, possessive language, desk séx, couch séx, semi-public, oràl (f), cowgírl, swítch!Gojo, líght restraínts, praisé kínk, bíting/màrking, mànhandling, unprotected séx, GOJO IS A YEARNER

WC 𐙚 5.1k

NOTE 𐙚 one of my friends started watching suits for the first time and it got me thinking of the good old days...

The firm's office was quiet. Eerily so. The sterile kind of silence that only settled after sunset, when the junior associates had scurried off and the city skyline outside blurred into a sea of flickering lights and taxi horns.

Nights like this always felt heavier somehow, thick in your chest like an aching, hungry fog. Not because of the overtime, hell, you practically lived in this building and wore your stellar competence like a badge of honour, but because after hours meant only one thing.

You were alone. With him.

Satoru Gojo.

Senior partner. The best closer in the city, a hotshot lawyer snug in designer suits. A certified dream and nightmare wrapped into one tall, toned package.

And the worst part? You didn't even mind craving his presence, like a moth to a sparkling, blue flame.

Your gaze always lingered past the edge of your desk when Gojo strolled by in the mornings, leaving you with that casual wink as though gravity bent around him, and you just happened to be in its pull. His stupidly expensive Armani suits, his smug, whiny quips and that sharp-fanged grin that made you want to slap and straddle him in the same breath.

Which is exactly why your heart stuttered when the intercom crackled to life, and his voice slid through, smooth as a neat pour of whiskey, "Doll, can you come in here for a second?"

You knew the drill. Some last-minute filing. A deposition draft he suddenly had to review. Gojo would pour you a crystal glass of scotch, pretend to talk business, and shiver when you leaned in far too close behind his oaken desk, eyes lingering on the swan-curve of your neck.

And like always, you would pretend not to notice, pressing your thighs together to relieve the wayward tension he wrought in you.

But tonight? You were in no mood to play the pretty secretary as diligently as you had been for the past few years. You grit the tips of your heels into the soft carpet to heave open the heavy glass door to his office, not bothering to knock.

Gojo glances up from a stack of clean paper, leaning back in his pristine chair with the ease of a man who brought in millions upon millions of dollars in merger deals each year for the firm. His navy tie was loosened, top button of his starch-white shirt undone.

White hair tousled as though he had run a frustrated hand through it one too many times, and judging by the way his blue eyes greedily dragged up your frame and snagged on your collarbone, you were the reason.

"Late night?" You ask, tone clipped as you watch how the city lights spilled through the high-rise windows behind him, painting him in gold, and blue, and deep, dangerous shadow.

"Thought you could help me with something," Gojo tosses a crisp folder your way, and your nails snag into the thin cardboard without blinking, "Couple of items that needed sorting."

"You couldn't have done this tomorrow? This is just copy-room administration."

Gojo tilts his head, lashes pale as snow, and unfairly long, "You were still here," he shrugs with a casual indifference that doesn't match the tension gnawing at his jaw, "Figured I'd make use of your talents."

The bob of his Adam's apple clearly gave away the flimsy excuse, for Gojo Satoru has always been hungry for the sight of you, even when he was pretending otherwise.

Tonight, though, that smug smile and velvet tone hits different, like a match dragged too slowly across the box, and your jaw clenches.

Gojo had always hovered right there, just shy of indecent in the silent hours of the night. Just enough innuendo to make your thighs clench, but never enough to tip over.

Like he got off dragging the two of you to the edge, and then walking away.

No more.

You step forward, scuffing your heel into the soft weave of the floor, and slapping the folder flat on his desk, "You always do this."

Gojo blinks, jewel-blue eyes owlish and flicking innocently, "Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm yours. Flirt with me. Buy me expensive shit, –" You lean in, meeting the defensive scowl in his eyes, "You took me shopping privately for a Hermès bag this morning, apparently just because."

You know Gojo Satoru enough to recognise the twitch in his expression, the flicker of something real and not cloaked in his endless bravado.

You refuse to let up, "So tell me, Gojo. Are you ever actually going to do something about it?"

"I thought you were seeing that investment banker from the 46th floor," Gojo mutters, jaw tight as his eyes tear themselves away from you, the swell of your chest with considerable effort.

Ah. Nanami Kento.

That fling was brief, for while you liked your men strong, you didn't quite like them silent.

No hard feelings, of course.

"That ended six months ago," you say coolly, "And when I first told you about him, you didn't speak to me for a week. What was that about?"

Silence. You can't hear anything else but the hard, pounding beat of your pulse, and the faint hum of electricity running in the background, keeping parts of the office lit.

Gojo stands, not abruptly nor angrily. Just deliberately, like a man who already made up his mind long ago.

You inch back automatically, the edge of the desk pressing against the small of your back, below the crux of your spine. Gojo follows, close, too close. Heat radiates off your boss like static, and his scent, mint and cedar, curls in your lungs.

A large hand cups your jaw, and his touch isn't rough. Gojo uses just enough pressure to make you tilt your chin up to meet those storm-blue eyes. Darker now, dilated and devouring.

"Say the word," Gojo murmurs, voice thick with something you could even mistake as longing, "And I'll show you that I'm yours right here."

Your throat bobs, a hot flush beginning to kiss the tips of your ears, "What? Here, Gojo, –" You're hissing, even though you knew the building was entirely empty, and it was well past midnight.

Gojo's index finger is pressed to your lips, "You want me to be an honest man?" A wicked but almost bashful smile ghosting over the mouth of the most confident and self-assured man that you know, "Fine. I want to kiss you."

You don't give him the chance to ask again.

Grabbing the finely tailored lapels of his suit, and pulling the attorney down into you, kissing him hard. Tasting mint, coffee and the ghost of lemon candy on his tongue as his hand slams back against the desk, and you can swear he whimpers.

Gojo chases after you like a man starved. The press of his lips both hot and urgent, his clever tongue teasing until you groan, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste the tell-tale tang of iron.

That earns you another sound from deep in his throat, something that sounds almost grateful, and he pulls you closer. Looping a strong around your waist, already tugging at the hem of your top.

You think that the only downside of having Gojo Satoru like this, is the human need to pull back for oxygen.

But he seems almost magnetically drawn to you, eyes lingering on the glossy sheen coating your mouth, his breath shallow as he heaves a sharp breath, "Always wanted to know what you would taste like."

"Oh, yeah? Got your answer?"

"Well, one part of my answer," Gojo's large hands are running along the silky seam of your stockings, and you involuntarily shiver as you push against the firm planes of his chest, snaking your manicured hand lower.

"You're already hard."

Gojo gives you a faintly embarrassed, dull look, but it's true enough. There's a rock solid tent in his dark slacks, aching for friction against your thigh, as he murmurs against your jaw, "What, you think if I put my hands up your skirt, you're not gonna' be wet?"

What use is there in denying cold, hard facts?

Gojo's hands run down to your waist, spinning you around so fast that your palms slam against the hard surface of his desk for balance.

The wood is cold beneath your skin, spotless and severe, and each pen on his desk is lined up with military precision, not a page out of place.

For now.

You can feel the white-haired man behind you, his body heat pressing into your back as he leans over, pink lips brushing the delicate shell of your ear, "This desk's seen a lot of action," he murmurs, "But nothin' like this."

Your heart is thudding as soft, suckled marks are bruised gently into your neck, "You ever bend a client over it?"

"No," Gojo scoffs, dragging his hands up your sides once more, slow and reverent as though he wants to commit your form to memory, "Only ever thought about my favourite secretary."

You're gasping, lips slack, as he kicks your legs slightly apart at the knee, and then, fuck — his fingers are sliding up your inner thigh. Bold, skilled and confident.

When he find the wet heat, slick and searing between your legs, Gojo groans against your neck, "God, you really are mine, huh?"

"Check the paperwork, then, S-Satoru," You're hissing, trying to stay snide, even as your hips hungrily rock into his touch. Ensuring that you grind your dripping, plump folds against his fingers, coating his knuckles with your arousal.

"Oh, I will," Gojo purrs, "In fact –"

Gojo keeps a solid arm snug around you, holding you up as his other hand reaches for something on the desk, and before you can question what on earth he's doing now, you hear the rustle of paper.

He's got your file, that faded résumé that you had dropped in his lap when you had first demanded he hire you. You twist your head to blearily glare at him just as he flips it open.

"You had excellent references," Gojo muses, as though he's reading aloud to a jury. Meanwhile, two long fingers are filthily sliding into you, slow and deep, curling just right in pursuit for a sweet spot, "Punctual. Detail-oriented. Loyal. Mhm, tight too. Didn't see that in the résumé."

"S-Satoru," You choke out, nails already curling half-crescents into the polished wood. His palm now roughly angled so you can drag your throbbing cunt over his hand, and still catch enough friction to soothe your aching clit.

"Ah-ah," The white-haired man clicks his tongue, hooking his middle finger so a fresh wave of slick clings to the fine dusting of pale, white hair on his hand, "That's Gojo during business hours."

"It's past m-midnight."

"Heh, you're right," Gojo snickers, battering his fingers against that roughened, sweet spot, "In that case, call me whatever ya' want, doll."

You arch into his tender touch, breath hitcing as his fingers fuck you with the kind of steady rhythm that says he's had this moment planned, fantasised and rehearsed.

His other hand warmly slips under your top, pushing the fabric side just enough to tug your bra down, and palm your breast, thumb brushing your pebbled nipple as you whimper.

"You like this?" Gojo asks, the liquid-smooth tone of his voice now tinged with a hungry rasp, and his lips continue to delicately press kisses over the nape of your neck, "Letting your boss finger you over his quarterly earnings report?"

You try to respond, but your pleas come out more as a garbled moan, stifled as he probes his fingers against the elastic walls of your cunt.

Gojo grins, "Didn't catch that, sweet girl. You're gonna' have to say it like you mean it."

"F-fuck, yes, yes," you gasp, back arching as your thighs strain with the most delicious ache, "Want more, p-please."

Gojo stills, not all the way, just enough to make you squirm, hips rolling helplessly into the hand that no longer moves, breath catching in your throat as the heat and rhythm disappear.

His touch lingers, taunting, maddening, and you whine before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping past your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that curls down your spine like smoke, "More?" he echoes, faux-innocent and infuriating, his voice that same low, slick tone he uses when convincing clients to sign over the promise of ten million dollars, "You think I just give it away, doll?"

Your response is instant, breathy and heated, punctuated by the steady drip of your slick against his desk, "I earned it, didn't I?"

And that, that does something to Gojo. You feel the change. Like a muscle coiled too tight finally snapping loose.

It's in the way his warm grip tightens on your hips, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, the guttural sound he lets out as he drops to his knees with a heavy thud, slacks creased, like a man possessed.

In one fluid motion, your translucent, sopping panties are around your ankles, torn down so fast the elastic snaps, and Gojo's murmuring a kiss of apology against your thigh, and his broad hands are dragging your thighs apart like he's carving out space for worship.

"Consider this your bonus," Gojo murmurs, voice dark with promise, ruined at the mere sight of your glossy, winking pussy, and then his mouth is on you.

Your gasp punches out of you like it's been yanked from the base of your spine. His tongue is hot and wet and obscene, sliding through your folds with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes you tremble. He licks you like he's determined to learn you, like he's done the theory, read the case notes, and now it's time for oral arguments.

And God, he's good at it. Gojo is really good at it.

He flicks his tongue over your swollen clit with practiced ease, teasing little circles that send white-hot pulses of pleasure through your gut. Every time your hips buck, he anchors you tighter, one arm locking around your thigh while the other drags you closer by the small of your back, forcing you to stay still and take it so perfectly for him.

"You're so w-wet," Gojo groans into your cunt, lips slick and voice reverent, like he’s drunk off the taste of your sweet pussy, "What's the matter, baby? Can't focus when someone's actually giving you what you need?"

Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk’s edge as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling against it with maddening rhythm. Your eyes flutter, head tipping back, your entire body buzzing with pleasure.

Your knees nearly buckle when he hums, hums, as though he's tasting vintage wine.

When Gojo pulls back at last, his mouth is shining, and he looks positively wrecked in the best way. Flushed cheeks, jaw damp, pupils blown wide. The front of his suit is creased, rumpled beyond salvation. His deep-blue tie's hanging off one shoulder. And his blinding grin is nothing short of smug.

"Gonna' bend you over this desk now,” Gojo says casually, like he's scheduling a client call, "Heels on. Hands flat. Keep your voice down unless you want HR to catch the encore on security footage."

You barely hear the rest of the sentence, you're already moving, limbs moving on instinct, spine arching as you brace yourself against the desk.

And you don’t even realise you're obeying until your palms hit the polished wood and you feel the weight of Gojo behind you again, hot and solid and absolutely unrelenting.

And when he finally pushes into you, all thick, hot, and utterly unforgiving inches upon inches, it knocks the breath straight from your lungs.

There's no teasing now, no soft wind-up or slow drag. Just the blunt, overwhelming stretch of his fat mushroom-tip probing and filling you in one deliberate thrust that has your back arching and your mouth falling open in a wordless moan.

You gasp, the sound stuttering against your forearm as you brace yourself on the desk, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer intensity of it.

Gojo's big. Oh, he knows it's big, and he fucks like he's trying to remind you of it with every single stroke. Ensuring that you never forget the sticky slap! of his thighs tacking against your own, dribbling with arousal and the prelude to his seed.

The white-haired man's hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a bruising grip as he snaps his hips into yours, relentless and smooth, like he’s been waiting years for this.

The desk jerks with every thrust, drawers rattling. Loose pages scatter to the floor. Gojo's gilded nameplate goes flying with a clatter, landing somewhere near your pricey heels, and the coffee mug you brought him earlier tips over, soaking a stack of contracts you'd spent the whole afternoon organising.

Neither of you care.

"Fuck," Gojo groans, whiny voice fraying at the edges, rough and low and needy, "Look at you. Taking it so f-fucking well. Like this pretty pussy was made to be bent over my desk."

You let out a strangled moan, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood surface, the edge biting into your hips with every push forward. Your legs are trembling, heels still on, body taut with sensation, overstimulated already and aching for more. And you try to speak, to respond, but the words break apart in your dry throat, "Y-you are so –"

"Charming?" Gojo grits out, breath hot against the back of your neck as he leans forward to press his chest to your spine, one hand leaving your hip to curl around your throat, not tight, just enough to tilt your head up, "Devastatingly handsome? Ridiculously good at fillin' you up? You're gonna' have to be more specific, doll."

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, even as your eyes roll back at the next thrust. And Gojo's voice lowers to a murmur, but there's nothing soft in it, just heat, possession, a hint of desperation bleeding through the snark, "C'mon, baby. Say it. Say you're mine. Please."

You manage it on a gasp, voice wrecked, pleasure-drenched, "I'm —f-fuck, I'm yours."

That does it. Gojo groans like you just handed him a verdict in his favor, like your words scratched some raw, aching itch inside him that nothing else could reach, "Y-yeah, you are,” he growls, "All f-fucking mine."

He fucks you harder after that, messy, frantic, a little feral. One hand back on your hip, the other dragging down your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you down, keeping you right there as he takes you like a man who’s been dreaming about this for far too long.

You can feel every solid, veined inch of him. The way he stretches you open, the obscene slick sounds between your thighs, the way his cock hits deep and perfect on every roll of his hips. His pace is devastating, measured and punishing and so fucking good it sends white sparks bursting behind your eyelids.

You must be drooling into the desk, heat curling in your belly, orgasm building again, fast and dangerous and unstoppable. And behind you, Gojo's voice breaks on a groan as he mutters against your ear, "You gonna' come for me again, pretty girl? Wanna feel you s-squeeze me while I fill you up. You gonna' let me, yeah?"

Your answer is a breathless, wrecked moan, because yes, fuck, yes —

And that’s all he needs. You barely manage to stay standing.

Your legs are jelly, trembling under the weight of overstimulation and everything he's just done to you, your thighs slick with him, your blouse clinging to sweat-damp skin, buttons half-torn and collar askew. Your breath comes in short, uneven pants, chest heaving against the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Gojo's still behind you, spurting cock slowly being dragged out of your puffy, twitching folds, not touching, but there, looming, panting, shirt untucked, white hair wild and matted with sweat. He looks ruined. Flushed. Like he’s just sprinted all sixty floors of the high-rise with you on his mind.

And then Gojo sees it.

The faint red imprint of his hand blooming across your hip. The angry mark his Prada belt buckle left above the curve of your ass. The glimmer of your slick smeared across his cock, still hard, twitching against his abdomen, and soaking into the fine dusting of white hair crawling over his groin, glistening like proof of what he just did to you.

Gojo's pupils dilate, and whatever blue was left in his eyes vanishes beneath the darker, more reverent hunger, "Mine," he murmurs, half to himself, voice hushed and hoarse, like he has to say it out loud to believe you're real, "You're mine."

You twist to look at him, wobbly on your heels but a faint ghost of a smile paints your lips all the same, "Yeah, Satoru?" you say, voice still a little wrecked, "Then sit down."

Gojo blinks, stunned for just a second, the most in-demand lawyer in the city whipped into flushed silence from the command. But you just jut your chin toward the couch, charcoal-grey leather, sleek and smooth.

"I said sit."

There's a pause. A flicker of something wild in Gojo's incredulous expression, like he wants to fight it. But then his lips part into a grin that borders on worshipping, like he's never been bossed around in his life and is so damn into it, "Yes, ma'am."

Gojo drops onto the couch, milky and muscular thighs spread wide, weeping cock hard and glistening and flushed an angry red from base to tip. White-haired head lolling back against the cushions as he exhales like a man undone. His tie is half-off, collar loose, suit beyond salvation.

You straddle him before he can get cocky again, knees pressed into the cushions, ruined skirt hitched around your waist, heat still pulsing between your legs as you slide over his broad lap. Gojo's hands fly to your hips automatically, gripping tight, like his body's already memorised every inch of your skin like a precious canvas already.

"I'm still ya' boss, you know," Gojo says, looking up at you through those sinfully pale lashes, trying for cocky and failing, it comes out breathless and wanting.

You roll your hips down slowly, grinding against Gojo's lap, until the head of his spurting cock slips against your entrance, snagging against your walls, and his head thunks back with a guttural groan and a raspy, "Fuck."

"Don't think so, 'Toru," you murmur, voice low, syrupy, and you can feel his cock twitch against your inner thigh, jumping at the abbreviated name, "Right now? I wanna' be in charge."

That does it. Whatever minuscule control Gojo had snaps.

He grips the plush flesh of your ass, and yanks you down as he thrusts up into you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, perfect stroke that leaves you gasping and mewling at the tip of his cock swabbing deeply within you.

It's so utterly messy and wet, and filthy, your bodies crashing together with the raw sound of sex, of urgency, of months, no, years of restraint finally shattered.

Gojo's hungry mouth finds your neck, open and greedy, licking and biting like he wants to leave a roadmap behind, a pattern he wants to follow forevermore. You gasp, manicured nails clawing down his chest, raking through the remnants of his tailored dress shirt.

"You like that?" You're whining, voice catching as your hips start to rock once more, adjusted to the sheer girth of him, pace steady and punishing, "Getting m-marked?"

"Fuck, yeah," Gojo groans, snapping his hips up so hard your breath stutters, and a steady plap! plap! plap! echoes in the empty office. "Want you to w-wreck me, doll. Wan' the whole d-damn firm to see I belong to you."

You're certainly not gentle when you kiss him again. You slam your mouth to his, teeth and tongue and something that tastes like vengeance and victory. He kisses back like he's still starving, like he hasn't eaten in weeks and you're his last meal, what he's been craving the most.

Somehow, somewhere in the chaos, his silky tie ends up wrapped loosely around your wrists, a makeshift restraint anchoring your hand to the back of his neck, keeping you steady as you bounce in Gojo's lap, feeling him sway the thick bulge of his cock in and out of you. You can feel the thrum of his pulse there, frantic and wild, syncing with yours.

"I dream about this, you know?" Gojo mutters against your mouth, nibbling on your glossy lower lip. "Y-you. Riding me and using m-me. Fuck, I wake up hard just thinking about your voice."

Your pussy must be drooling all over his lap, and your walls tighten around him and Gojo chokes, his blue eyes rolling back for a second as his chest flushes a pale shade of strawberry red.

"Then wake u-up, 'Toru," you whisper, lips brushing his jaw, gently nipping at the soft skin, "And t-take it."

And Gojo does. He thrusts his cock up into you, hard and deep, pace brutal and beautiful all at once. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, palming your breasts, fingers sliding down your spine to hold you in place while he slams into you with the rhythm of a man unhinged.

Gojo's mouth latches onto your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and when you do the same to his shoulder, he whines, "More," he begs, "Give me more. F-fucking ruin me. Leave your teeth in me, I'm yours."

His hand slips between your bodies, calloused thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit as you ride him, and the pleasure builds fast, white-hot and sharp, until you're shaking with it, your moans dissolving into ragged gasps.

"Gojo, –" you breathe, barely above a strangled whisper as his cock carves out loud squelches and leaves you both boneless and breathless. Jewel-blue eyes snap up to yours like you’re divine.

"That's it," Gojo growls, lower lip slack as he watches the sticky, gluey strands of your arousal cling to his thighs, "C-come for me. Come allll over my cock n' be a good girl and fall apart, my girl."

And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, sudden and seismic, your whole body spasming, thighs locking around him as you cry out his name. Gojo watches, utterly spellbound, as you unravel, sweat-slick and stunning and trembling on his lap.

"F-fuck, fuck, sweetheart," Gojo gasps, hips stuttering, and soft strands of white hair falling over his eyes, "Holy shit, gonna come, fuck, I'm c-coming, –"

He spills inside you with a ragged moan, all thick, pearly seed and the rhythmic pulse of his cock's release as he thrusts deep, clinging to you like he never wants to let go. The aftershocks roll through both of you, sticky and breathless and all-consuming.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon. Gojo's arms wrap around your back immediately, hands splayed across your spine, holding you like something sacred.

"Don't you dare quit on me," Gojo murmurs, voice hoarse and broken, "Swear to god, if you hand in your resignation, I'll follow you into retirement and eat you out every morning like it’s my full-time job. We can get a nice, shiny penthouse and, –"

You snort, still dazed, chin tucked into his shoulder, enveloped by the sheer, searing exertion rolling off him, intertwined with his signature, smoky scent, "You're insane."

"What?" Gojo breathes, that indignant tone creeping back up into his voice, as he trails long fingers up and down your back with slow, reverent strokes, "I'd make a hot trophy wife."

#gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru #gojo smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo #jjk #daphworks #just chugging thru some writing practice 💛

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typewritingyip · 2 days ago

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The Arcturus Missions

Part Fifty - Lead Off

Part Forty-Nine

———

There is a difference between the United States government mech program run through their militaries and the state sanctioned program named MECHA. Originally, MECHA was a small private organization with the first US based government contract to build mech suits for the fight against the kaiju.

Eventually, it evolved into the world leading agency that most of the US mech’s went into or were built at, even the military mechs.

They created the main system for pilot safety and guidelines. Their mission parameters and time limits and logs important towards the health of each mech suit pilot.

It all became dependent on class, whatever class a pilot would be found compatible for would then show what their body could physically handle. Starting from the most limited, Striker, to the maximum known limits in Hunter.

Striker class was expected to roughly be able to do two weeks on with one week off intervals, anything past that would start to show symptoms of overuse and its list of symptoms. Followed by the crash and possible death if overworked.

Rescue class worked primarily on-call when they were more active, now with the limiting number of this class it is less likely to be found compatible with this class. Yet, they would be able to work for an estimated three weeks with ten days off during that time. Taken within thirty minute to five hour intervals at a time.

Tanker class is expected to work two days on with a day off and repeat. So within sixty days, they will have thirty off, but that is just the recommended amount. More often than not, they work on a longer schedule with unhooking from their suit more often.

Hunter class is known to work for weeks to months on end without rest, dependent on what they are tracking. This class is one of the most likely to deal with overuse systems, but has stricter guidelines than the other classes for that reason.

MECHA designed these systems for the world to use, to understand the limits and not push past them at the cost of their pilots.

Dependent on the agency initially was dependent on whether the pilot would follow these specific guidelines.

In the early part of the 2010’s decade, MECHA pulled these guidelines from typical pilot safety programs, labeling them as outdated and unreliable, to the extent of unnecessary. The lead scientist redesigning the annual report on behalf of the US government.

As of this moment in time, it has still not been returned to reports even as the pilots death rates rise, many based on symptoms of overuse.

It is hard to not listen to the world leading scientist, engineer and public speaker for the mech suit cause when they are creating and designing under US government contract. The world leader as of the current era in mech suit design, safety, and pilot registration.

—

The next day came around faster than any of them would have liked, recovery times were shorter than they were on Earth, but it was hard to explain that they needed more than a day or two of rest to completely recover when trying to keep the big secret. Maybe someday they’d all get some bit of rest.

Damn were they tired though and so far were having little to no luck at finding a coffee, soda, or energy drink replacement. Apparently caffeine was harmful to most other organic species. It was deeply annoying.

There was no other way of describing it, they were corpses trying to pull themselves out of their beds. This would mark the third day of their existence being described as corpses, the walking dead, or zombie-like but that was just bound to happen.

Even the Cybertronians seemed tired though, the attack on Iacon had been relatively short but intense. Something like that hadn’t happened in Iacon in almost a thousand years, so they had gone to even more meetings while the humans had slept.

With their new paint dry and ready, there wasn’t much holding them there now. Loading up their suits with supplies wasn’t great though, none of them knew how long they’d be gone and everything from water to food to miscellaneous supplies that they always needed took up a lot of space.

Most of their cots were now resting on top of boxes of the dried foods and cleaning supplies they’d need for being gone for an extended period of time. There was little space to move around in the cockpits of their suits, but rather be safe than sorry and starving.

None of them knew when they’d be back to the apartment, so it was better to be prepared than not.

—

Iacon was the shining city in the north, somehow both familiar and unfamiliar. It often reminded him of his trips to the city as a kid, whether Los Angeles or San Francisco before the first few attacks. Beautiful in a way that made it feel empty, that made it seem like a façade for something worse underneath. He was thankful that it was more history and trying to make up for the past then the present.

The quiet was the best part of the early morning to him, why he was willing to be one of the first up and out.

They were all splitting up already, it had been Jazz and Prowl first, getting called out to a meeting with Optimus Prime; he’d left next after getting a comm message from Megatron, then Sideswipe had been alerted to Elita-One landing, followed a while later by Sunstreaker and Bluestreak, then Breakdown.

Now here in the early morning light, he could see things slightly more clearly, better than in the apartment.

His paint was abnormally shiny right now, even in the typical army drab green, it almost shined in the light. He’d told Sunny not to wax it but the man had acted like a being possessed, so now they all apparently smelt nice and were shined brighter than glass. Rubbing one hand over the back of the other, he frowned a bit. Sighing, he glanced around instead.

It was still early, that was the point, to try and get out of Iacon before most people were out and about for the day. There were a few people out but most seemed to be taking in the sights and sounds like he was. Rolling his shoulder a bit, Hound paused briefly before entering the square. It was mostly filled with shops and stands that he still had not taken to purchasing from, but knew a few of his pilots had.

Moving through the market, there were only a few stands open this early in the morning, mostly different types of energon or food supplement stands. He’d seen others eat things that weren’t energon, but he’d never heard them mention what they were like. A lot of people avoided talking about food with him, or the other pilots.

He was pretty sure they all thought that they didn’t eat, he could almost laugh about it with how much crap was stuffed in his cockpit right now.

Sliding aside a piece of platting in his arm, he jingled a bit of the shanix about with a frown. They’d been paying them all, as Megatron had put it, a typical contractors fee. Now he had money he hadn’t spent in almost a year, Jazz typically bought the stuff they needed from off-world with Prowl’s help and everything else he either made or found.

With a glance up at one of the booths, he moves over and awkwardly dumps some of the strange cash into his hand, sliding the compartment shut, “Hi, uh. Do you have any rust sticks?” It was the only thing he knew.

One of the few things other than energon he’d seen Mirage eat.

The merchant nodded, his smile was slightly unnerving, “Yes of course! Would you like more than one box?” Already shaking his head, “No, no one box is fine. Thank you.” The mech nodded and moved about slightly, closing a box, “That will be five shanix.” Nodding a bit, Hound counted them out a bit awkwardly before handing them over. It was traded for the box.

Tucking it into his leg compartment, he wandered towards a few other stands.

None really caught his eyes, starting back towards the area called the docks, but he slowed down at seeing a stand that was just opening. Filled with bright colors but that’s not what caught his eye. It was the way it moved in the wind, it was as close to cloth as he’d seen.

Moving over, he waited for a second before stepping forward, “Excuse me, is your stand open?” The mech glanced up, “Yes, of course. Can I help you?” His eyes flicked over everything before nodding towards a blue piece, “How much for the blue one?” The mech face lit up, “Ah, yes. Fifteen shanix, the mesh is more fine then the rest.” Already nodding, Hound struggles to count out fifteen and handed it over.

Smiling, the mech took the blue mesh down, folding it, “Would you like it boxed?” Hound paused before shaking his head, “Uh, no, no thank you.” Nodding, the mech gently tied up the fabric before handing it over.

It passed over his hands almost like silk, brushing his fingers over it he could almost feel it. It would be soft and seemingly cuttable, which was perfect. Tucking it in with the rust sticks, he sighed and left the square, turning back towards the main street.

The trip through this part of Iacon had become so familiar to him now, the streets were easy to get lost on but he had a better sense of direction than some of the Arcturus crew. Probably most.

Walking by himself through Iacon, taking in the sights and sounds for likely the last time for a while, with his purchases basically in hand it was an almost tense walk. Sighing, he kept walking towards the docks where the shuttle was, already seeing a few from his unit wandering in.

Megatron was ordering people around as they packed supplies into the non-sentient shuttle, he hated it in a way, how he thought of it but it was the only way to think of it now. He knew so-called shuttles, people who transformed into larger alt-modes that could effectively carry their friends. It was really bizarre to him, but he didn’t want to make them uncomfortable.

He guessed it wasn’t terribly different than if his own suit was sentient, but it wasn’t, it was just an extension of himself.

Even the shuttle was familiar now, in its greys and purples, it was larger than any plane or rocket he’d seen back home, but it could still become cramped when it was packed with supplies and soldiers.

It oddly reminded him of home, or more so his stent in the military. Cramped vehicles full of people and supplies. All able to laugh, joke, and complain about it at the same time.

Coming up towards Megatron, Hound slowed, “Sir.” Megatron glanced over, smiling, “Hound, mind offering a hand?” Nodding a bit, he sighed and moved to help the others with the crates. Brand new paint on his hands, already getting scratched by the boxes.

Relief flooded him oddly, no longer looking like a fresh suit, fresh suits usually meant some point was either hurt or dead. His hands wouldn’t shine like glass, like they were breakable.

He nearly paused, stumbling slightly while trying to balance the crate. It wasn’t terribly far off for them, how close they all came to death two days ago, he certainly felt close to death but it had been easy to ignore then.

Anxiety was clutching at his throat and heart.

Sighing while setting down the crate, he shoved it into place, his mind was everywhere at the moment. Unable to focus. Stepping back slightly shakily, a hand lands on his shoulder, “Hound, are you alright?” Shaking his head a bit, he sighs, “Uh, mostly.” The grip on his shoulder tightened and he was promptly shoved deeper into the ship, away from the cargo space.

“You and your humans do not take well enough care of yourselves.” Megatron shoved him to sit, frowning, “Stay put.” Then turned to leave.

Whiplash would be the easiest way to describe how he currently felt, what just happened, but then again Megatron was all up in arms over their handling of being humans. Leaning back, he sighed slowly and stared at the ceiling for a while.

It shifted and he swore.

The space washed with light and he bit back a groan, this was something with overuse he was well and truly exhausted of, but the whole scene didn’t shift. It was just pieces, fragments of his vision. The focus of it was the ship, the ship around him but the edges, the voices, those were full of memory.

A hand rested on his shoulder, “You are going to do great things kid, you just have to pull your head out of your ass long enough to see it.” He wanted to ignore it, the voice faded briefly, but floated back to him, “Just, go through the testing. If you don’t pass, you don’t pass, but if you do, you could be a pilot. You could end this damned war.” Sighing slowly, he hangs his head, covering his face and closing his eyes.

Taking slow, deep breaths.

Clanking footsteps approached again and he looked up, opening his eyes to stare at Megatron.

Who was holding a gun.

Yeah, this day probably wasn’t going to go well.

“Hound, I know you feel that what happened in Iacon was a failure of yours but I swear it was not.” He stops a few feet away, still giving Hound space. It was another relief, “You haven’t been yourself since I saw you in that bar, it’s unlike you to be so unfocused or anxious.” Nodding slowly, Hound sighs.

Megatron shifted, still holding the rifle like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it, “You have been the biggest asset in this war, more than any of us can claim to be and for that I owe you a debt.” He blinked, “I’m sorry, sir, but, what?” Megatron almost smiled.

Shifting it around, he shifts the gun to show it to Hound, much less threatening a position.

”There is something significant in cybertronian culture about having a weapon crafted for you Hound.” Megatron sighed deeply and kept hold of the gun, shifting it slightly to show a different angle, “I am putting my faith and trust in you, not your pilot's Hound, but you. It sounds ridiculous, but you are capable and need a reliable weapon. One that you do not throw at the enemy when overwhelmed when you inevitably run off, or can be easily destroyed as the last two I’ve seen you hold.”

He wasn’t sure what to say, how to feel but trying not to grin, Hound nods slowly, “Uh, yes sir.” Megatron hummed, “This is a weapon designed by Wheeljack, it had been tested as to not blow up in your face.” He grimaced, as if that was a recurring occurrence.

Nodding slightly, Hound held his gaze, Megatron continued, “Treat it as your ally, not something you can throw down when disappointed or overly aggressive. I also hope that in this we’ll be able to work together, reduce your running off.” They both almost cracked a smile, but Hound sighed and nodded slowly, “Sir, if I may?:

Humming again, Megatron nodded and Hound sat back, closing his eyes.

”On Earth, when I first became a pilot, I was what is called a hunter class pilot for the first few years. My job was to stalk, attack, and kill Quintessons. By myself, there was no team or unit like I have now.” He finally looked up, opening his eyes again, “Up until this year, I had not worked with a unit of soldiers in what will be at the top limit of a tenth of my lifespan. Currently sitting around thirty percent of my life.”

Sighing again, he rubbed a hand over where his implants were, laying under the connector, “I wasn’t the best at working with others before that either, sir, or honestly after when I became a striker class pilot. So, I can’t guarantee that I won’t run off to handle a situation when I can see it before anyone else, because that is what was in my training. What I was originally made to do.” He looked up.

Megatron was staring but nodded slowly, “You are more than what you were made for Hound, I hope you come to understand that.” Smiling now, Hound nods, “I’m trying sir, but, when we fought in New Kaon. I brought back what I thought was deleted coding, my hunter class instincts where everything is dialed to an eleven. It came back and since then…” Megatron hummed, “Since then it has been difficult to not follow them.”

Nodding again, Hound sighs, “It’s like, I’m me again. More than just a pilot but me.” Megatron’s hand moved and rested on his shoulder, squeezing it, “I am glad, but I hope we can refine those instincts to include each other. More than just Mirage.” His face burned but he nodded, “Yes sir.”

They both paused as Megatron held the rifle for a moment longer before leaning it towards Hound, “I have faith in you. Earn it.” Carefully taking it, Hound sighs and picks it up, keeping the barrel away from Megatron as he systematically goes over it.

Of course it was a work of art.

Smiling, Hound looks up, keeping the barrel pointed down, “Thank you, Megatron, I hope to have earned this privilege.” The eye roll looked almost painful, “Just, settle in. The shuttle ride will be long and crowded.” He turned to leave but paused, “You did well, in Iacon. It was not a failure Hound, I hope you grow to see that.” And he walked away.

Looking down, Hound sat back and admired the rifle again. The green just shy of matching his own perfectly, the barrel would come apart just as it had before but less in a made for convenience way and more methodical. He’d have to try to speak to Wheeljack, even if the scientist was still less than trustworthy in his mind.

Eventually, Mirage appeared, moving and sitting next to him as the ship filled up. He whistled, “Damn Hound, how come you always seem to have all the new toys?” He grinned, looking at Mirage and offering it, “To show them off with, of course.” Mirage laughed.

It was far too much like music for Hound’s liking.

Mirage carefully looked over the rifle before handing it back, “You’ll use it well.” Hound took it and rested it carefully against the seat to his other side, before opening the compartment on his leg and pulling out the carefully packed box. Offering it, “For the journey.”

The look on Mirage’s face was worth more than the five shanix he paid for it.

His heart beated hard and clenched harder, which was bad to experience in a war zone, but for now they were on a shuttle. Even if the nearby seekers would make their raunchy and rude hand gestures while Hound slept. Head resting carefully on Mirage’s shoulder.

A new comm between them opened, so when Hound needed to eat but still wanted to talk to someone, he could.

He just hoped that all his nerves would stop being on fire for a day or two, to get back into the swing of things.

—

He didn’t know what to expect, whether from his stupid injury leaving him on Cybertron for the last week or two, or the full blown attack on Iacon, he really didn’t know what to expect from his unit. Let alone Elita.

There was something about her reaction to everything that he wasn’t looking forward to experiencing. Sighing, he stepped out into the early morning sunshine. The sun was coming up and the streets were starting to fill with the early morning traffic, turning left he started in what he hoped was the right direction.

Seeing Elita was the second task of today, the first one was to not get lost on the way there. If anyone was labeled as having no sense of direction among the pilots, it would be him. Every time he’d gotten lost in Iacon though, he’d found something, usually something he needed so hopefully today was included in that.

Iacon in the morning was pretty, but it made him miss the sunrises in Florida, whether before or after the attacks. Just being with Sunny on the beach or when his parents were alive with them; it was just one of many reasons he slept in most days.

To avoid the past.

Turing down another street, he almost stalled as he faced an alleyway, his heart stuttering briefly before he continued forward. There was no sense in being stressed about stumbling upon a place like the bar again, he doubted there was another place in the whole galaxy that would randomly play music from Earth.

Humming to himself, he kept walking, turning on the music in his suit. Having it low so it wouldn’t echo in his cockpit, he took another random turn, glancing vaguely at the map on his screen. It wasn’t perfect though so he kept wandering, for a while, bobbing his head to the music.

It was only when familiar voices fluttered through did he focus on actually where he was.

Which he was pretty sure he’d never been around here before, wherever he was, but Chromia and Moonracer were standing near a shop, where a few others were inside. Sighing, he moves over, “You know, I never thought I’d be happy to run into you all in public, but here we are.” Chromia looks up and smiles, “Well, look who's crawled back!” Her hand clapped his shoulder once he was within reach.

“How are you feeling, Sides?” Her voice almost softened and he shrugged off her hand, “I’m good, how was the mission?” She sighed and shook her head, “Slow after the chaos we had.” Nodding a bit, he glanced into the small shop.

Elita was inside, waiting on what appeared to be heated energon, “What about you?” “Hmm?” He glances over, “What?” Her smile was strained, “How was your mission, what, two days ago? What happened to that?” Nodding slowly, his throat tightened slightly, “Ah, uh, that.” His fingers ached.

Chromia shifted forward, “Sides? Hey, you alright?” She took hold of his shoulder again and he pulled back so hard he hit the wall behind him, “I’m fine! I’m okay, really.” Chromia and Moonracer shared a look, both taking a step back, “Okay, Sideswipe, take a breath.”

Nodding a bit, he did, even as his face burned.

The door to his left swung open, “Alright, all of you off to the shuttle, I need you to pack the supplies. Break is officially over.” Elita moved over and almost stood in front of Sideswipe, both Moonracer and Chromia sub-spaced their cubes before saluting and heading off at a job.

Punch and Skids followed as they exited the shop.

Sideswipe moved to go around her to follow, but her hand grabbed his shoulder, “Not you Sideswipe, we need to discuss what happened two days ago. Those comm calls, we don’t have to talk about everything but we have to talk about some of it. Come on, I’m still waiting for my drink.” She didn’t wait, shoving him towards the door.

The inside of the shop was warm, he could almost feel it though the suit, but it was subtle enough to not warm him up like the heaters would, “Go ahead and sit, ill be there in just a second.” Slowly, he moved to one of the tables near the window, sitting down carefully.

For an energon cafe, it wasn’t dissimilar to the ones he’d seen on TV growing up, old school reruns. The ones his mother would have on when the attacks were in the distance, to block out the car alarms or sirens from the next town over. When it would be too quiet for anything else to be on.

Picking at his fingers, he kept his head down, unable to look at his monitors a moment longer. His stomach turned over uneasily.

After a moment, Elita moves over and sits across from him, sighing, “What happened?” He doesn’t look up, staring at the table, “Other than Iacon being attacked, nothing.” She shook her head, “No, don’t you dare talk crap. I heard you on comms. Look,” Shifting forward, she sighs.

”You don’t have to talk about it but I can’t have you jumping out of your plating every time someone asks about it, they're going to ask even when I tell them not to. So come up with something better than "I'm fine or it’s okay.” Please.” He finally looks up and sits back.

Sighing, he nodded a bit, “My mom died in a building collapse, my dad not long after her. Sunny was there when the building went down and was one of very few survivors. I was at school.” The way he said the word showed the disdain, “I didn’t go back until years later, when I didn’t have a choice.” Closing his eyes, he sighs shakily.

”I didn’t get a lot of choices after they died. That day just brought it all to the surface again.” She nodded slowly, sipping her energon, “Sideswipe, I’m sorry about your creators.” He almost stared, but got it after a second.

Shrugging a bit, he sighed again, “It was a long time ago, just, when the bar fell. It was our only real piece of home, so it brought too much of that back.” Nodding again, he sits up, “It won’t happen again.”

She sat forward a bit, “Sideswipe, no, Simon, you don’t have to put all this behind you. I know it’s going to be rough, but we are going to be here for you. Don’t shut us out, I’ll order you if I have to.” He smiles a bit and nods, “Yeah, I’ll try.” She did smile then, finishing her cube and standing.

”Our shuttle is at the docks, follow me unless you want to be lost for the next several hours.” Rolling his eyes a bit, he stands and follows her out, “My sense of direction is not that bad, ma’am.” She chuckled, “We both know that is a lie.”

He chuckled a bit too, shaking his head, “Alright, maybe. Now, where are we off to?” Nodding, Elita sighs, “A planet in New Kaon’s system. We’ll have a day or two in the city before being stationed.”

Nodding, he shrugs, “Sounds like a blast.” Elita grins, “I’ll say, shuttle is this way.” They turned onto an actual road and he could see the hustle and bustle of the docks, filling up with mechs, carrying weapons and crates alike.

It looked like a war movie, those English train stations filled with soldiers and their sweethearts. A few mechs were off to the side talking with other mechs and some younger seeming mechs hanging off of others, like children.

His heart clenched and he looked away, looking back to Elita as they moved towards one of the smaller shuttles in the docking bay. The ramp was open and his unit was standing around inside, a few crates took up the leg room and there were a few larger weapons taking up space too.

The thrill of the fight finally felt like it was coming back to him.

So much of it had drained out of him when the damn bar fell on his head, none of it had felt like the prep for a fight which he’d been thrown head first into. Normally the missions grip at him nobody’s business, but he hadn’t been in the right headspace for it. Now he felt like he was actually going to face the Quintessons again.

Climbing up the ramp to their shuttle, he glanced out at the docks briefly, sighing slowly. In the distance, he could see Ironhide getting gear around for their own shuttle. However this all was supposed to go or pan out, he was glad to know his brother was with someone Elita trusted.

Even if Bluestreak was with him.

”Hey, Sides, come settle this for us!” Glancing over his shoulder, he smiles a bit and moves back into the shuttle and towards Chromia, “What am I settling now?” Her smile was bright, “It’s a bet on how soon you’ll get hurt next.” Rolling his eyes, he shoves Skids and sits down, “Ha ha, very funny. Alright then, what’s the pool look like?”

Elita moves over, crossing her arms but smiling, “I say two weeks, not so bad you’ll end up on Cybertron but enough to where you sleep for a day.” He scoffs as the others chuckle, “Does anyone have me not getting hurt?” The chorus of no’s was comforting and insulting.

Shaking his head, he smiles, “Fuck you guys, alright, a shanix on a month.” He hands the money over to Nickel.

Her smile was always unsettling, but they all moved about to write down the bets, laughing together.

—

When he’d received a comm from Optimus Prime that morning, he didn’t think it was for breakfast. Or, well, not exactly breakfast. Everyone on Cybertron danced around the fact that they didn’t appear to eat, he was pretty sure it made most people uncomfortable.

Leaving the apartment had been chaotic that morning, everyone moving around to gather supplies and prep their suits for the extended missions, but he moved slower. Picking this specifically and packing the cockpit of his suit tight, even though he was fairly sure he’d be sticking to Cybertron.

The reassignment had hardly been a shock, but he was a slower and bulkier mech, made for the distanced launch of weapons. To be held behind the lines was expected, but not so far back he wasn’t even in the fight.

He’d smashed his way through his fair share of Quintessons by hand, even with closer range guns, but this was nearly absurd. If it had been Megatron who had asked, he would have understood that.

Everything about their political structure was odd, but the Lord High Protector was the every standing guard of their Prime. So if Megatron had asked him to remain at Optimus Prime’s side, he would have understood. To know it was the medic, that was what made it odd.

Stepping down to the street, Breakdown turns and starts towards headquarters, moving at a comfortable pace. Optimus had said not to rush and he probably spent the least time out and about in Iacon than any of the others. He usually was hurt, healing, or just too busy.

Glancing up and around, he could see some of the things about the city that the others couldn’t, or at least never commented on. The mixing of architecture, the types of metal in use the deeper into the city he got, a clear balance of pre and post-war designs.

It reminded him of Kiev, the older architecture closer to the city center, buildings that had stood through wars and conflicts, versus the newer towards the edge of the city. Most war-torn cities looked like this, at least all the ones he had seen. Of course, cities were also likely to keep some original architecture towards the center but others wanted the development to spread outward.

This city looked more like it had lived through war then anything else, which he knew it had. Longer than he could even know, but now, he glances towards where the bar had been. A nearby skyscraper had been damaged by the crashing ship.

The building had been newer construction, at least when compared to the bar which clearly was ancient. Not old, not even just pre-war, that building’s metal had been entirely different from every part of the city. It was hard to tell but he could see it, clear as day.

Sighing, he kept walking, rubbing at his palms. Sunstreaker had made his suit so bright, it reminded him too much of when he’d been assigned this suit, and reminded him of how he kept finding reminders of his brother inside that first year.

It tore at his heart a bit, just the subtleness of the similarity from now to back then.

He stayed alive so none of his little brothers would get stuck in this suit, how it tried to tear you apart.

Climbing up the steps towards headquarters, there were a few guards standing outside, as if waiting. Probably for him as they open the gates while he moves up, “Thank you.” He nods slightly as he goes past, starting to move inside, “Ah, Breakdown, just the mech I was waiting for.” He slows and turns.

Optimus Prime stood in an arch way, smiling softly and holding a cube, which appeared to have a seal on it, “Walk with me.” Nodding a bit, he picks up the pace and moves over, “Sir.” Optimus smiled and started walking, into what could only be described as a garden.

Though they weren’t exactly growing planets that he’d be used to, it looked like they were growing crystals and glass.

It was beautiful.

Optimus hummed, glancing around, “Are there gardens like this on Earth, Breakdown?” Glancing around, he shrugs, “Some, but not many since the war. Most were handled by government resources, they have other priorities now.” Optimus nodded slowly.

Scuffing his foot lightly against the ground, Breakdown sighs, “Sir, why exactly are we here?” Chuckling weakly, Optimus sighs, “Breakdown, I listen to my people when they ask of me little. Knockout, my CMO has asked that you remain here to guard both of us. As he will travel with me and my primesguard, with Ironhide being away, we do not have a heavier weight class soldier at the ready.”

This was making a lot more sense, “I see.” Optimus hummed again before gesturing, “Sit with me.” Nodding some, he moves over and sits down. Optimus slowly sat next to him, sighing and opening his cube, “I apologize for eating while you cannot, but enjoy the view with me.” Nodding slowly, Breakdown looks out and freezes.

Through the crystals in front of them, it enlarged the view in the distance, pointing out the border of the city and the cities connected to it. You could almost see half of Cybertron from this one seat, “Wow.”

The smile on Optimus’s face was bright, “This was a gift from Megatron, when we were still formulating our peace. I mentioned once that I never wanted to lose sight of what mattered, which was Cybertron. So he had these clear crystals planted. Someday, when they are fully grown, I will see even more than we can now.” Nodding slowly, Breakdown sighs, “It’s beautiful.”

Resting a hand on his back, Optimus nods, “I have to ask that you stay here in the Primesguard quarters, so they are able to get you on schedule and into our routines. Those same routines will lead to basic training and prepare you for working in our lines. You’ll fit right in Breakdown.”

Nodding again, he sighs slowly and looks back out at Cybertron.

It really was beautiful, “I have to go back inside, I’ll be sending Knockout out this way to show you around headquarters. It seems a lot more daunting than it actually is.” Optimus rose and paused, smiling some, “Also, at some point you will have to explain the Joan nickname I have earned from you and the other pilots.”

Breakdown’s head snapped up, “Uh,” Optimus chuckled, “I understand it will be a long story, enjoy the view and the morning.” Nodding slowly, he watched as Optimus wandered off again.

Sitting back in his piloting chair, he sighs deeply and drags his hands down his face, “There is a time and a place to freak out, this is not that time.” Sighing again, he picked up one of the pouches of water in his cockpit and sips.

He got to enjoy the rest of the sunrise, watching the light cast over the cities in the distance, Knockout didn’t appear until the sun was up.

Knockout moved slowly, still wiping at his hands with a cloth, “Good morning Breakdown, how was your rest?” He didn’t glance away from the crystals, “Well, Knockout. Thank you for asking.” Pushing up from the bench, he turned to Knockout and lightened his visor in a smile.

The gaze from Knockout warmed his face, his smile was small and soft, caring.

“You look well, Knockout. Recovered from the other day?” Knockout nodded and gestured, “Let me give you a tour, this place is massive.” Smiling, Breakdown moves over and takes up his side, “Well then, we might as well start now.” Slowly, they moved out of the garden.

A place where Breakdown knew if he could, he’d spend far more time. Glancing at Knockout, he smiles a bit, hoping to spend more time there with him.

”Breakdown, I was worried the other day, but you look nearly better than new. I am very glad to know you are alright.” His face went from warm to nearly burning, clearing his throat a bit, he nodded, “As much as this might not be reassuring, I have in fact been through worse Knockout. It will take more than knocking my head off to kill me.”

The look on Knockout’s face clearly showed that this was, in fact, not reassuring.

Chuckling weakly, Breakdown rubs his back a bit, “That sounds terrible, I understand but it is merely how the human mind works. Forgive me.” Knockout’s hand quickly took his arm, holding it briefly before letting go, “You, Breakdown, are amazing and deserve better than what they made you think.”

Looking down, his blush did not die down, “I, I thank you Knockout.” Clearing his throat, he nods as they enter the building, “So, the tour?” Knockout nodded, clearing his throat, “Yes, the tour.” Gesturing again, he smiled, “You’ll like this part, it’s one of the oldest structures in all of Iacon. Maybe on all of Cybertron.”

Nodding, Breakdown smiles, “Sounds interesting.” Slowly, they moved together. Hands hovering near each other as they walked.

—

There was something that had been relaxing and relieving yesterday, about painting everyone’s suits and ensuring that the maintenance was caught back up. To know everyone would be safe even as they all separated again, even more than normal.

After the bar collapsed, he couldn’t just let them wander back off without checking over the systems and making sure everything was working.

Though now that his cockpit was weighed down with supplies, he wasn’t sure if he should have replaced some of his hydraulic lines or not beforehand. It certainly weighed more than it typically did and that could be dangerous.

He just had to be one of the last ones out of the apartment, things bumping around in his cockpit as he hurried. Ironhide had sent him and Bluestreak a message, claiming they needed to hurry and that they all needed to be at the shuttle urgently. Ironhide rarely spoke like that, let alone sent messages so he left the apartment building at a run.

Not only did he have no idea where they were going yet, but had limited idea as to why they were leaving Cybertron after the attack. Especially while Breakdown was staying behind and suddenly all of them were leaving.

Blue caught up with him on the street, also jogging, “You know, Ironhide doesn’t really send messages unless it’s urgent.” Nodding a bit, Sunny sighs, “Yeah, I figured. I’ve never gotten a message from him, at least not in the handful of months I’ve been working under him.” His skin prickled.

Taking his hand suddenly, Bluestreak squeezed it, “Oh relax Sunny, I doubt it’s anything that bad. Probably just wants us all there already.” They jogged down the street, hand in hand.

Briefly reminding Sunny of couples out of old rom-com movies his mom used to love, the ones he’d watch when he was home sick cause she had them on DVD.

“Still, we should get there as quickly as possible. I mean, it’s Ironhide Blue.” Bluestreak sighed, “Please, you didn’t know home during the last war Sunny. You weren’t even alive in the last war, this is just how Ironhide gets when he’s going to be doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

Rolling his eyes a bit, Sunny shakes his head, “I doubt that, honestly Blue, this could be serious. After the attack on Iacon, we could be going just about anywhere in the galaxy. Doesn’t that worry you?” Bluestreak was already shaking his head.

Sighing, they kept jogging, passing through the market square as most of the stands were open at this point in the morning, people were moving around everywhere.

Iacon felt strangely busy.

They moved through the streets at a rapid pace, Sunny focused while Blue was mostly staring at him, biting his tongue while they moved through Iacon.

“You know Sunny, I like how you redid your paint. Plus the wax you put on is really nice,” his fingers brushed over the back of his hand, “How’d you learn to do this?” Sighing, he smiled a bit and nodded, “I used to work on cars, uh, personal transports back home. Painting them, waxing them, and general work.” He shrugged a bit.

Smiling at him, Bluestreak could have melted, “Wow, that sounds incredible.” Chuckling a bit, Sunny shakes his head, “Not really, they were mostly hunks of junk by the time I started working on them. Sides and I did it to get by, but we both loved it.” They started to slow, still holding hands.

Nodding, Bluestreak hummed, “Still, the fact you found a wax that also smells nice is fantastic. What is it like, on Earth?” Sighing a bit, he shrugs, “Personal transports are quickly becoming a thing of the past beside for the government and in sports. No one can afford them really anymore and the resources aren’t there.” Blue frowned, “What do you mean?”

Sighing, Sunny almost stops before remembering and picking the pace back up, “A lot of personal transports relied on gasoline, a substance which is dwindling on Earth, but in the latter half of the last century they started to mine out at sea. Uh, it’s not really safe to do that anymore.” He shrugs.

”It happens, but the Quintessons tried to break apart our oil rigs early on. It was better to get them out from the sea than face the ecological disaster.” Bluestreak nodded slowly, frowning, “You said your planet is like, seventy percent water, right?” Nodding again, Sunny smiles, “Yeah.”

Whistling, Blue shakes his head, “Earth sounds weird.” Chuckling, Sunny nodded, “Cause it is.”

Finally, they came up to the docking bay, where multiple shuttles were preparing to leave or were in the process of leaving.

Glancing around, Sunny just caught a flash of red as one of the shuttle's doors closed, his heart clenched. See you later Sideswipe.

He pinged him once and got a pin back before they turned toward Ironhide’s shuttle.

Ironhide was standing outside of it, looking stressed as a few people were loading the shuttle, “There you two are! Civi, I need your help with something!” Glancing at Bluestreak, Sunny let go of his hand and hurried over, “Sir!” He only slowed when he was in front of Ironhide.

”You need to look over this map of the Archa system, the planets there are organic and we need your advice on where you think the Quintessons might hit next. They keep circling the system.” Sighing, Sunny nods and moves forward, “Is that all?” Ironhide scowls, “Far from it, but it’s what I am at liberty to tell you right now, Civi.”

His heart sunk but he nodded and moved onto the shuttle, heading towards the mapping table. It was lit up with the Archa system, one of the planets, pretty and blue spun lazily.

Returning to the Archa system sounded like heaven on earth, at least to him. Every time they went there it reminded him of home, but the fact that they were asking him for advice was probably not a good sign.

He was far from an expert in strategy, “So, take a look.” Nodding a bit, Sunny sighed and looked. Some were too small, others too violent, but one was too much like Earth and another too much like Cybertron, “Uh, why do you need my advice on this?” He looks to Ironhide.

Frowning, Ironhide sighs, “Because you can tell when they're scouting something or getting ready to attack.” He hit a button on the table and more than a dozen small Quintesson ships appeared. He stared.

That was not good.

—

He could have dozed off, content for the moment, until everyone started to grumble and groan. It only took a few seconds to realize why as Jazz sat next to him and Prowl went towards the front of the shuttle.

Pausing, he shifted towards Jazz, “Uh, what’s going on?” He pinged him and Jazz came up in the corner of his vision, wearing a grin, “Well, Spec ops is going with Megatron it would seem since most of the primesguard have to stay behind.” Nodding slowly, he frowned, “Uh huh, okay, why?” The glint in Jazz’s eye was criminal.

He knew it well.

“Well you and Mirage are going, plus a few of the others. Only ones who were missing were me, Prowl, and Smokey so we thought we’d join. Joan doesn’t need us planet side for what we do and that way, at least, the five of us might be able to kick some ass.” He blinked, then looked to Mirage.

Who was stuffing his face with rust-sticks.

Dragging a hand down his face, Hound groaned but smiled. Sitting back against Mirage, he sighed, “You’ll have to explain to me what Spec Ops is to you know, cause we certainly don’t dress like those guys did in the army.” Jazz laughed and shook his head, “Nothing like those gun nuts. We’re more crazy.”

With a nod, Hound hums and tries to settle back in again, before Smokescreen comes shuffling over with yet another rifle. It was bad enough that he and Mirage had one a piece and now there was another sniper joining them. He sat one seat away from Jazz, clearly leaving room for Prowl, “I hate traveling by shuttle.”

Jazz nodded, “You and me both buddy, so, do any of you know where we’re going?” Shaking his head, he sighs a bit, “Megatron simply told me that the shuttle ride would be long, so I’d settle in if I were you.” Sitting back again, Hound tried closing his eyes.

Tapping his shoulder, Jazz smiled, “Oh come on Hound, it’s early and we all slept last night. Sleep is the last thing that we need.” Cracking open an eye, Hound glanced at Jazz, “One of the rules I learned in the army was sleep when you can. We’re hardly going to be able to hear each other in a few minutes during take off and lights will be cut off for the first hour. Sleep while you can.”

Shaking his head, Jazz sighed, “Oh come on Hound, we can talk strategy.” Sighing, he sat back up a bit, “Fine, but only because we’re sitting here. Mirage, care to join in?” Mirage groaned and closed up the box of rust-sticks, “Why do you have to involve me?” They all chuckled.

Prowl moved back down the aisle and sat in between Jazz and Smokescreen, crossing his arms, “We’re going back to that organic planet from last year Jazz, the one with the purple fruit.” Jazz grinned, “Fantastic!” Hound smiled and settled back as Jazz started to describe the planet.

There was nothing else, nowhere else, that he felt needed. Not like this. He could spend the rest of his life fighting Quintessons alongside the Cybertronians and he’d feel more fulfilled in life than he had doing it on Earth.

He’d always miss home, miss his passion projects he’d work on during his nights off, but he had the garden, he had Mirage, and his closest friends were here. If he looked back on what he was missing, it would tear him apart, but looking around the shuttle showed him what he had.

And he wouldn’t trade this for the world.

A competent commander in Megatron, reliable allies in Prowl and Jazz, someone who had his back in Mirage, and a cohesive unit. He never thought he’d miss the familiarity of the military until he was thrown back into it and felt more at home than he had in the better part of a decade while working with MECHA.

This is where he was meant to be, somehow, someway, this was where he was meant to be.

Slowly, Jazz, Prowl, and Smokescreen conversation drifted away from them and the shuttle rumbled to life as the lights cut.

Mirage leaned closer, resting his hand on Hound’s back before shuffling down slightly, “Get some rest Hound, we’re going to be here for a while.” Humming, he nodded and leaned back, sighing.

Yeah, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

———

A/N

This officially is the longest chapter of Arcturus at just a little over 8k. Damn, this took a minute to write. But life also didn’t want to slow down the last few weeks, for whatever reason.

Friday will be Arcturus Three and then next Tuesday I will hopefully have the first part of part two of the Arcturus missions.

I can’t believe I wrote 50 parts of the original team. That’s insane to me. But I love these guys and I am glad you all have been enjoying it!

I also only realized while adding tags that Soundwave is not in this chapter, oops. He’s just busy.

TAGS

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @sirassban @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscrapheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @thetrexartist @naaaafam @elegantmantaray @emichusai @waterlilykitty @diabolichare @ham4ponyo @osqindaxend @sunnyvibesanddoodles @ratatatata248 @ijustneedausernaneplease4444444 @sprook-children @fooolisher

And once again thank you to @Keferon for this amazing AU

#Transformers #maccadam #tf mecha universe #tf mecha au #mech pilot jazz au #mecha pilot jazz au #the arcturus missions #Hound #Breakdown #Sunstreaker #Sideswipe #Megatron #optimus prime #Mirage #Knockout #Bluestreak #Smokescreen

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serenadeonacanoe · 1 day ago

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Untitled, 2025 (GD x OFC) Chapter 7: March 25th

Pairing: G-Dragon/Kwon Jiyong x OFC Genre/Warnings: Slow Burn, Tour Life, fluffyfluff, yearning, eventual smut, 2014 ==> 2020 ==> 2025.

It’s 2025 and the King of K-Pop is back. He and his music are everywhere. On the charts, all over social media and smack in the middle of Maddie’s work schedule. Sometimes she still can’t believe this is her actual job now - documenting the chaos behind the scenes and trying to make sure no one on his team gets lost, bruised or accidentally starts a viral scandal.

What’s even harder to believe? That she and Jiyong met five years ago. Actually… scratch that. They met ten years ago too. Time has a weird sense of humor like that and things get blurry when you’re busy, nostalgic, and maybe just a little bit smitten. Also, life throws more daisies your way than you’d expect.

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

More on AO3 —————————————–

Summer 2014

The sky looks too cheerful for how I feel. Blue, sunny, a few lazy clouds. Birds are chirping. It’s offensively peaceful for a day full of hangovers. I’m standing by the gravel driveway, sunglasses on, hoodie up, suitcase beside me like I can’t wait to leave and… well yeah, I really can’t wait to leave. Everyone’s pretending to be fine after last night’s party. Maybe they are, but it smells like old beer and regret here.

I’m not mad. Just ready to go. “Hey, Daisy.” I turn. It’s Jiyong. Of course. He's holding a coffee cup like a prize. Sweater hood pulled low, hair underneath a mess, tired. Still looks too good for someone who should probably be hiding from the world. “You leaving without saying goodbye?” he asks, voice all smooth like this is charming, like it’s a joke. I blink. He smirks. I hate that it still does things to me.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.” “Oh wow. You really just said that?” He shrugs. “You’re not mad?” he asks, stepping a little closer. “No” I say honestly. “Just not impressed.”

He tips his head like that’s new information. Like I’m supposed to be flattered he’s even here talking to me. I can tell he’s still drunk. Or maybe that’s just who he is. His smile falters. Just for a second. But he catches himself and goes back to grinning like this is still salvageable.

That’s when Daesung walks past us with a huge plastic bottle of water. “You two flirt way less sexy in daylight” he says without stopping. “We’re not flirting.” I call out after him. Jiyong raises an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself.”

And that is when I walk away. Not fast. Not dramatically. Just done. I’ve got a train to catch and enough dignity left to not waste another breath on him. Still… in the car, on the ride to the station, head resting against the window, I find myself replaying the look on his face. That tiny crack in his confidence. That moment where maybe - just maybe - he didn’t have it all together. Not that it changes anything. But it lingers a little.

March 2025

It’s the 25th. The album is out. Übermensch is here. A couple of days have passed since that snowy walk but it feels like a lifetime ago.

We’ve seen each other nearly every day since - at work. Surrounded by people. Surrounded by deadlines. Surrounded by too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Everyone is exhausted in that giddy, running-on-adrenaline kind of way. No one has time to breathe. Let alone flirt.

We’ve texted. Brief little things. Updates. Memes. One photo of one of his cats. Nothing romantic. Nothing that said hey, remember how we kissed like our lives depended on it?

It’s fine. We’re fine. I’m not spiraling. Okay. I might be spiraling just a bit.

I didn’t want to be of course and at first I didn’t even want to admit it, but fuck. It’s always in the back of my head.

The worst part is he seems normal. Not cold. Just… busy. Charming to everyone, polite to me. A couple of long glances across meeting rooms, but nothing that lands. I start to wonder if I made it bigger in my head than it was. Maybe it was the snow. Maybe he felt something for five minutes and then went back to being whoever he is now. A pop star with a schedule that has its own gravitational pull. I tell myself not to take it personally.

The day comes and goes. Some of it - a lot of it actually - feels like a dream. Hard to grasp, in a way, because we worked so long and hard on this album. It’s hard to believe it’s finally here, people are listening.

Tonight is the album release party at a swanky venue downtown and I was hoping to enjoy the night but I still feel so much pressure when I get ready. This is still work after all. Maybe come tomorrow it will get better? Or will we forever run after the next thing and then the next thing… Or am I just being anxious because of everything?

When I arrive it feels good… but at the same time I disappear into the background. There are so many people I know and so many I know of. Pictures are being taken and flashes illuminate the otherwise dark red-tinted room. Is this a party? Or just the photo op of a party?

I sigh at myself. What did I expect.

Well… at least a pretty tight hug.

Instead I try to at least have a good time.

It’s after midnight and I am standing in a hallway toward the back entrance of the venue. I needed a quieter moment, a strong coffee and a moment to lean against this table after dancing for quite a while. My feet hurt. My voice is hoarse. A part of me wishes I was drunker. Another just wants to go to bed. And a third one wishes I wasn’t thinking about Ji.

Of course it’s hard not to. I’ve seen him all night. Deep down I know I’m being hard on myself but what can you do.

Daesung walks past me toward the exit, probably to sneak a smoke outside and grins wide at me. I know that grin. He’s trying to make me smile as well because he can tell I am not a hundred percent, he is good at that. The sound of his footsteps gets me out of my thoughts. I check my phone once he’s gone and wonder whether I should just go home. My duties for today are done done done.

That’s when a second pair of footsteps comes up, much quieter and not quite as startling anymore.

When I look up, Jiyong has already walked up next to me. He’s now also leaning against the table and just props his chin onto my shoulder, pretending to look at my phone with me. A hesitant smile from him. Then me smiling as well.

My heart is about to explode. I feel… shy and somewhat relieved. Confused but happy. It’s a lot. “Hi,” he says, looking up. He doesn’t move away. Still leans over at me, but now we’re on eye level. “Hi.”

For a second we just… look at each other.

It’s strange how familiar he feels and also how much space we’ve let grow between us the last few days.

“I’ve been hoping to catch you alone all day. Several days actually.”

Mad, almost concerning, how these two sentences from him make all that spiraling disappear for a moment. Thank fucking god. I wasn’t alone in this. Well, I was. But we were on the same page. Just not together, unfortunately.

“Busy. I get it,” I answer, trying to be casual for some reason, pretty sure that my face gives me away anyway. To be honest, I have no idea why I say that. It’s stupid.

He nods. Then adds, almost shyly “I couldn’t stop thinking about you though.”

I swallow, look down at the steam from my coffee cup. Then I sigh all my relief away and now I’m the one who lets her head fall to his shoulder.

Ji moves an arm around my back and puts his cheek to my head and we just stand there for a second.

There are so many things I want to say but now that I have the chance my head is so empty. I just want to be here with him… quiet for a moment. And so we are.

Until I finally break away to look into his eyes again.

“I hope… I really hope this album does as well as it deserves. Like… you deserve. I hope people appreciate it because…”

Why am I getting teary-eyed. I haven’t even expressed what I mean. That I’m proud of him. That he doesn’t need the praise but I still hope he gets it because the music is so great and every stupid little detail and… I’m tired but happy now and… too many words. Too little at the same time, so I stop and stand there with slightly open mouth.

He just looks at me and presses his lips together. Raises one hand to gently let the side of his thumb glide across my temple. Nods slowly a couple of times, as if to say It’s okay, I get it. And I think he really does.

I take another deep breath and then I just hug him. That might be reckless but I don’t care, because finally, the pressure is gone. All of it. Work and the stupid questions in my head. Nothing is clear yet, but I think there is nothing I can do.

Of course that is when Daesung appears again, muttering curse words and something about “nobody has lighters anymore these days.”

But he stops right away, mid-sentence, mid-step and starts grinning when he sees us. Makes another four steps until he is right next to us. Throws his arms around both of us at once like we’re in a sitcom.

“OH… my gawd” he practically shouts. “You guys are totally fucking.”

I almost choke. Jiyong makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “We’re not,” I manage. “Yet” Jiyong adds under his breath.

Daesung gasps like he just won a prize. Gossip Gold, basically. “I KNEW IT” he announces to absolutely no one. “Oh this is crazy, I can’t believe you finally… oh wow.” Then he bounds off again, still laughing. I panic for a second before I realize that whatever this is is safe with him. He loves gossip but he’s been doing this for long enough.

We’re left blinking. Jiyong looks at me with wide, amused eyes. “Well… that’s one way to get found out.” I nod, laughing into my cup before I take another sip.

And just like that, everything that was heavy lifts. Not everything is fixed. Not everything is said. But we’re back in orbit.

Jiyong shifts just a little closer. Not obvious. But close enough that I can feel the warmth of his hand brushing against mine. And then, gently, deliberately, his fingers slip into the space between mine. I glance down like my hand suddenly belongs to someone else. His thumb grazes mine once. Just once. And I swear to god it short-circuits something in my chest. I look up at him. He’s still smiling, but softer now. Like we’re in a bubble and he knows it. His hand tightens just slightly around mine.

Then I start smirking because I just remembered that... “So… yet? We aren’t fucking yet?” He audibly sucks in some air, rolls his eyes and is actually a tiny bit embarrassed, I can tell. But there is also a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips and the combination of all that is so intoxicating.

Instead of saying anything he moves both arms back around my waist and rests his face back against my collarbone. His currently very green hair is tickling me a little and I move one arm around his back, the other to the back of his head. Let my fingers glide into his (well, a little crispy) hair. For a second I close my eyes while there is the biggest smile on my face. I am so goddamn happy.

It’s a short moment that could have ended quite badly. We got luckier than we probabyl deserved there. So in the end that is all it is. A few minutes of hugging and shared silence. We return to the party hesitantly but both know it’s better that way.

By the time I get home, my cheeks are still warm. It’s the alcohol and the fact that it’s still really cold outside.

But it’s the hand-holding. It’s the yet. It’s how much lighter I feel compared to a couple of hours ago.

I kick off my shoes, toss my coat on the back of the chair and lean against the wall for a second, just breathing. The city is quiet outside my window. My phone is still in my hand. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, considering. Maybe I’ll just send a goodnight. Something chill. Something casual and completely non-deranged like hey hope you made it home safe and also I’m still thinking about your hand in mine and my brain’s made of fireworks now ok cool sleep tight.

Before I can type anything, my phone buzzes.

Jiyong: made it home, you there yet? Jiyong: you looked really pretty tonight btw

I smile so hard it hurts.

Me: same Me: home I mean Me: but also… thanks Me: you didn’t look too bad either Me: for someone emotionally attacked by daesung

Jiyong: tragic

Me: he might have printed shirts already Me: there might be a shipping name

Jiyong: might take me years to recover Jiyong: unless you and I can hang out again sometime soon Jiyong: that might help Jiyong: just us this time

I bite my lip. Consider typing something witty, but then don’t. What he wrote didn’t make much sense, but I am so glad he asked.

Me: I’d like that

I beam. Alone in my apartment. At my phone. Like an idiot. But not really an idiot. I am not an idiot. I am just fucking smitten. Why be unkind to myself about that. It feels amazing.

Me: Soon?

Jiyong: Yes please Jiyong: Sleep tight, Dais.

#gdragon x reader #gdragon fanfiction #gdragon #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong fluff #kwon jiyong smut #kwon jiyong x reader #big bang #big bang smut #big bang fanfiction #big bang fanfic #gdragon smut #gdragon fluff

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dfroggofarson · 1 day ago

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I want it All

chapter one.

It all started with a little crush.

He was a regular at the small bookshop you started working at a year ago. You were sure he was at least ten years older than you, and still (or was it because of your daddy issues) you couldn't help but instantly notice how good-loking he was. Sharp features, hazel eyes, precise movements, polite words – and with time, you caught onto the subtle things that made him unique. How he preferred darker shirts and lighter suits, how his tie always had a funny pattern. His shoes were spotless, just like his whole attire, his speech, his gestures. He always went to find books in business, sometimes at the cooking or science section, but never touched romance, fantasy or esoterics. When he came to pay, he always asked for a paper bag. To your surprise, he didn’t have a loyalty card, even though he came to the shop once every week.

He always greeted you respectfully, his voice low and reserved – the kind of voice that would make you trail off when he spoke, even though he never interrupted your speech – paid silently and wished you a great day. You never initiated small talk, but he didn’t seem like the type who would appreciate it.

He looked like a real gentleman. Calm and collected.

You had no idea then that you’d have to add chilling to the list later, as well.

After weeks and weeks of silently eyeing him from behind the counter, the day came when you decided to stop drooling over the way his muscles stretched on his forearms, or how he furrowed his brows when he was reading a blurb, so subtly nobody else would’ve noticed.

Stop, you tell yourself. There was no hope to begin with anyway.

But it was nice to look forward to a customer every now and then.

Setting the alarm and locking the door behind you, you put away your keys and step out to the street. You look at your phone – half past nine. Not too late to go to the supermarket.

"Good evening."

You snap your head to look at the direction the sound came from. And lo and behold – the very cause of your renewing hopeless romantic problem stands there, under a street light, his white suit draped across his arm while he looks at you. You almost gasp – how can he look so good even now? – but manage to stop yourself, as worry starts to flood your mind.

Why is he here? He sure looks like he was waiting for the shop to close, with how he was standing just a few feet away from the back door. But why is he at the back door?

"Oh, hi! I’m sorry, I just closed the store, you’ll have to come back tomorrow," you inform him while walking closer.

"Ah, please excuse me for disturbing you so late, but I'm not here because of that." He pauses for a second, and pushes his glasses up his defined nose. You can't help but follow his long fingers with your eyes. "I came to ask for your contact information."

Your face becomes pale. You look up at him, mortified, a million things running through your mind as to what you could have done wrong. Did you mess up one of his book orders? Or rang him up a book he didn’t buy? Gave him a plastic bag instead of a paper one?

"Alright, yes of course, but… I could call my manager tomorrow morning if you have any complaints, sir, it’s much faster to tell her, as reviewing written reports can take up to days…" You blabber on, sending yourself spiraling, when he – for the first time – cuts you off.

"I meant your number."

You shut up and look at him in disbelief. "My number?"

"Yes, your phone number. Except in case you wouldn’t like me to take you out sometime the next week."

You just stare at him. Is this real life? Is this happening to you? Is this the same man you have been lusting after for months? Aren’t you hallucinating?

The urge to shake your head or look around to see if he was talking to someone else is strong, but you brace yourself. You wouldn’t want to make an idiot out of yourself in front of him.

"No, it’s uhh, are you… really? Are you serious?" You ask instead, and already want to punch yourself in the face upon actually verbalizing the words. But he doesn’t laugh, just answers your question casually.

"Yes, I am."

You stare at him for a couple more seconds, then snap out of it. "Okay, yeah, I mean, sure. No, I mean, thank you, I'd love that," you just want the ground to swallow you whole before that, being all flustered and rambling nonsense. You almost don’t notice the small smile lingering on his lips when he pulls out his phone, opens the contacts and hands it to you.

"Thank you. And sorry for holding you up," Nanami apologizes, but you rather he’d disturb you all night long instead of just dropping by.

"Let me properly introduce myself, then. I’m Kento Nanami," he says then, and you too introduce yourself (awkwardly) while typing your number and name into his phone.

"It's really nice to meet you, Nanami," you smile at him as pretty as you can, then give his phone back to him. He looks at it, then snickers.

My God. I need to stop reading so many explicit novels.

"No, not at all, I was about to head home anyways," you shake your head. "Then… I guess we’ll see each other around?"

"We will," he confirms with a curt nod. "Well then, good night."

"Good night."

It’s only when you hop onto the bus you realize that you forgot to ask for his number. You want to scream in agony and embarassment, but there’s no helping it now.

You’d have to wait for him to contact you.

The next morning, you wake up before your alarm goes off, get ready and make yourself as pretty as you possibly can. The dress code is strict, but you can put on some lipstick and jewellery that is more shiny than what you usually wear. And throughout your workday, you check your phone at least three times a minute in case he calls, texts, or sends any kind of sign.

And well, the signal ends up being he himself.

Your eyes widen when you see him walk through the door casually, his gaze quickly finding yours. And then he actually smiles at you, and heads to the business section.

"Oh. My God. I did not just witness this."

You turn to see your coworker, Shoko standing behind you, a few books in hand, her jaw also on the floor. She looks even more bevildered than you do. She quickly closes the gap between the two of you and grabs you by the shoulders. "Are you kidding me?! Did you put airborne drugs in his books or something? How’d you sweet-talk Mr. Cool?"

A stupid grin spreads across your face. "I don’t know! Last night when I closed the shop he was waiting for me outside. Said he wanted my contact information," you giggle quietly, and Shoko’s eyes widen. "I though he was going to complain, but no, he asked for my number."

"Shut up," she says while putting the books to their designated shelves.

"I did, unfortunately. I forgot to ask for his number."

"You idiot!" She hits your arm playfully, and leaves to the counter to ring up a customer, then comes back. "But he did waltz in here with a pretty smile. Looks like you didn’t mess up."

"I hope so."

Your eyes return to the tall, blonde man still browsing in his favourite section. You want to believe you were the reason he came here, since he was in just two days ago, and he rarely shops twice in a week.

As though he felt your gaze, he looks up and meets your eyes. You blush, but hold his stare for a couple of seconds before you look away to help other customers.

A few minutes later he comes to your register with a book in his hand.

"Hello."

"Hi," you breathe back.

There is a silent moment when you forget that you’re actually a cashier and he’s here to buy a book. You recollect yourself quickly, and ring up his read. You raise your brows in surprise when you see what he bought – a romantasy you’ve been meaning to read for a few weeks but never got the chance. You try to hide your puzzled expression as you bag it.

"I thought you liked business books and autobiographies," you remark. Nanami puts his hand on the counter.

"It’s not for me."

"Oh, I see," and boom, you're already feeling stupid. Of course it's not for him.

But hen you hand him the bag, he doesn’t take it. Instead, he reaches to gently push it back towards you. "Enjoy your read. And call me when you’ve finished your shift. I hope you'll have a nice day."

Nanami then smiles at you again, and leaves the shop with a polite nod.

You are left standing there again, with no words, until you realize something is sticking out from one of the pages. You open it up curiously, and find a little note that reads:

’You look beautiful today.’

Followed by his phone number.

You try not to squeal and melt at the same time. How can this man be so smooth?

When Nanami gets home, the first thing he does is open your social media accounts.

The first time he did it a couple of weeks earlier, he was surprised to see how few posts you had online, one every few months, with two to six pictures and a short caption. You mostly posted pictures which had your face and your friends’ faces in it, given that most of your accounts were private.

But, well, who was he if he couldn’t break his way into a few private profiles?

He observed the pictures and read through your posts, memorizing your characteristics, likes and dislikes, the people you interacted with and the way you did it. He had learned that you broke up with your boyfriend around six months ago. Nanami could not believe you were with an idiot like that guy in the first place – but low standards meant it would be cakewalk to sweep you off your feet.

He analyzes every little detail he could find about your public and private life, up to the point that he could make a full profile from the top of his head just by reading through you socials and meeting you in the book store from time to time.

When he looks at a picture of you, grinning and hugging your coworker he saw you exchanging excited words with, the edges of his mouth slowly curl up into a smile.

Poor girl… She has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

thank you all for your continued support!! i look forward to writing evil Nanami dribbles, hehe. it just fits his character so perfectly, i love it so much. cw! in the next few episodes, you can expect:

manipulation

graphic descriptions of violence

nsfw contents

nothing being as it seems

and idk - more horrible things i wouldn't write if i was sane. if you're sensitive to contents like these, please refrain from reading further. he's gonna be a bad guy, people. and i mean it. anyway see you in a few days, and please let me know if you liked this! @realalpacorn here you go bestie, hope you enjoyed this as well :3 have a nice day everyone <3

read the prologue here, and check out the little playlist i made on my Spotify acc here! dividers by @strangergraphics and @cursed-carmine

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami jjk #nanami jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #evil nanami #villain nanami

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dark-lord-of-awesomeness · 2 days ago

Note

I'm well rested, and here to make this even angstier. And maybe funnier.

Stan slays Bill, disappearing in a flash of light and gone for 10 years. When he opens his eyes in an abandoned temple he has no memory and meets Emma-May, the two of them adventuring around, looking at ruins and Emma-May teaching Stan what everything from bug species to clothes are (It takes her an embarrassingly long time to realize Stan thinks his armor is his skin, and only because he gets a hole in his shirt and starts screaming). Ford spent the last ten years scouring the kingdom for any hint of what had happened to his brother, then has a dream about needed to retrace his steps.

So Ford solo goes through each of the re corrupted temples, defeating each monster and finding fragments of Stan's memory, learning about Stan's hardships by seeing his journey through his eyes, and trying to reach the end while also growing worried about all the demons and evil. Stan killed Bill after all, why's all this here? It's not because of Stan being the one to clear the temples, they weren't like this the last time Ford came through after all ten years ago.

Stan's memory fragments start with them as kids, little moments before Ford was discovered to be the hero. Ford being bullied and Stan standing up for him, playing by the beach, Ford seeing spirits while Stan stands there awkwardly (Stan only started seeing them after he cleared his first temple maybe?). Then it's them at the castle, and while Ford fondly reminisces he suddenly gets hit with Stan's pov of their time there. Fords the Hero after all, he's got a reason to be learning with the prince, but Stan's not, so why's he here all the nobles whisper? He's not destined for greatness, he's a brat. No one wants him around, everyone bad talks him behind his back or to his face when Ford wasn't around.

Ford had no idea this was happening at all. Turns out Stan sword skill has less to do with natural talent and more to do with Stan spending hours training because the training grounds were the one place he could get away from the looks and sneers. Ford was getting all kinds of lessons but because Stan was just his tag along they didn't really push it when Stan stopped showing up due to the tutors prioritizing the Fords and doing more and more advanced lessons while Stan struggled to keep up.

Then it's them, older, and Stan didn't get kicked out of the castle but everyone was implying he should move on and stop riding on Fords coat tails. He has no purpose here, so why doesn't he run along and find one somewhere else, hmm? Except the whole kingdom knows about Ford, Ford gets out a lot networking and exploring. There's few places Stan can go that Ford hasn't been to first, and every one of them is disappointed when Stan says he's not Ford. Sure not all the places are terrible, but there's an underlying feeling of 'when is Ford gonna visit next' and 'oh its-! Oh never mind, it's Stan' and Stan couldn't take it so he ends up living in a tiny hut in the woods hanging out with fairies because they're so bad with faces and see souls or something none of them mistake Stan for Ford or care.

Then it's Stan on his journey, and he's not the Hero so it's the equivalent of playing botw with 3 hearts the whole game. Stan cannot upgrade his health, he cannot increase his stamina bar, he cant do the super fancy Link sword moves because he's the equivalent of an NPC. His adventures basically him playing on hard mode. He almost died so many times. It wasn't glamorous or fun or heroic, it was desperate, frightened, and awful. Fords own journey has been hard but he can upgrade himself (no idea how it translates in the real world. Maybe heartier? Or something? Each heart is a special blessing from the goddess? Whatever it is, Stan can't get it) so even if the monsters are harder than what Stan faced Ford can meet the challenge without the same level of terror.

And then there's the last memory, which is of Ford, young and skinny, not nearly as in shape as he is now, because younger him didn't put hours of work into wielding a sword like Stan did until after Stan had disappeared. And Ford gets to see Stan's hopes and dreams get crushed as his younger self yells and rages, and it's only now outside looking in that he understood that stealing a journey isn't something someone can do. This wasn't a whim of Stan's, his brother worked to get where he was, and his younger self was... young. Didn't understand what it meant that Stan had so many blessings, didn't see it as the achievement it was. Ford would really like to punch his younger self for being so-!!! Young.)

Back to the present now.

Fords kept Fiddleford in the loop about the temples, and through research and magic Fiddleford realizes that the Super Mega Ultra Ultimate Master Sword (no one can agree on which one Stan ended up choosing) is the sword that Cuts the Darkness. It is not a sword of sealing, and its not a sword of slaying. It can cut, but it can't kill.

It's a stop gap. A way for the common folk of Hyrule, if they prove themselves worthy, to hold back the darkness until the Hero can arrive to seal it away. A sword meant to make it so common souls can rise up to the challenge and have a chance to help, to be a hero in their own right. Stan didn't kill Bill, he slowed him down, and the pieces of memories were what Bill tore out of him in retaliation. Stan's alive somewhere, but no one knows where, or how long he has until his life is in danger from Bills revenge.

Stan's having a great time though! He's a living person, he's got a million tiny spirit friends, he's got his new BFF Emma-May who's the smartest lady ever, and he just learned he's super good at using a sword. Lifes amazing!

Except for all the monsters everywhere:/ good thing he's got a sword though!

Emma-May is on a journey to discover a dragon. She knows they're out there, she knows they exist, she just has to find where they went. (Stan looks at the giant spirit dragon flying in the sky, squints, then shrugs. That's probably not what she's looking for maybe.) They go through their own journey, fighting monsters and searching ruins, while Stan sort of remembers maybe being a spirit.

I'm thinking that, in order so Stan's not coming back to himself with a teen mind, he might have been still battling Bills spirit or something. For 10 years Stan and him had been battling it out, until Stan finally stumbled and got flung back into the world, and Bill snatched his memories so that he couldn't warn everyone about it. Maybe that's what the Super Mega Ultra Ultimate Super Again Master Sword does, locks the wielder and whatever evil it slayed into a mind battle to buy time, and the memories were on Bills part and not the sword.

No wait, better idea incoming about that.

Anyway it comes to a head back at the castle. Fords rushing to get back to warn Fiddleford, finds Bill there cackling and evil, and also Stan. Stan is also there, because Emma-May had been summoned by the court as a spirit expert, and Fiddleford thought maybe she could hunt down Stan's spirit. Was very surprised to also see Stan, and then everyone was surprised by the demon. Fighting starts, Ford hasn't arrived, and Stan's struck with a memory as he see the SMUUSA Master Sword. He doesn't really remember who he is yet, but he knows that sword is his. Snatches it, fights Bill, and through a series of events he figures out that Bill being here was a panic move on his part. The demons not done getting all his parts together, and if Ford the Hero seals him now those other pieces will just strike again later. He has to buy his brother more time.

Cue dramatic second sacrifice. The SMUUSA Master Sword buys time, he'll just use it again! Except this time, his spirit is still damaged and healing, he can't fight Bill for another ten years, time to mix it up. There's a little 8 ball on the pommel, a symbol of fortune, and fortune shakes and lands on 'dragon time'.

Stan is now a dragon. The SMUUSA Master Sword is sealing Bills conscious so that Ford can gather the demons pieces and seal them all at once, and Stan's a dragon because those things are super soaked in spiritual power. All Ford has to do is find them, bring them back to the castle, get the SMUUSA from Stan to unseal Bills mind, then fight him for the final time and seal him until the cycle repeats in a few thousand years.

Two versions of this.

Angst says Ford either doesn't realize right away what happened and gets a late start, or Bill's fragments are minor monsters in their own right (henchmainacs?) and are on the move. Ford got the stagnant ones that had rooted themselves into places of power, now he has to track down the rest, find a way to contain them, then drag those pieces somewhere secure so that when this finally happens the damage can get mitigated.

This takes thirty years, both tracking things down, getting a location ready, and Fiddleford developing (along with his first courted then wife/new queen Emma-May) a way to contain each piece of Bill so that it won't rampage semi-mindless as each piece merges with the greater whole. All the while Stan's flyiing around the kingdom, being a dragon and doing spirit dragon things. Like becoming the local semi-spirit menace. Just like the other dragons Stan never touches the ground or lands but unlike them he is not above full blast speeding over a village and knocking over everyone's laundry. How much is he aware of himself? Who knows, but you know Fords face down crying into his dragon mane whenever no one can find him. Climbs down to stare into Stan's uncaring dragon eye and tell him what everyones up to, how his journey is going,

Thirty years come and go, Fords an old man, and maybe its Dipper and Mabel that stumble on Bill's last piece? Finally gets all of them together, waits until Dragon Stan's as close as possible to where it is, then Ford pulls the SMUUSA Master Sword, freeing Bill and undragoning Stan. Then there's a huge fight while Stan's still mostly an amnesiac and super confused about everything going on and Ford finally seals Bill. Then he hugs Stan, cries at his confused eyes, shoves his memories at him, and yells about how much of a knucklehead he is. If Stan does anything self sacrificial for a third time Ford will kill him.

Funny version is:

Its... pretty easy actually. Emma-May is a huge help, and spends her days obsessively watching Stan fly across the sky and keeps Ford updated. It takes maybe 5 years to get all of Bills pieces, now they just need the SMUUSAMS. One problem.

None of them can fly. There are no sky islands. There are no planes or hot air balloons. Only Ford can pull it from Stan, and if there's rito none of them can help because Stan will attack them if they get close and he's a giant dragon. The first five years of the thirty are Ford getting all of the pieces, and the next twenty five are them trying more and more absurd ways to get Stan down low enough Ford can reach or flinging Ford into the sky without killing him. (I'm thinking Stan's dragon name would be El Diablo, since most wouldn't know that the giant flying red jerk dragon is the Hero's twin brother.)

Ford hates his dragon brother. He hates him. He misses and loves him but he hates him. Why can't Stan fly in any kind of pattern like the rest of the dragons? Why does Stan have to be whimsical? Fords gonna pull that sword from his head then slam it back in and kill him. He's going to kill his brother for the trial of having to spend twenty five years just reaching his stupid head.

Funniest solution is Mabel suggesting they just ask him. Ford, in a fit of rage, gets a super mega phone and stands on a mountain near where Stan is flying and screams about how he'd love it if Stan just flew right over here! Just come right here so Ford can jump on!

Then Stan does that, and Fords so consumed with fury he almost misses jumping on as Stan flies directly underneath him.

Either way it ends with Ford kicking Stan to the curb so he and FIddleford can seal Bill away and any time Stan tries to help Ford whips around, grabs him, and full force throws him as far as possible. Fords not doing this a third time. Stan's not so much as going to move until Ford drives a sword through Bills chest and kills him forever. Fiddleford is also shooting crossbow bolts at his feet if Fords busy. He's also had enough of this. He regrets making the SMUUSA Master Sword so much specifically because of how its affected his life.

And thats what I got for 'Stan disappears in a flash of light' ending. whew. I had to write this in a mad panic in short bursts at work and it was killing me. Anyway I hope you enjoy it!

So I know nothing about Loz but I imagine Stan defeats Bill and gets teleported away to be killed by the sword but Emma-May finds him and saves him. However this causes him to lose his memory’s so Emma and Stan are kind of just wandering while Ford and Fidds are trying to save Stan. (Also I had the horrible idea of the sword actually physically hurting him with vines or something slowly digging into the hand he uses to wield it, and when Emma finds him, the earth is trying to consume him) :D

Oho! I do like that route in the 'Stan disappears' timeline. Hmm. Ford gets there just as Stan drives the Super Master Sword through Bills chest, there's a flash of light, and then Stan's gone, sword still pinning Bills corpse to the ground. Now it's Epic Quest time to find Stan and maybe fight the goddesses? Ford will figure it out later.

This got long lol, and a little less angsty.

Meanwhile Stan has a meet up with one of the greater spirits (Axolotl) who thanks Stan for rising up to the challenge despite being a regular, not fated being. Everyone's very impressed with him, but sadly his normal person, not descended from the goddesses or reincarnated soul couldn't handle the strain of wielding the Sword that Cuts the-

Stan: Super Mega Master Sword

Axolotl: what?

Stan: it's the Super Mega Master Sword. Or Maybe the Ultra Master Sword. I'm still work-shopping it.

Well, Stan's successfully charmed the spirits (which he'd already done, but his inability to take any of their grandstanding seriously is so new and fresh they just love it), and due to his blessings and the favor of the goddesses he's been given a choice. The sword requires great power to use, one that Stans soul couldn't handle. He can either let go and allow it to heal in the great cycle of reincarnation, or go back and-

Stan: second one

Axolotl: but you don't know the price? What if its-

Stan: don't care. I'm going back, I'm going to shove my victory in Fords face and eat just. So much food. I'm so hungry. I could eat a burger so fast, you wouldn't believe.

Well, if Stan's already decided then that's that on that! Good luck hero!

And Stan wakes up. Hes in a lovely field, surrounded by flowers at the foot of a statue to the goddess. Birds are singing, bugs are chirping, the sun is shining through the trees and he can sort of make out where the walls of a temple once stood.

He has no idea who he is.

But! He found a stick! It's a pretty good stick, and he's pretty sure if he whacks it at something, it'll break, and then! He'll have two sticks :D

Emma-May, wandering scholar, finds this wandering adventurer in the woods who must have gotten hit in the head or something and lost almost all his gear, all he has is the leather armor he had on him and a few empty pouches. He's got twigs in his hair, is stuffing a leaf in his mouth, and looks so amazed when she shows him that he can pick up rocks it's endearing.

She can't let this guy die. She's pretty sure he's a spirit that's possessing a dead body actually. There's no other explanation on why he doesn't know what anything is or how anything works. It's up to her to take care of him. This is a test by the goddesses, and she's determined to pass all expectations. (Stan is link from botw basically. Everything is ??? To him).

Meanwhile the Fords are on a Quest to find Stan. Unlike the other timeline Fords not super pissed at Stan (well, he is, but his worry for his brother is overriding it), and he's yelling at anyone who listens about how Stan slayed Bill and vanished in golden light and if Ford doesn't find him he's going to do..... something. No one likes the desperate look in his eye or how riled up he gets when they try to thank him for his good deeds because no, that was Stan too. Don't they know Stan's a hero now and might be dead? Fords a failure and he failed and Stan's dead!

Finally has a dream where the spirits are like 'you need to chill out your bro isn't dead. Just go look for him'. So off he goes, Fiddleford staying to lead the search from the castle and get his kingdom in order.

It either takes ten years or ten months to find Stan. Angst demands years but the comedy and angst of Ford finally finding Stan when he's still pretty into his 'life is beautiful and what is this Emma-May? :3' phase is appealing to me. Maybe even ten weeks.

Emma-May is traveling on the outskirts of Hyrule looking at ancient ruins and studying her spirit friend who's incredibly good with a sword and who can see and talk to spirits for her. They love her new assistant/godly trial and he's making her research a lot more fun.

She named him Hal, on account of him only responding to the word Help for the first week or so and Hal being an easy transition from that. Her and Hal are an amazing duo, finding lost temples and clearing them out, finding lost artifacts, slaying new and terrifying beasts. It's a thrill. She's living her best life, and teaching Hal is part of the fun. It's like if a kid was also.. an older teen? He's still got baby fat huh. Yeesh.

Anyway.

Then Ford rolls up, following their trail and coincidentally discovering that there's some other, ancient evil stirring under the land now that Bills gone. He's slaying monsters no one's seen in years, rescuing civilians, finding lost temples that! Have already been cleared.

Temples he knows Stan hadn't touched in his journey to rescue Ford. It's both a sign he's on the right path and incredibly annoying. Especially since it means Stan's walking around somewhere with like. The pieces of the key that'll let an ancient horror loose upon the land.

No wait. Scratch that. I've got another idea.

Its been ten years since Stan disappeared in a flash of light, and Fords been scouring every obscure library and tome for any kind of hint on where Stan could have gone. None of the spirits have confirmed if his brothers dead or alive, so he must be alive. He has to be, because if he's not then Fords going to strangle him.

Then some kind of Event happens, and Ford gets a hint on how to figure out how to find Stan. Turned out it took the spirits ten years to fix Stan's crumbling soul to a point where he could semi function, and Stan's just now waking up ???? at the world and meeting who he's pretty sure is the smartest person on the planet. Who else would have such a great idea like putting a bomb under a shield to launch himself higher? No one, he's sure.

When Ford eventually catches up to them he is very obviously of Stan's statement that Emma-May's the smartest person ever and also his best friend :3.

Anyway, since there is no scrapbook or young twins to rekindle Stan's memories, the three of them instead follow Stan's original journey to try and job his memory, after like. Stan's ready to brush off this stranger who has his face, but Ford holds up his hand, yelling at him to wait, and Stan gets slammed with a memory of them as kids, smiling and high sixing. Blinks out of it to find him holding Fords hand, and well he does know this guy actually! Sure he'll go on some kind of journey with him, and Emma-May can go look at a bunch of other ruins and it'll be great :D.

It is not great. All those old temples have been re invaded by demons. The ways Stan originally went through are blocked off or doors broke and relocked, so they need to clear out each one and fight the newer, badder version of the final boss. Turns out the price of Stan coming back isn't his memories getting snatched, its that Bill gets to come back too, and he's not a puny mortal who needs ten years to get back to business. Maybe Bill's actually partially responsible for Stan's missing memory?

Anyway as they clear each temple and defeat each boss they get a fragment of Stan's memory. Ford's not only clearing the newly re corrupted temples, now he's reliving the memory with Stan, seeing how much harder everything is as a normal, not destined person. He's finally seeing Stan's perspective here, how Stan didn't just breeze through everything to shove it in Fords face, but actually struggled and cursed and screamed his way through an army of demons.

They're also uncovering Bill's plot to surprise strike at Hyrule while its two heros are occupied. This whole things been a diversion to get the Stans' as far away as possible, and now Ford's faced with a choice.

He can chose to abandon his quest to restore Stan's memories, as through Drama they're now on a time limit and if they don't get the last fragment there's a high chance it'll fade and Stan's patchy memory could either fade away with it, or he could go to defeat the last boss and finally get his brother back, but abandon Hyrule in its hour of need. Sure he could save them later, but who knows how many casualties there could be, what could happen to Fiddleford.

Does he want to be his brother's hero? Or the peoples? Save Stan, or save all of Hyrule. He might be able to do both, but who knows what kind of damage could happen to the other he doesn't prioritize in the meantime. Stan doesn't have enough of himself yet to weigh in on either one, and Emma-May is a scholar and Stan's friend, but understands the importance of the greater good. She won't make this choice for him.

What does it mean to be a hero?

If this were a video game the first one would be you playing as Stan becoming an unlikely hero, fighting the odds even though everyone's telling you to wait for the guy who's job it is to beat up the demons. The underlying message would be something like 'you can't just sit around and wait, if you want to see a change you have to make it' kind of thing. If Stan hadn't gone on his hero's journey then the kingdom would have been much worse off waiting for Ford to break out. You're a hero, not because someone told you you were, but because you've chosen to take the harder path and make yourself one through fighting evil and helping those in need (after all, even if the reasons are selfish, all anyone sees is your actions. Stan's a hero, even if just because he needed to be one to save Ford).

So the sequel would be this, but as Ford. Now you're the chosen hero, but what does that mean to you? Who has the higher priority, why are you a hero? Because you slay monsters? Because you defeated the bad guy? Because the Goddess said you were? Because you have special powers, wield a special sword? Stan was a hero without any of that, so why does Ford need it? Ford has the Hero's spirit, but in the end he's his own person. He's not going to save the kingdom because someone told him to do it.

He's going to do it because its the right thing to do, even if it means Stan might never be the same. A hero make sacrifices, takes the blows so others don't have to. Ford was born with the Hero's spirit, but he wasn't born a Hero, its something he has to choose to do, something he has to prove himself as.

Whew. that got away from me a little. Now that that's done,

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #stan pines #ford pines #gravity falls crossover #legend of fiddleford

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korelore · 2 months ago

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my fav anxiety relief ive tried so far is basically fafo with fight or flight. oh you think you need to run away to survive the scary email? ok run bitch! your time starts now

#not joking i would get home from work anxious and nauseated and fidgety #and went ok. if ur scared for ur life prove it!#and started running for the first time in ten years??#this was inspired by the insomnia approach of #ok if u can't sleep get up. go do the dishes then #and suddenly i'm exhausted #my brain sometimes needs her bluff called #korelorelore

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cptn-bluebeard · 7 months ago

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My main concern is the timeline for finishing up campaign 3: we have only have Bell’ Hells once this month and then they’re not back until the new year since the Daggerheart live show is broadcasting on the 19th. I’m torn between them getting through the Predathos fight next week or stalling enough that the “finale” is in the new year. I think if they have the Predathos fight next week, then the fallout/end of campaign is going to feel disconnected, but I feel like a “filler” episode/ “fight to the hallowed cage” type episode won’t be as satisfying? Idk, I’m sure they have an idea of how this is going to work.

This also brings up another point of Bell’s Hells ending so soon. A shorter campaign than both VM and MN paired with the fact that it hasn’t been Bell’s Hells the entirety of the campaign, what with the EXU cast and Downfall and the other PC groups, it’s honestly a shame we don’t get to see more of these characters and I think that’s going to be a strike towards Bell’s Hells at the end of all this (like they’re aren’t already at the bottom of a lot of people’s lists, but I absolutely ADORE Bell’s Hells). Also, the lack of certainty about the end for them also sets them apart from the other groups in the sense of the first two had a clear goal of “defeat the bad guy” while Bell’s Hells has a lot more complexity and nuance to their decision they still need to figure out at the literal last minute. I’m intrigued and excited to see where we go but also a little saddened that they aren’t sharing the same gravitas overall.

#I thinks it also a push to finish c3 in time to start c4 or whatever is next for the ten year anniversary #which is not.#a bad thing #but it feels like intentionally rushing the story to take the next great leap #either way I just have a lot of feelings about nearing the end and being here for it and experiencing it live for the first time #as much as I love vm and mn I’m glad it’s bh #critical role #critical role spoilers #bells hells #mighty nein #vox machina #cr3 #cr c3 ep116 #sorry for the run ons #lots of thoughts #little time

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chirpsythismorning · 2 years ago

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I haven't been active in the byler fandom, why would redditors be mad at the play being canon?

Most, not all, but most active reddit users on the ST sub have been bombarded with byler evidence for the last year. So to remain sane through it all, they have resorted to insisting that almost every detail fans come across and try to share on the sub, are just mere coincidences.

This is because they've realized that if they are considering other really minor details meaning something bigger, that means they might have to start considering the possibility that the details pointing to byler are also intentional. This is how they cope.

You would think after saying 'it's just a coincidence' for the hundredth time, they might be starting to rethink their position on things, but the reality of the situation just isn't setting in I guess (aka they don't want it to happen so they are refusing to let themselves truly consider it until they have no choice).

The reason I still partake in the reddit sub, despite losing braincells over half the takes on there, is bc there are still a handful of users that are really smart and do great analysis on the supernatural side of the show, in particular things I have no knowledge on at all and would greatly benefit from looking at to expand my understanding of things and different perspectives.

The really smart ones that exist are usually indifferent to the romantic arcs in the show, although they do have a milkvan bias bc the straight bait is straight baiting. And so these are the few posts theorizing, that consider the details meaning something more, that just so happen to get support from the hardcore milkvans on there. And it's bc as long as it's coming from someone who doesn't think byler is going to happen, they will listen.

I will say the one thing that is sort of obnoxious about all of this is that regular fans without any ship bias, will pop on there semi-regularly with a post, accompanied by basic common sense questions like, 'wait this makes no sense...' or 'why did they do this this way?' in many cases, with the confusion surrounding the build up of Mike and El and Will's role in all that. These people aren't milkvans or bylers, they are just fans picking up on obvious subtext and they are looking for insight about it from fans. And every time they get bombarded with condescending and bitter milkvans that are having to defend mike and el's honor, and s4 really made this a full time job for them lmao. That sort of resentment has manifested into hating anything and everything that considers deeper meaning in relation to Will and Mike, but especially in Will's case. Because that's the thing, they have to deny any importance of Will's role bc Will being important fucking terrifies them. It means that everything could be important basically. It's their worst nightmare and they will hound you for even speculating something. It's insufferable to watch unfold honestly.

I say all of this bc it's important in the context of the play, given that there are a lot of theories out there swirly around, theories that mostly reside on Tumblr. Many of those theories are viewed by redditors as being crack theories that have no evidence supporting them (bc they come from bylers), like the weirdness around Alice not being in the play (and potentially connecting to Karen), or the fact that they insisted the silhouette of Henry's actor right before the cast announcement couldn't be him bc he was too old to be Henry (umm time shenanigans, duh), or that the truth about Brenner's involvement runs a lot deeper than everyone assumes.

And so naturally, leading up to the play, a lot of active (very vocal) redditors in both the main sub and the Hawkins AV Club sub, have commented on posts related to the play, trying so hard to convince others (themselves) that this play is not canon and we shouldn't waste our time with it because it wont matter in the context of everything going on in the literal show. They go as far as to insist it's not canon, even though it already was said to be canon.

And now with this post, they are again having to face the reality this show is a lot deeper than they have had to insist it to is combat byler speculation. All byler evidence is seen as reaching to them. And they'll do everything they can to insist anything bylers are speculating is delusional, which includes theories surrounding the play. All of that denial has led us to this moment, which will only hurt their ego as time goes on and they are being hit with sign after sign after sign... that it might just be that deep.

#byler #stranger things #the first shadow #'it's not that deep you guys'#'ya'll are reaching'#what's your favorite milkvan argument?#mine is 'the duffer's aren't that smart guys'#truly never gets old #oh so you're saying endgame byler would be smart... you said it not me.#not trying to make this about byler but i did #bc full serious... before byler was even a thought in reddits head back in s1-2... they fucking loved theories #i can go find theories from 6 years ago about twelvegate and owlgate and birthdaygate and dozens more all bc they were open to everything!!#critical thinking is not encouraged on there anymore #anything considering possibilities based on literal evidence is going to be shot 9 times out of ten #bc all of those details have always been hinting at something they do not want to accept #the details are stacked against them #and their time is running out it seems #can't wait for this play to drop and it starts to set in that plenty of details they refuted tirelessly were actually hinting at something

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cuprohastes · 6 months ago

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About ten, fifteen years ago I wrote a story about a guy living in a Capitalist dystopia. His walls, furniture, and tableware are all covered in smart displays. Basically animated wallpaper. It's sold as being able to turn your room or objects into anything - A nice forest view, outer space, a fantasy realm... but the companies that run this stuff keep sneaking ads in.

It gets so bad he's always being woken up by adverts that offer insomnia cures and better bedding that play when he tries to sleep.

So he buys the ad-free tier, and it's great... for a few months. And then he starts getting adverts from 'premium partners'. So he goes up a level... and the same thing happens.

So he jailbreaks his wallpaper and sends all the ad servers to 0.0.0.0 and voila... he can sleep.

Until this SWAT team blows his door off and drag him off to jail. The Ad companies are suing him for loss of revenue for the products he' notionally have bought if he'd watched their adverts, based on some weird 'The average consumer buys X products with an average value of Y' calculation.

The judge is like 'well I dun wanna annoy the sponsors' so he RICO's this guy's house and possessions and sends him to jail.

... which is a nice relaxed non-volent offender jail for the corporately disenfranchised. But because these people have no money... there's no ads and now he's happy because the only place he's free... is in prison.

Which at the time was a bit much and now it's like: Called it.

Elon's suing companies for not advertising because he's losing revenue. He's also cranking the price of Ad Free Twitter. Disney and Amazon play adverts on their paid service when services used to be free because of the adverts... and now you have to pay to watch the adverts or go up a couple of tiers.

And google's going around freaking out about ad-blockers.

The original story was lost. However, I have started re-writing it. The first part is here - If there's enough interest, I'll keep going.

#welcome to the dystopia #advertising

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danysdaughter · 16 days ago

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Confidential Affairs

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 4.4k words

summary | congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, desk sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, lowkey dom!reader, subtly-subby!bucky, smut with feelings, workplace romance (technically), power imbalance (handled), public speaking anxiety, reader handles everything, mild violence, sexual tension so thick it pays rent

a/n | based on this request, and ooooh I loved writing them

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Sometimes, Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Not in the existential way—he'd dealt with plenty of that in therapy. No, this was more of a literal confusion.

Because somehow, in the span of a two years, he’d gone from military black-ops missions with Sam to sitting behind a government-issued desk in D.C., wearing suits that cost more than his first apartment, and debating tax reform with men who’d never touched grass.

Being a congressman wasn’t the weird part.

Doing it well was.

And if he was being honest, that was probably 95% thanks to her.

You.

His assistant. His handler. His chaos manager. And, if he was being really honest—which he rarely was—you were probably the best part of the job. Even if you drove him insane.

You were brilliant. Unshakeable. The only person on staff who could tell him he was being an idiot and still have a coffee waiting for him after. You kept his schedule running like a military op and shut down press rumors before they could start trending.

And you were only thirty. Or—wait, no. Your birthday was in November, so you were still twenty-nine. He remembered because you'd corrected him with the driest look possible and said, “Do not age me prematurely, Barnes, I will unionize this building and have you replaced by a TikTok intern.”

He smiled at the memory as he walked down the hallway toward the bullpen, nodding at staffers, pausing only to fake-laugh at a joke he didn’t quite hear from someone in comms.

Then he saw you.

You walked in like you owned the building—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue. Blazer cinched, hair flawless, phone in hand, nails sharp, heels unapologetically loud. And everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed.

So did the IT guy—Trevor? Tyler? Something with a “T” and too much Axe body spray—who popped his head out from behind his desk the second he saw you walk in.

“Hey, uh—wow. You look great today,” he said, grinning like a freshman talking to the hottest senior.

You didn’t even slow down. Barely spared him a glance.

“It would be breaking news if I didn’t,” you said with a scoff, breezing past without missing a beat.

Bucky bit back a snort.

God help him, you were a menace.

And he was in so much trouble.

You didn’t stop walking until you were right in front of him, flipping through the sleek black tablet in your hand with the focus of someone already mentally ten steps ahead.

“Okay,” you said, tapping your screen like it personally offended you. “We need to talk about your last interview.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, following you as you turned and started walking again—because you never stood still for these things. You moved. You commanded. People got out of your way like it was instinct.

“I thought it went okay,” he said, already bracing himself.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You said ‘worrying’ five times in two minutes. This is worrying, that’s worrying, the whole country is apparently on the verge of a panic attack because you don’t own a thesaurus.”

“I didn’t realize I was repeating myself that much,” he muttered.

You stopped short, turning on a heel so sharply the assistant from admin nearly dropped her coffee trying to dodge you.

“You are a congressman,” you said slowly, like he was the one who needed phonics help. “Not a Tumblr doomer post. Use a new word. I am begging.”

He smirked. “I’ll add ‘thesaurus’ to the list.”

You pointed at him. “Matter of fact, expedite ‘worrying’ from your vocabulary. Evacuate it. Execute it. Eject it from the goddamn building.”

Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that broke out. “You always this dramatic before 9 a.m.?”

You turned and started walking again, this time toward his office.

“I’m not dramatic. I’m effective. You know what’s dramatic? Your public approval rating when you accidentally sound like the world’s ending every time you open your mouth.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted, trailing behind you.

You pushed the door to his office open with your shoulder and turned back to face him, standing in the doorway with that terrifyingly calm look you got when you were about to change lives and ruin someone’s whole day.

“Now sit down, sip your over-priced oat milk latte, and go over these updated talking points like a big boy while I do everything else required to keep this administration from crumbling.”

You handed him a folder.

He took it.

You turned on your heel again.

And Bucky just stood there, folder in hand, still trying to figure out how someone so casually cruel could also make his heart beat like he’d been running up stairs.

He was totally, completely screwed.

The office was, for once, quiet.

A miracle.

You were perched on the edge of his desk, scrolling your phone with one leg crossed over the other, lip gloss freshly reapplied, looking more like a fashion editorial than someone juggling fifteen constituent emails, three policy briefs, and a senator’s ego on speakerphone.

Bucky watched you from his seat, pretending to read the speech notes you’d revised. Which meant he was reading the same paragraph three times and thinking about the shape of your mouth every time you sipped your iced coffee.

You snorted suddenly at something on your screen.

He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Someone edited your last speech over that one TikTok audio—‘girl, be for real,’” you said, showing him the screen. “Honestly? Accurate.”

He rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, people just read the paper if they wanted to roast politicians.”

You didn’t even look up.

“And back in your day, people thought lobotomies cured headaches.”

He stared at you, face blank. “...Wow.”

You glanced up with a smug little look. “You brought the ‘back in my day’ energy. I just matched it.”

He blinked again. “That was brutal.”

“You survived Hydra, Barnes. You’ll live.”

You hopped off the desk, still scrolling, already halfway out of the room like nothing had happened.

Bucky sat there, mind blank, trying to decide if he should be offended or more in love.

It was a toss-up.

The moment Bucky stepped onto the sidewalk outside the education committee hearing, he knew it was a mistake.

Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. Reporters shouted over each other with that gleeful, rabid tone they got when they smelled blood in the water—and this morning’s article about his “alarming silence on key policy points” had put them into a frenzy.

He barely got a foot down before—

“Congressman Barnes, are you avoiding questions about your defense budget stance?”

“Why did you cancel your Pittsburgh appearance, is it true there was internal conflict?”

“Do you still consider yourself aligned with Captain America’s legacy?”

The barrage came fast. Bucky blinked, stunned into silence, his brain caught between fight-or-flight and turn-on-your-heel-and-run-to-therapy.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Where the hell were you—

And then.

The crowd parted.

Like God herself said let there be chaos management.

You came storming through the press like a thunderclap in heels—perfect blouse tucked into razor-sharp slacks, tablet in hand, hair slicked, expression set to absolutely fucking done. The press instinctively stepped back, some startled, some frightened, all curious.

Your voice rang out, clear, sharp, and lethal.

“I’m sorry—do y’all even brief before you yell Or is the strategy just ‘shout over each other and hope something sticks’?”

Every camera swung to you.

You didn't flinch.

“First of all—he’s not avoiding questions. He’s walking. Because he has a job. Wild concept, I know.”

One of the bolder reporters started, “We just need—”

You raised a hand, and he actually stopped talking.

“Second,” you continued, flipping your tablet open with the dramatic flair of a magician about to pull a dove out of her sleeve, “if any of you had bothered to read the full statement instead of the chopped-up quotes getting passed around like a sad little rumor chain, you’d know the Pittsburgh visit was postponed, not canceled. And yes, we’re still going. Next Thursday. Bring sunscreen. And better sources.”

A collective murmur. One woman lowered her camera entirely.

You weren’t done.

“As for the Captain America legacy? I’m sorry—do you want him to punch a Nazi on live TV just to keep the branding tight? Because he can, but I promise you’ll cry about that too.”

The air crackled.

Silence.

Actual, stunned silence.

You finally turned to Bucky, handed him a neatly folded schedule, and said—without looking up, without a single ounce of visible emotion,

“Try not to look like a hostage. You’re polling in Gen Z now.”

He blinked. “Right.”

You glanced back once at the press, offered a professional, poisonous smile, and added, “Any follow-ups can go to our press contact. Or the trash. Whichever comes first.”

Then you turned and walked toward the car like you hadn’t just verbally burned down a crowd of trained professionals in under ninety seconds.

Bucky followed, somehow still holding the schedule like it was a lifeline, his pulse in his throat.

“You… good?” you asked over your shoulder, casual as hell.

He stared at you like you’d just walked out of a superhero movie.

“I think I need a minute.”

You raised a brow. “Too bad. You’ve got a budget subcommittee call in ten.”

And that was that.

You slid into the car. He followed. Speechless. Spinning. Aroused.

Definitely aroused.

He was completely, completely gone.

The door to the black SUV slammed shut behind him, but Bucky still hadn’t caught his breath.

You were already typing away on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just verbally suplexed a half-dozen members of the national press with the poise of a Vogue editor and the accuracy of a sniper.

He stared at you.

“You, uh…” he started, then stopped.

You didn’t look up. “Spit it out, Barnes. I’ve got a senator on hold and a lunch order to bully through Postmates.”

He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, still slightly warm from adrenaline. “That was… something.”

You paused, glanced up, one perfectly arched brow rising like a challenge.

“Something?”

He floundered. “I mean, it was… damn. You were like. I don’t even—”

“Again I ask… you good?” you asked, deadpan. “You short-circuiting mid-sentence or just trying to say thank you in the least efficient way possible?”

Bucky blinked, mouth opening, then closing again.

Because the truth was he’d watched you take on that crowd like a one-woman PR army, and somewhere between do y’all even brief before you yell? and he will punch a Nazi, something in his brain fried.

You looked hot when you were angry. Not just pretty—intimidating. Like your words could disarm bombs and rewrite legislation at the same time. Like you didn’t need backup, just better lighting.

He wanted to say all of that.

Instead, he muttered: “You, uh… you ever thought about running for office?”

You snorted. “Why? So I can spend my life getting asked what I was wearing when I dismantled a reporter?”

He smiled despite himself. “I’d vote for you.”

“You’re contractually obligated to,” you said, already turning back to your phone. “I handle your calendar. Don’t get cute.”

He stared at you for another second, heart still hammering like he’d been dropped into a mission zone.

You didn’t look at him again.

But you smirked.

Just slightly.

Like you knew.

The green room smelled like nerves, burnt coffee, and the slow, suffocating panic of public office.

Bucky Barnes was pacing like he was back in a mission briefing—except instead of tactical gear and threat maps, it was a podium, two network cameras, and a press corps that could ruin a man’s legacy with the wrong pull quote.

You, on the other hand, looked like you’d been born in this room just to dominate it.

Sitting on a velvet chair in the corner, you had one leg crossed over the other, heels off, full glam, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok like it was your lifeblood. Nails fresh. Lashes sharp. Unbothered. Entirely immune to the political stress leaking from the walls.

Bucky looked over for the third time in sixty seconds.

“I don’t think I should open with the tax credit line,” he said, voice low and tight. “It feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard.”

You didn’t glance up. “You are trying too hard. It’s giving ‘read directly from the pamphlet.’ It’s giving post office PSA.”

He frowned. “What does that even mean?”

You sighed, the kind that said you’d dealt with enough of his old-man questions for one day. Finally, you looked up, setting your phone in your lap.

“It means stop being stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Drop your voice an octave. Talk like you're not addressing a room full of mannequins. You’re not a WWII poster anymore—you’re a congressman with a decaf dependency and a wildly underpaid assistant.”

He blinked, caught between laughing and sulking. “I—”

“Uh-uh.” You raised one finger. “Don’t speak. Reset.”

He inhaled, tried again. “Americans deserve relief that doesn’t require three jobs and a miracle to get by—”

You nodded, finally satisfied. “Better. Less ‘Captain America,’ more ‘guy who teared up at the coffee commercial last week.’ They like when you sound human.”

“That coffee commercial was sad,” he muttered, defensively.

“And that’s exactly why they trust you,” you said, standing and slipping back into your heels like it was part of your battle armor. “You’re not fake. You’re just emotionally constipated and afraid of disappointing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”

He paused. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken.” You fixed the collar of his jacket. “You’re rebranded.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.

Because you looked incredible. Hair sleek. Dress hugging you like it was custom-cut. That slit was illegal in at least three counties. But before he could blurt something pathetic—like You smell like vanilla and ruthlessness—you were already moving.

You shoved his speech notes into his hand, then offered him a bottle of water like he didn’t just forget how to breathe every time you touched him.

“Sip slowly. No weird throat noises at the mic. And don’t stare at the interpreter this time, she filed a complaint.”

“She did not—”

“She did. I covered it.” You were halfway to the hallway, heels clacking like a countdown clock. “Five minutes. Please try not to become a meme this time.”

He followed, dazed, heart thudding, trying not to stare at the back of your skirt like a man starved.

The event was packed. Too packed.

The press conference had just wrapped, the applause still echoing as staffers ushered attendees toward the exit. Bucky had stepped down from the stage, tie slightly loosened, head turned toward you across the room.

You were checking your phone, clipboard under one arm, lips pursed in that way that said, Yes, I heard everything you said, and no, I still think it was weak.

Then it happened.

The shouting started at the back.

At first, it sounded like heckling. Normal. Predictable.

Then it grew louder.

Angrier.

A man shoved past the security barrier, red-faced and screaming. Another climbed onto a chair, holding a megaphone, spitting vitriol.

“Traitor!”

“HYDRA plant!”

“You’re not American, you’re a puppet!”

Bucky’s blood ran cold.

Then came the movement—too fast to be random. Three more men, surging forward through the crowd, coordinated. Too aggressive. Too armed.

The moment his instincts flared, he snapped into gear.

“Everyone out!” he barked, shoving a staffer behind a column, scanning for entry points, exit routes. “Move, move!”

His hand reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there—not since the uniform, not since the missions. But he didn’t need it.

He just needed you.

“Where’s—” he turned, scanning, heart hammering, trying to spot your blazer in the chaos.

And then he froze.

You weren’t hiding.

You weren’t running.

You were standing over a man twice your size with your heel planted between his shoulder blades, one hand gripping his collar, the other fisting the back of his belt as you slammed his face into a table.

BANG.

“I am not the one to mess with,” you shouted, your voice feral, electric, alive. “You redneck motherfucker!”

BANG.

“Keep talkin’. I got time today.”

BANG.

The man made a sound like a dying goose and crumpled.

The others paused. One backed off. The last one raised a fist—only to get elbowed in the throat by you so fast Bucky couldn’t even process it.

You turned, breath heaving, hair half undone, lip gloss smudged, looking like war.

And Bucky?

He stood frozen, surrounded by chaos, heart pounding in his ears—and all he could think was:

Holy. Shit.

You were beautiful. And terrifying.

And he was completely, catastrophically in love.

The second the last attacker hit the floor, Bucky was on you.

You were standing over the man you’d just dropped, breathing hard, blood trickling from a gash on your forearm. Your blazer was ripped at the seam, silk blouse stained.

Your eyes met his, and your face twisted—not in pain.

In indignation.

“This was Valentino!” you snapped, holding up the torn sleeve like it personally betrayed you. “I paid rent money for this blazer!”

Bucky didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

He was already reaching for your wrist, inspecting the bleeding cut. “Come on—we need to get you cleaned up.”

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to wave him off, but he was already dragging you toward the nearest exit, weaving through stunned staffers and security guards who were still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

He shoved open the door to a small conference room and guided you inside. Closed the door.

Then turned on you, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “I was handling it.”

“You are bleeding!”

“I got grazed. Calm down—”

“You think this is about a scratch?” His voice rose. “You could’ve been killed, and I just—damn it, I should’ve protected you.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You what?”

“I should’ve been there—should’ve kept you safe—”

“Oh, shut up, Barnes.”

He froze.

“Seriously? You wanted me to wait for you? Let those assholes dogpile me so you could come in all noble and traumatized? I don’t need to be protected.”

“That’s not—!”

“It’s 2027. Women don’t need men to jump in swinging just to feel relevant.”

His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, lost in the sputter of a man who’d just been emotionally bitch-slapped with logic.

You let out a slow, tight exhale. “I’m not your mission. I’m not your PR problem. I’m your assistant, and I’m a New Yorker, and if you’d grown up where I did, you’d understand why waiting around to be saved is a luxury some of us never had.”

He said nothing, still stunned.

You held your arm out. “Bandage me if you’re gonna be useful.”

Wordless, still trying to recalibrate, he opened the first aid kit on the wall and started wrapping the cut with more care than necessary. His hands were gentle, precise.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked. That you’re being ridiculous blink that always made him want to throw things and kiss you at the same time.

Then, calmer now, quieter, he asked, “How do you know how to fight like that?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And then you said, like it was obvious, like it was as much a part of you as your name:

“You say you’re from Brooklyn—but it’s clear you never grew up in Brownsville.”

Your eyes held his, fierce and dark and unapologetic.

And Bucky?

He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.

Silence settled between you, heavy and frayed at the edges.

You were still perched on the edge of the table, your wounded arm now wrapped with neat gauze, your ripped blazer folded beside you like a casualty of war. Bucky stood in front of you, breathing uneven, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He didn’t know how to say what was building up inside him.

So he didn’t.

He just leaned in.

His hand hovered near your face. No command. No pressure. Just need.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he rushed it.

For one breath, it was perfect.

Then your brow furrowed.

Your palm pressed flat against his chest.

Bucky’s heart bottomed out.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice cool, sharp, dangerously unreadable.

He froze.

“I—” he stepped back slightly, hand dropping. “I thought—God, I’m sorry. I just—”

Your eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.

“I’m your assistant,” you said. “You’re my boss. You’re violating, like, four ethics codes right now. Five if you count how many times you’ve stared at my legs in budget meetings.”

He blinked. “I haven’t—okay, that happened once.”

You raised a brow.

“Twice.”

Your mouth twitched, but you weren’t done.

“I could report you to HR,” you said, calm as ever. “Get you removed for sexual misconduct. Sue you.”

He stumbled back, eyes wide, a pit forming in his gut so deep he nearly doubled over.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, I swear I wasn’t trying to cross a line—”

You tilted your head, watching him spiral.

Then you murmured, almost thoughtfully, “Your term’s almost over anyway.”

His breath caught. “What?”

And then?

You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back toward you, and smashed your lips against his.

The kiss was nothing like before.

It was hungry. Commanding. Yours.

Your other hand slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for months. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself to your body like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were mad about it.

And Bucky kissed you back like he was never going to recover.

There was no hesitation. No slow build. No questioning what this was.

It was you, claiming him.

Your fingers were in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your other hand slid down his chest, nails dragging over the buttons of his dress shirt as you kissed him like you’d been planning to ruin him for weeks.

Maybe you had.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, pulling you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight he thought he might leave fingerprints. You tasted like gloss and adrenaline, like sweat and something he couldn’t name—something real.

You broke the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip—hard.

He shuddered.

“Still think I’m gonna file an HR report?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, lethal.

Bucky laughed—breathless, dizzy. “I’m not even sure I can spell HR right now.”

You pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of the conference table.

Then you shoved him.

Not hard. Just enough.

He landed on the tabletop with a soft grunt, eyes wide, hands bracing behind him.

“Off,” you said, fingers already at his tie.

“Jesus,” he muttered, letting you yank it loose.

“Not quite.”

His blazer hit the floor.

Then the shirt. Button by button, you peeled it off like you were unwrapping a problem you planned to solve with your teeth.

He was hard beneath his slacks. Painfully. Obscenely.

You noticed.

“Oh,” you said softly, eyes flicking down. “So you do like a woman in charge.”

“Have you met you?” he rasped.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there on the table, grinding down slow and firm. His head fell back with a groan, hands flying to your hips, gripping like he was drowning.

“Touch me,” you said.

He did.

Everywhere.

And he was so gone for you.

You ground down on him again, slower this time, your hands planted on his chest, dress hiked up, his belt digging into your thigh. His hands gripped your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was guiding you or just hanging on.

Bucky's breath came in ragged pulls. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “But you’ll die happy.”

You kissed him again—slower, deeper, tongue sliding into his mouth with a confidence that made his spine arch. He felt like he was melting, hands skimming up your sides, over your back, desperate to touch, to anchor.

And then you pulled back.

Stood up between his knees.

Hiked your skirt up higher.

No underwear.

He made a sound—low, guttural, almost a prayer.

You grinned.

Then you undid his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Let the metal clink open, dragged his zipper down with one nail, and reached into his briefs to free him.

He hissed through his teeth when your hand wrapped around him, stroking once, then again, firm and slow and utterly in control. You looked down at him like you were studying something you planned to break and rebuild better.

“You been hard for me since the press room?”

“Since our briefing,” he groaned.

You climbed back into his lap and lined him up with your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick with a roll of your hips.

“You’re so lucky I like older guys.”

And then you sank down.

Slow.

Deep.

All of him.

He choked on a gasp, head falling forward against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you like his whole body had just been plugged into a power grid.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good—so fucking tight.”

You rolled your hips once—hard—and he whined.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And the look on your face?

Smug. Wild. Unapologetic.

You started to move.

Up and down, grinding, hips snapping, thighs strong as you rode him like you owned him—and maybe you did. His mouth parted, hands clutching your ass, eyes locked on your face as you took him faster, harder, moaning softly every time he hit just right.

“You gonna come, congressman?” you teased, voice breathy. “Gonna fall apart for your assistant like a cliché?”

He laughed—barely. “Already did.”

And when your nails dug into his shoulders and your rhythm stuttered, when your moan turned breathless and high and he felt you clench around him—

He lost it.

He groaned loud and long, spilling inside you as his vision blurred, body shaking beneath your grip.

You kissed him through it, slow and deep, hips still rocking until his hands went limp and his head dropped to your shoulder.

Breathless.

Ruined.

Yours.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

3K notes · View notes

jaysbaefie · 2 months ago

Text

bullshit | sjy

synopsis: in which months of mocking jake online comes back to bite you, and he makes sure you regret every single word—on your knees.

genre: idol au

pairing: idol!jake x blogger!reader

warnings: dubcon? bratty!reader, petty!jake, mean!jake, big dick!jake, kidnapping (sort of kind of??), oral (m.rec), cum swallowing, reader grinds down on jake’s shoe, mention of daddy kink (but it’s not used), forced submission, manhandling, titty sucking, marking, begging, degrading. self degradation, rough and unprotected p in v, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light spanking slapping and chocking, creampie, spitting, recording for blackmail purposes. i think that’s it….

wc: 15.1k

a/n: this took a lot more time that i initially thought it would … but it’s here now! this draft has been sitting in my archives for years like literal years. back when i used to write on wattpad for bts i had this plot written for tae but scrapped it because i lacked creativity to make it happen. but here we r ! also side note this is not edited to the best of its abilities so if u c a mistake… im sorry :D hope you enjoy, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :)

✎﹏﹏

the dorm door slammed open, the sound of sneakers dragging across the floor echoing behind it. the 7 exhausted boys spilled into the living room, all drained and sweaty from the insane dance practice that had run two hours longer than scheduled. jake collapsed face-first onto the couch, groaning into a throw pillow as he stretches his limbs before he feels a cramp in his leg.

"i think my spine is permanently bent," he mumbled, not moving an inch.

sunghoon flopped onto the floor, using his hoodie as a pillow. "i think i disassociated during 'bite me.'"

"you always disassociate during 'bite me,'" heeseung shot back, tossing a towel at him making sunghoon scowl.

jay, meanwhile, had his phone out, thumb lazily scrolling through twitter as he half-listened to the chaos around him. he was about to put his phone down when a thread caught his eye.

"kpop idols who probably have the smallest dick (a very unserious thread)"

"...oh?" jay blinked, intrigued for all the wrong reasons. a grin formed on his lips as he clicked, the list started off wild.

1. jaehyun nct - idc what y'all say. he screams below average. 2. jeno nct - this is a hater post. cry about it. 3. jake from enhypen - golden retriever energy but gives micro vibes. sorry not sorry.

jay let out a loud, sudden laugh at the description given for jake—catching everyone's attention.

"yo, jake," he wheezed, turning the screen toward him. "look what someone said about you."

jake rolled over lazily, half hazy, "what?"

jay shoved the phone in front of his face. jake read the tweet once, then again. then a third time. his brows furrowed deeper with each pass, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"...are you serious right now?"

he sat up, yanking the phone from jay's hand to read it himself. his eyes scanned the username, the post and then the likes. 10k likes for a bullshit post, jake scoffed in disbelief. he scrolled down to read the replies which were full of people either agreeing or arguing like their lives depended on it.

"no because she's right and she should say it louder" one of the comments read, jake furrowed his eyebrows before scowling.

"i love him but... yeah."

"nah he gives big dick energy actually"

"this is so mean LMFAOOO"

jake's mouth opened in shock. "why am i even on this list? what did i do to deserve this? how does someone look at me and go, 'yeah, micro dick.' what the hell?"

jay couldn't stop laughing. "it's so random, too. like. where did they get the data? did they run a poll?"

"this isn't funny!" jake snapped, slapping jay's shoulder with the back of his hand. "i'm being slandered in front of thousands of people. tens of thousands!"

sunoo peeked over jay's shoulder. "ooh. and someone made a follow-up post. wait—found their tumblr. they said he looks like he apologizes after missionary.'" sunoo cackles, "i can totally see that."

jake nearly choked on air, "what?!"

he snatched sunoo's phone this time, heart pounding as he scrolls violently across your twitter page. he followed the breadcrumb trail from twitter to a tumblr blog: @s0ftbrat666.

the header was a blurry photo of a cunty hello kitty, and the bio just said: "unserious about everything but dick size."

"who the hell is this? why do they hate me so bad?"

niki, who had been quietly sipping water from the kitchen, muttered, "maybe they're a fan of yours. like, weirdly obsessed. reverse psychology or something."

"no. this is personal. this feels targeted," jake muttered, already downloading and opening the tumblr app on his phone. "i'm not letting this slide."

he made a new account. he picked the most ironic, absurd username he could think of: @goldenjake420.

because that screams, 'i'm the real jake sim!!'

he messaged you immediately, his hands shaking in rage as he smashes his fingers into the screen.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

"this is so stupid," he muttered, tossing his phone beside him.

jay raised a brow. "you really just dm'd a twitter troll on tumblr?"

"yes. because the truth matters, jay. i do not have a micro dick!" he exclaims, clearly frustrated from his group mates lack of empathy. he looks around the room in hopes of his members reassurance, only to receive looks of disturbance.

"cmon guys, you know i don't have a micro dick.." he trails off when he sees sunoo grimace at his words.

heeseung smirked from the other side of the couch suddenly sitting up right, ignoring his aching body. "you should send a pic to prove it."

jay cackles before agreeing, "yeah, downwards angles always make that shit look like a tower."

"SHUT UP!" jake shouted, face red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

the room erupted in laughter as jake sat there fuming, arms crossed, waiting for a response. he had no idea the person he messaged was already rolling their eyes and preparing to block him.

and this was only the beginning.

you were no stranger to the occasional deranged and delusional fan losing their mind over a post. it was social media, not a diplomatic summit. if you said someone's fave had bad fashion sense or gave off weak dick energy, it was bound to stir drama—but you thrived in it.

what you didn't expect, though, was to get a dm from an account called @goldenjake420 claiming to be jake himself. not just a fan defending him. not someone crying in your inbox about how you were "too mean."

no. this person had committed to the bit.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

you blinked at the message, snorted, and sat back in your chair.

"okay..." you muttered under your breath. "we've reached new levels of delusion."

you clicked the profile. no posts. followed no one. default layout. pfp of a blurry golden retriever. and the username?

goldenjake420.

"oh my god," you wheezed. this was peak fandom brainrot.

you stared at the message for a minute, thumbs hovering over your keyboard before you decided, you know what? fine. you wanna play jake sim? let's play.

you typed:

@s0ftbrat666: omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry... i didn't know you had a tumblr account i feel so bad now omg i'll take it down right away thank you for being so mature and respectful about it... ugh i feel terrible lol

you hit send. then burst out laughing, eyes watering as you cackle alone in your room.

and five minutes later, you posted a new post on your blog.

—— post by @s0ftbrat666

just got a dm from someone PRETENDING to be jake sim because they were mad i said he has a micro dick LMAOOO. like babes be serious... jake sim is not on tumblr dot com messaging me with a blurry pic of a golden retriever and the username @/goldenjake420. but since he's here reading my posts, hey jake! if u're mad now wait til u see what i post next

anyway updated my list: "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version" jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes and gifs as evidence. enjoy :] ——

you tagged it: #jake sim #enhypen #pls don't take this seriously #except jake if ur reading this then yeah take it seriously

you sat back and refreshed the notes every few seconds. it was already blowing up. likes, reblogs, someone screaming in the tags: "NOT THE FOOTNOTES."

you were thriving, satisfaction filling you as the comments seemed to hype you up.

unbeknownst to you, somewhere in a dorm across the city, jake was screaming into a pillow.

jake was laying on his stomach, face shoved into a couch cushion, aggressively refreshing your tumblr page like a man on a mission. the first message he sent you hadn't gone exactly how he expected. he thought maybe—maybe—you'd feel a little guilty, take the post down, maybe even apologize. instead, he was met with:

"omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry..."

at first, he blinked. then smiled. you were going to apologize and take it down..great!

okay, he thought, that was easier than expected.

but then he saw the post you had published just a few minute later.

—— "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version." jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes. and gifs. enjoy :] ——

"NO I AM NOT," he yelled into the pillow, voice muffled but full of sheer disbelief.

he rolled over and shot upright, shoving his phone in jay's face. "do you SEE this? i was already called micro dick jake, but now i'm a submissive pillow princess? where is she even getting this from?"

jay looked over the post with a calm expression and said, "well... you did say 'ngl' in a tumblr dm. that's kinda submissive."

"jay."

"i'm just saying."

jake's blood pressure was actively rising. he was pacing the living room now, phone clenched in his fist. "this isn't a joke anymore. she's making footnotes. gifs, bro. there's like a whole academic paper on my dick energy. and worst of all, PEOPLE ARE AGREEING."

sunoo peeked around the corner. "maybe just let it go? like... it's tumblr. no one's gonna remember next week."

"it's twitter too! no. no, she wanted to make it personal. it's personal now."

he went back to tumblr, typing furiously in your dm's.

@goldenjake420: okay first of all?? i was acc being really nice u said some really rude stuff and i still tried to talk to u calmly but now ur doubling down with footnotes?? idk y ur so convinced i'm a submissive pillow princess but ur wrong like so wrong scientifically inaccurate levels of wrong

he hit send. then stared at the screen.

nothing. no response. refresh. refresh.

"error: message could not be delivered."

"...what?" jake frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he desperately tried sending his messages again.

he clicked your profile.

"you've been blocked by this user."

the silence that followed was deafening.

"she blocked me," he whispered, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. "she actually blocked me."

jay cackled from across the room. "maybe now you'll stop fighting the tumblr girl who thinks you're a bottom."

"i'm not a bottom!" jake snapped, defensive. "and i'm definitely not a pillow princess!"

jay peers over jake's shoulder, his face pulls into a grimace as he reads jake's messages. "maybe it's a good thing that those didn't deliver... you're proving her point." jake rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to deal with his friend.

he opened twitter, then paused. was he really about to tweet about this?

he closed the app.

instead, he opened his notes app and started typing:

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick."

this wasn't over.

if he had to write a dissertation, he would. he was reclaiming his name. one footnote at a time.

you were in bed, face smushed into your pillow, scrolling aimlessly when the tag notification came in. you were about to ignore it—probably another reblog of your cursed "submissive missionary micro dick energy" thread—but the caption caught your eye:

@s0ftbrat666 you need to see this LMAOOO he made a THREAD. a whole thread.

confused but curious, you tapped the post.

and there it was.

a full thread. by a tumblr user named @truthaboutjake, which already gave deranged energy, but it got better.

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick (a thread)."

you nearly dropped your phone, a giggle leaving you as you excitedly click on the thread.

the first slide was formatted like a presentation. bolded title, bullet points, and an unnecessary amount of spacing like someone had spent way too long formatting it.

—— slide 1: addressing the accusations • the tumblr user @s0ftbrat666 has made multiple posts claiming i am submissive • she has also accused me of having a micro dick • both of these are false, offensive, and based on no real evidence ——

no real evidence, he said. like you were in court.

"what in the deranged.." you muttered to yourself, re-reading the text a second time to make sure you were hallucinating.

you snorted, swiping to the next.

—— slide 2: rebuttal • i've been told i give off dominant energy • no one who owns a denim jacket collection that big can be submissive • as for the size... let's just say i've never received complaints ——

you had to pause there, hand over your mouth, wheezing. "denim jackets radiate peg me," you cackle to yourself.

this wasn't a thread written by a deranged fan. no, this was someone personally offended on a soul level. and the way it was written? the tone? the wording?

it was giving him. it was jake.

no one else would be this pressed.

you laughed so hard you had to sit up.

this man had been so insulted by your dumb, unserious thirst post that he created a whole alternate account, wrote a google-doc-tier thread, and was now trying to clear his name in the notes app format. you were obsessed.

you hit reblog.

—— @s0ftbrat666: i have never in my life witnessed a man fight for his dom rights this hard the denim jacket argument almost had me convinced ngl

jake sim if this is actually you: 1. calm down 2. you're literally proving my point 3. post the evidence since you're so confident ——

the comments came flooding in:

"NOT HIM MAKING A PRESENTATION" "'never received complaints' is CRAZY" "he could've just logged off but now he's in too deep" "@truthaboutjake is shaking"

you weren't done though. oh no.

you clicked the original post again and dm'd @truthaboutjake directly.

@s0ftbrat666: wow a thread? you really sat down and made a powerpoint about your dick this is the best thing that's happened to me all week but you still haven't proven anything so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era i'll wait <33

you hit send with a shit-eating grin.

this was your roman empire now. you were going to be thinking about this thread forever.

jake stared at your message like it physically slapped him.

"so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era"

his jaw dropped.

"e-evidence?!" he sputtered aloud, standing up in the middle of the dorm living room like he'd just been accused of murder.

jay, sitting across the room with earbuds in, pulled one out and glanced up. "what now?"

"she wants evidence."

jay blinked. "like...?"

jake gestured wildly at his phone. "like evidence evidence!"

jay raised both brows before grinning "...so what i said about the downward angle, i'm telling you jake that shit makes it look h—"

"NO!" jake practically yelled. "i'm not sending a picture of my dick to some random troll on tumblr!"

he fumed. typed. deleted. typed again. then, finally, sent:

@truthaboutjake: okay. listen. i'm not sending you a dick pic. i don't care how much you want "evidence" that's weird. this whole thing is weird. i'm literally just trying to correct a false narrative about myself

you saw the message and immediately rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. you were curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, typing with vicious speed.

@s0ftbrat666: omg. are you serious right now?? NO ONE asked for actual dick pics. what the hell is wrong with you. you're literally so deep in this delusion you really think you're jake sim like?? be serious for once you are a grown man on tumblr dot com pretending to be an idol and defending your imaginary dick size this is next level behavior. you need to touch grass and maybe talk to a therapist jake sim would never you are EMBARRASSING yourself rn.

you hit send and sighed, rubbing your temples. it was funny at first but the more you interacted with this person the more brain cells you lost, it shocked you that people would go to such lengths to defend their favs.

this was beyond fandom drama now. this was a case study. and the worst part? you were kind of impressed with how committed he was to the bit. concerned of course, but impressed too.

like... he was spiraling. but passionately.

still. you weren't going to let up. because whoever this man was, he needed to be humbled.

you opened a new post draft and typed:

—— @s0ftbrat666: update: he dm'd me again and accused me of demanding dick pics because i said "evidence"

i rest my case. this is not jake sim. this is some 32-year-old man who unironically uses reddit and thinks being called "submissive" is a slur

log off, drink some water, and go outside before you get a nosebleed from rage

#jake sim #not the real one obviously #this is tumblr not onlyfans relax ——

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to move on.

he really did.

after the dick thread. after being labeled a submissive missionary pillow princess. after the fake fan accusations and being accused of roleplaying as himself—he made the conscious choice to stop checking your blog. he muted your username. closed tumblr for a solid 24 hours. he even turned off his notifs.

he was healing. growing. rebuilding his sanity.

until a member sent him a screenshot.

it was sunghoon.

of course it was sunghoon.

sunghoon: yo y tf she got sm time on her hands icl tho she funny asf

attached was a photo of your newest tumblr post.

jake opened it, eyes squinting. then he saw it.

—— @s0ftbrat666: watched enhypen's most recent stage and i just wanna know WHO chose those pants for jake like bffr. i can see his entire situation

the dick print? front and center. and it's not giving what he thinks it's giving

it's giving: he begged the stylist to let him wear those pants so he could prove me wrong and i'm here to tell you... babe... don't ever do that again.

i'm LAUGHING.

#enhypen #jake sim #pls don't wear tight pants if ur not ready for the scrutiny king #it's not looking good ——

jake froze.

his phone was literally vibrating with how hard he was gripping it.

"she's watching performances now?" he whispered to himself, horrified.

jay looked up from across the room, warily. "...oh god. again?"

"she's analyzing my crotch, jay. she made a post about my dick print."

jay blinked. "that's... new."

"and she said it's 'not giving'!" jake practically screamed, spinning his phone around to show him. "not giving what?! not giving big dick energy?!?!"

jay read it silently, lips twitching. "...it does kind of sound like she thinks you're trying to prove her wrong. which, to be fair, you kinda are." he pauses for a second, "but i thought she deemed you as a deranged fan, does she think that you're actually texting her?"

jake shrugs, "who knows what she's thinking, clearly way to much of this is the shit she posts. also i wasn't even thinking about her when i wore those pants!"

"you literally made a thread defending your dick size last week."

"NOT THE POINT."

jake felt like he was going to combust. it was like every time he clawed his way back to peace, you dropped another post from hell and dragged him back into the pit.

and this time?

this time you targeted his outfit. his styling choices. his crotch visibility. he couldn't even enjoy the stage anymore without wondering if you were out there in a hoodie, behind a screen, zooming in on freeze frames of his pants.

"this is psychological warfare," jake muttered.

sunghoon looked up from his phone, his face annoyed. he was tired of hearing about this, "just block her again."

jake clenched his jaw. "she'll post about it. she'll brag."

he scrolled back up, reading the caption again. and again. his fingers hovered over your username.

he didn't message you. not this time.

instead, he posted on his burner account:

—— @truthaboutjake: some people spend their lives spreading negativity online because they have nothing else going for them. if you spend your free time zooming in on people's bodies just to make fun of them, seek help.

also, the pants looked fire. ——

he hit post. and then, two minutes later he opened the group chat.

jayke: whoever styled me last week. never again. we're going back to loose pants. i'm not doing this with tumblr anymore

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to stay composed. he tried.

but every time he opened tumblr, there you were—lurking in his psyche like a demon with wi-fi.

at first it had been a few jabs, sprinkled here and there between your usual posts about other idols. someone's hair, another's dance move, one guy you kept thirsting over for his "evil smirk" and "long fingers." whatever. jake didn't care.

until suddenly—your entire blog became about him.

not in a cute, stan-like way.

no.

it was relentless.

"jake sim update: still looks like a man who apologizes during sex."

"new era, same micro dick energy."

"his pants looked like they were holding in a lie."

"i know he fumbles the aux every time. just look at him."

your followers ate it up. reblog after reblog. tags like "#he's just so bashable" and "#jake sim slander is self-care" filled the notes.

there were polls. there were graphics.

you made a tier list of idols based on who looked like they cried after sex, and jake was placed right at the top with the caption: "he looks like he'd say 'was that okay?' while tucking his soft dick back in his briefs."

jake was spiraling.

the worst part? you didn't even seem like a hater. you didn't hate him.

you just... targeted him like it was your job. your content was crafted with care. effort. borderline affection.

jay leaned over one afternoon while jake doomscrolled through another one of your polls—this one titled "which idol do you think would last the shortest in bed (no offense)", where jake was winning by 68%.

"you know," jay mused, "i think she actually likes you."

jake looked up, eyes wide with horror as he looks at jay disgusted. "what?"

jay shrugged. "she's obsessed. it's giving weirdly specific attention. enemies-to-lovers coded."

"jay. she made a gifset of my crotch."

"exactly."

jake nearly threw his phone across the room.

it wasn't just slander anymore—it was becoming personal. and the most infuriating part?

you were so sure. so smugly sure.

every post was laced with casual cruelty and the sharp confidence of someone who truly believed they knew him. his vibes. his music taste. his dick size. like you'd studied him and filed a damn report.

and the urge to prove you wrong? it was eating at him.

he'd see one of your posts and get this itch. this slow, simmering burn in his gut. like he had something to prove now. like he wanted to walk up to you and say—

"say that shit again. to my face."

he'd fantasized about it more than once.

cornering you at a fansign, maybe. or catching you backstage if he ever figured out who you were. you with that smug little expression, your arms crossed like you knew everything. and him, leaning in, low and sharp, and making damn sure you knew you were wrong about everything—especially that.

he wasn't even mad anymore. not just mad. he was determined.

this wasn't just tumblr slander. this was a challenge.

and jake sim? he didn't lose.

✎﹏﹏

jake laid in bed, phone hovering above his face, lit only by the blue glow of tumblr's godforsaken app. it was well past 2 a.m., and he'd already scrolled through your entire blog—again.

he told himself it was just to see if you'd posted anything new. which, of course, you had,

but really, he was spiraling.

another post. this one read:

—— @softbrat666: something about jake sim just screams whines when it doesn't slide in all the way like he'd pause mid-thrust to ask if you're okay because he came too fast

he'd definitely say 'but you just feel so good...' as an excuse ——

and the worst part?

jake read every single reply. studied them, even. like they held some kind of twisted insight into how you saw him. how you imagined him. you were building this whole persona of him in your mind and then broadcasting it to thousands of followers like it was gospel. and the most messed up part?

you had just enough accuracy to make it sting.

and yet—you remained anonymous.

faceless. untouchable.

he'd tried to find out who you were. he dug through old posts, clicked your tags, searched your url on twitter and insta.

all he found was: • you lived in seoul • you were 21 • you drank too much iced americano • and you had audacity in excess

that was it. no selfies. no personal posts. no full name. you were just a sassy username and a collection of jake sim hate posts.

meanwhile, he was a public figure with his whole government face on blast while you dragged him through the mud constantly.

he hated how much he thought about what you looked like.

were you soft and bratty, like your tone suggested? did you smirk when you wrote those captions? were you the type to twirl your hair and say, "what? it's not that deep," while ruining a man's reputation?

he imagined you walking around seoul, laughing with your friends, ordering overpriced coffee with that smug, evil-little-gremlin energy.

he imagined running into you.

he'd play it cool at first—polite, casual, maybe even a little flirty.

watch you ramble. watch you squirm. and when he caught you slipping—maybe when you made some offhand comment about k-pop or tumblr—he'd hit you with it:

"so how's that blog going? still think i'm a submissive pillow princess with a micro dick?"

he rolled onto his side, fuming into his pillow. you lived in his head rent-free and you didn't even know what he looked like at night when he was losing sleep over your bullshit posts.

it was unfair.

you got to stay invisible while he was out here analyzing his own stage outfits to figure out what clip you were gonna slander next.

he scrolled back to that gif set you made of his recent performance. paused on the close-up. the zoom-in.

the goddamn caption: "not jake sim trying to start a dickprint redemption arc. spoiler: it's not working."

his eye twitched.

"this girl is the devil," he muttered.

and yet... he couldn't stop checking. he needed to know what you'd say next.

✎﹏﹏

you wake up to absolute chaos.

your phone is buzzing. not one or two notifications—hundreds. group chats. twitter and tumblr dms. unknown numbers. missed calls. it's like your phone caught fire overnight.

you blink against the morning light, groggy and confused, heart picking up speed. something's wrong. you can feel it. you squint at the screen, drag down your notifications, and the first notification you see makes your stomach drop.

"girl you're trending rn... what did you DO???"

then another.

"is that actually your name???"

your pulse is pounding before you even open twitter. your fingers shake as you type your own @ into the search bar, and the second you hit enter, your breath catches.

it's you.

your name. your photo. your phone number. everything.

someone—no, a group of people—had clearly gone full fbi. they'd taken all your casual, dumb little posts over the years and pieced them together like a fucked-up puzzle.

and now your full name was in a viral thread titled: "this the girl behind the jake sim micro dick blog?"

with a photo of you at a party two months ago, smile beaming.

people were quote-tweeting it with comments like: "she built like someone who'd have beef with jake sim for no reason." "oh she definitely owns a stan twitter burner too." "her blog is my roman empire i need her in therapy immediately."

your blood turned to ice. you were exposed.

fully.

not just as a shitposter but as the jake sim hater. your inbox was flooded—death threats, confessions, apologies, people asking if it was really you. tumblr dms screaming:

"TAKE THE POSTS DOWN BEFORE HE SEES THEM."

too late.

you scrambled to log into tumblr. your hands fumbled across the keys. it took three tries to get your password right.

the second you were in, you did the only thing you could do.

you hit deactivate.

the blog was gone. years of posts. thousands of notes. all of your followers, your drafts, your hate-poll templates.

deleted.

and then the panic really set in.

your hands were trembling. your ears were ringing. and all you could think about was @truthaboutjake, your mind racing. it was him, you realized that it was him.

"he knows. jake sim fucking knows who i am."

and the worst part?

you had no idea what he'd do with it.

✎﹏﹏

jake found out the same way everyone else did—waking up to a string of texts from jay and sunghoon absolutely losing their shit.

jay: bro. check twitter. sunghoon: she got exposed. jay: HER NAME IS OUT LMAOOO jay: bet she's sweating rn sunghoon: she's kinda cute tho

he blinked hard, still groggy, and tapped open the thread that seemed to be trending.

your face stared back at him.

his heart flipped.

you looked... nothing like what he expected. he'd imagined someone smug. cold. maybe with villain bangs and a cigarette habit.

but no—there you were, face flushed in a group photo, laughing mid-sip of iced americano. you looked normal. it almost hurt to admit, but you were pretty.

you looked real.

and now, you were reachable.

he did what anyone would do: searched your name on instagram. he found your linked facebook.

scrolled. scrolled.

paused.

you had your workplace tagged in an old comment.

"juniper bean café - seoul branch."

he stared at it for a long moment. then, very calmly, he stood up, threw on a hoodie, cap, and mask, and left the dorm.

✎﹏﹏

the café was a little tucked away spot with plants hanging from the ceiling and a chalkboard sign outside that said "kiss me, i'm caffeinated."

jake walked in, glancing around. he spotted you immediately, behind the counter, head down as you punched in an order.

he could tell that you had a rough morning, good. your posture was tense. your hair was pulled back messily. your voice was strained. you looked tired, your eyes that seemed so full of life in your leaked photos had disappeared.

he stepped up to the counter. waited. his eyes trailed down your figure, your frame was draped with a loose fitted sweater and some baggy light wash jeans. you wore a black apron, cinching at your waist—allowing his hungry eyes to capture your curves.

you were trying to look invisible. trying not to stand out. but to him—you were glowing with guilt.

he watched you fumble with a stack of napkins, pretending you didn't feel his eyes burning into you. finally you cleared your throat, still not looking up.

"hi, what can i get you?"

he smiled behind his mask, slow and wicked. he pulled it down just enough to speak—voice dripping low, sharp with mocking sweetness.

"you gonna spit in my drink too?" he asked. "or just keep running your mouth somewhere i can't see?"

you froze.

head snapping up. eyes locking with his. and there it was—that flash of horror, recognition, disbelief. it was him.

you had to admit, he was just as if not more handsome in person. your mouth dried up when you watched his lips curl into a smirk and his eye twitch.

your mouth opened. closed. no sound.

"hi," he said, almost sweetly. "miss me?"

you fumbled a reply—something, anything—but he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world.

"you disappeared fast. what happened? got leaked and lost all your guts or did you burn through all your micro dick material?"

your coworker looked between you both, utterly confused and in awe that jake was standing in front her. you took a breath. straightened your spine. tried to salvage your dignity.

"this is harassment," you muttered.

"this is karma," jake shot back, his smile dark. he twitched in anger, how dare you call this harassment—what about what you had been doing for the last couple of weeks? "i wanted a latte, by the way. no sugar. unless you're finally ready to be sweet to me."

you nearly dropped the milk jug.

he didn't care. he was so amused. you were the girl who wrote entire essays dragging his dickprint and his imagined bedroom habits? you, flushed and stammering behind a café register?

he wanted to laugh. he wanted to lean in closer. he wanted to ruin you back.

and this? this was just the beginning.

your hands were shaking. milk frother sputtering. heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape. and he—jake fucking sim—just stood there.

smiling.

smug.

head tilted slightly like he was thrilled by your discomfort. "you gonna make that latte, or you gonna keep fumbling around and glaring at me?" he drawled, voice low and casual.

you gritted your teeth, turned back to the machine, and fumbled through the motions of making the drink. you could feel his eyes on you the entire time—watching, drinking you in like you were the fucking joke.

you finally slid the drink across the counter, trying not to slam it.

"here. now leave."

he didn't move. just sipped slowly, then licked a bit of foam from his lip like it was the most dramatic thing anyone had ever done in a coffee shop.

and then—he leaned forward. elbow on the counter. voice quiet, words slow and deliberate:

"what time do you get off?"

you blinked, "excuse me?"

"your shift. when does it end?"

"why the fuck would i tell you that?"

his smile widened, all teeth now, sharp and smug. "because there's going to be a black car waiting for you outside." he continues, "when you clock out, you're going to get in. and then you're going to follow instructions."

you stared at him, genuinely floored. "are you insane? what the hell are you talking about?"

he tilted his head, mockingly sympathetic. "i get it. you're scared. probably embarrassed." he grins, "but see, that's the thing about defamation—once it's public, i can take legal action. and you've been very public."

your stomach dropped, "you're bluffing."

he shrugged. "wanna bet your savings account on that?"

you opened your mouth. closed it again. because—fuck. he wasn't bluffing. he didn't have to. you'd posted too much. said too much. and now he had your face, your name, your location.

"you can't just—kidnap me," you said, weaker than intended.

he laughed.

"it's not kidnapping if you get in willingly, sweetheart."

then he slid the latte off the counter, turned, and started to walk toward the door. before he left, he glanced back, over his shoulder.

"9 p.m., right?" he called out. "don't be late. i hate being stood up." he grinned, fuck him.

the bell jingled as he left. the door shut behind him.

and you stood there, in your apron and sneakers and sweaty palms, absolutely rattled. what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

✎﹏﹏

9:03 p.m.

you were pacing behind the café. your shift ended three minutes ago, but you hadn't stepped outside yet. you couldn't. your feet felt like bricks. your stomach twisted with anxiety, hands clenched in the pockets of your jeans.

what the fuck am i doing?

you shouldn't go. you know you shouldn't go. this was literally stranger danger 101, except instead of a stranger it was a kpop idol whose dick size you flamed online for weeks.

your brain was screaming at you. your nerves were a warzone. your inner monologue sounded like one long anxiety spiral:

"you're insane." "this is how people get murdered." "he's rich. he could make you disappear and blame it on anxiety meds." "but also... maybe he just wants to talk?" "or maybe he's gonna sue you in person with his scary legal team and laugh while you cry." "or—worse—what if he takes a picture with you and posts it with some shady ass caption like 'finally found her :)' and now you're really cooked?"

your fists clenched tighter.

this was your own fault. you were the one who made that blog. you were the one who said he looked like a pillow princess. you were the one who photoshopped a pacifier into that one fansite photo and captioned it "baby boy can't handle coochie."

and now?

now he knew your name. your face. your shift schedule.

and there it was, waiting on the curb like a horror movie prop—a sleek black car, windows tinted, headlights glowing like eyes.

you stared at it.

and then, finally, took a deep breath and walked towards it.

the back door opened before you could even touch it. you slid inside, hesitating, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. you looked around the dimly lit interior. leather seats. no jake.

just a stone-faced driver in a black cap.

"um," you said cautiously. "where are we going?"

no response.

you leaned forward slightly. "hello? i just—can you at least tell me if jake is—"

silence.

he kept driving.

great.

you sat back, heart still racing. the lights of the city blurred past the windows. you couldn't even track the direction—you were too jittery to focus. every turn felt like it took you farther from safety.

and god, the silence was suffocating.

you hated it. you hated him.

jake sim and his smug face and his legal threats and the fact that this whole thing was so humiliating.

how the hell did he turn it around on you? curse those people who leaked you.

you were supposed to have the power. the upper hand. you were the one who had thousands of people laughing at his expense. you were the one whose posts got quoted like bible verses on stan twitter.

and now?

now you were alone, in his car, being driven to god knows where because he told you to.

you should've never fucking posted about his dick. you should've stayed anonymous. kept your mouth shut. deleted the pacifier post when it hit 10k notes.

the car slowed. you peeked out the window. it wasn't some mansion, like you feared. wasn't a dungeon either—at least you think so.

it was a private-looking building—modern, sleek, tucked down a quiet alley with a gated entrance. definitely expensive. definitely secluded.

you were dropped off at the curb. the driver didn't say anything—just nodded toward the front door.

you stepped out slowly, phone gripped tight in your hand, ready to fake an emergency call or scream if necessary.

a man, different from the driver, opened the front door. another silent guy in all black gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated, then followed him down a short hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, until you reached a door with a single number carved into it: 17.

he knocked once, then opened it.

you stepped in—and stopped.

jake was inside.

he was leaning casually against a wall, dressed in all black—hoodie, chain, jeans, hair tousled, like he hadn't even tried and still looked like a good.

he was scrolling on his phone when you entered, then looked up.

and grinned, "hey." he stops, letting his gaze travel down your trembling form, "glad you could make it, hate blogger."

you wanted to punch him. you wanted to turn around and leave. but most of all—you wanted to know what the hell came next.

and by the look on his face?

he was very ready to show you.

room 17 is quiet. too quiet.

you stand near the door, gripping the strap of your bag like it's your last line of defense. jake hasn't moved from his place against the wall, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. he looks too calm. like this is just some casual meetup and not the most batshit confrontation of your entire life.

"you still haven't told me why i'm here," you say finally, voice tight, trying to sound unbothered even though your throat is dry.

he doesn't answer right away. he just studies you, eyes flicking from your clenched fists to your shifting posture to the tiny, almost-invisible tremble in your knees.

then he lets out a soft little chuckle, the kind that feels mean. smug and quiet and condescending.

"you really don't know?" he asks, stepping away from the wall at last. his strides are slow, deliberate, like he knows you won't run—but that you should.

you take a step back automatically, bumping into the door behind you.

"if this is about suing me," you mutter, chin lifting defensively, "you could've just emailed your legal team. this whole drama king act—" "i'm not suing you." he cuts you off, voice calm but sharp. he walks past you and locks the door with a soft click. your stomach flips.

"then what the hell is this?" he turns back to you, expression unreadable, "this is about correction."

you blink, "what?"

"you posted things that were... inaccurate." he steps closer. you press yourself further into the door. "about me. my body. my performance. my preferences." another step. you swear you stop breathing, "so now i'm giving you a chance to see the truth."

you stare up at him, wide-eyed, "you're joking."

"does it look like i'm joking?" he murmurs.

you're momentarily speechless. your brain is whirring, trying to process what's happening. jake sim—international idol, global heartthrob, the man you've memed within an inch of his digital life—has dragged you to a private room to debunk his dick size?

you should laugh, but you can't.

because he's standing too close. because he's looking at you like prey. because his voice is dipped in amusement but his eyes are furious.

"you're out of your mind," you whisper, eyes wide and your jaw slacked.

he shrugs, "maybe."

his hand lifts, knuckles brushing your chin—just enough to make your breath catch.

"but you made this personal. you dragged it out. you turned it into a running gag." he leans down slightly, until your noses are nearly brushing. "and now you're gonna watch what happens when you say shit you can't back up."

your throat works around a swallow. your persona starts to crack.

still—you can't not be a brat.

"so what, you're gonna just pull your dick out like some frat boy in a scandal?" you snort. "you're so mad over a joke, you're—"

"baby," his voice cuts you off again, soft but dangerous.

"a joke is calling me clingy or annoying. a joke is editing me into a pink onesie." he steps even closer, "but accusing me of being a submissive pillow princess with a dick that couldn't break a hymen?" he tilts his head, mocking, "that's slander."

you flush. deeply, "you saw that post?"

"i've seen every post," he says coolly. "and the reblogs. and the tags. and the memes."

you suddenly feel so small. not because he's taller—though he is—but because you'd spent months building this image of jake sim as a joke. a punchline. a target.

and now he's right here. and he's pissed.

"you're really that bothered?" you ask, but your voice is quieter now, unsure. "bothered?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "sweetheart, i was obsessed." his hand lifts again, brushes your hair away from your face, fingers dragging a little too slow behind your ear.

"you don't understand what it's like to be degraded by someone who's too cowardly to even show their face." he pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips, "but i'll show you."

you swallow hard. "so what?" you ask, trying not to waver. "you want me to apologize? to... take it all back? post a formal retraction about your dick?"

he grins. slow and sharp, "nah."

"i want you to see it," he pauses, lets the words sink in. "and then i want to see the look on your face when you realize you were dead fucking wrong."

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. your heart is pounding so fast you think you might throw up. because there's teasing and there's joking and there's flirting with danger—but this? this is crossing the line, and you don't know if you want him to stop.

you laugh, it comes out breathy and nervous and completely unconvincing. "okay," you say, holding your hands up a little, trying to cut the tension with sarcasm, "haha, very funny. you got me. you've officially scared the shit out of me, and if that was your goal, congratulations."

jake just stands there. watching you. expression unreadable, unreadable and dark. you shift on your feet, trying to find a way out of this, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"look," you continue, "i'll take everything down, okay? every post. every meme. every stupid out-of-pocket caption." you swallow. "i'll issue an apology. hell, i'll write a thread. a whole google doc. whatever you want."

you inch away from the door, toward the side of the room, trying to put some space between you.

"i crossed a line. i get that now." you laugh again, weaker this time. "like—clearly."

jake still doesn't speak, he starts walking.

slow. silent. like a cat with its prey cornered.

your back hits the wall.

"i'll stop posting about you," you rush out, your heart beating frantically when you feel jake's breath fan against your cheek. "seriously. no more degrading content. no more jokes. you win, okay?" his palm hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud.

you freeze.

he leans in.

"i don't want a fucking apology," he murmurs, voice thick and low, the sound of it making your legs weaken. you try to hold his gaze, but it's hard when he's this close. when you can smell his cologne—clean and warm, like cedar and skin. when you can see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

"i want you to look at me," he says, "and admit you were wrong."

"i just did—" "no." his other hand comes up, fingers ghosting your chin, tilting it up. "not because you're scared. not because you think i'm gonna sue your ass. i want you to say it because you know."

you suck in a breath as his fingers graze your throat. not squeezing. not threatening. but claiming, staking a presence.

"you think i'm some submissive little pushover," he whispers, "who just lays there and takes it. soft. boring. harmless."

your heart pounds in your chest so loud you swear it echoes. "you think you own the narrative. that you get to decide who i am, what i'm like in bed, how big my fucking dick is."

you flinch at the way he says it, so vulgar and harsh it shoots straight to your core.

"but the second i show up—" his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "you're quiet. nervous. twitchy. like you already know you were talking out of your ass."

you suck in a shaky breath and try to bite back the heat that's crawling up your neck. "you're insane," you whisper, but there's no bite behind it.

his body is so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him. he hasn't even touched you properly and you already feel like your knees are going to give.

"what do you want from me?" you ask, voice barely holding together. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"i want to fuck the lies out of your mouth." his voice is so low, it vibrates down your spine. "i want you to choke on everything you said about me and realize i was never the one being dominated."

you let out a small, shaky sound—and that's when he finally kisses you.

not soft.

not slow.

possessive. like he's claiming what he's owed.

like he's trying to shove every insult back down your throat, one filthy kiss at a time.

your mind blanks the second his mouth claims yours. his tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you right where he wants you, and you feel it deep—too deep. like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage and brand himself there.

his kiss isn't gentle. it's punishment. all teeth and tongue, your back shoved harder into the wall as he presses against you. his body completely, deliberately dominating yours.

"still think i'm soft?" he growls against your lips when he pulls back, breath ragged, thumb digging into the underside of your chin to keep you looking at him.

you don't answer. you can't.

your mouth is open, panting, lips wet and swollen from how violently he just kissed you. your knees barely hold.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, and lower.

he smirks.

"you look scared," he says, tilting his head slightly. "thought you liked writing filthy shit about me. what happened to all that confidence?"

you swallow hard, still in absolute disbelief, "you're—you're actually insane."

"and you're actually still turned on." his hand drops to your hip, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him—and fuck. he's hard. painfully hard. pressing right against your lower stomach. and he knows you feel it.

your eyes widen. you try to squirm away but there's nowhere to go, your back hits the wall again and his thigh wedges between your legs.

"not so micro now, is it?" he breathes against your neck. you let out a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—and that's when jake loses it.

he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, other hand sliding beneath your shirt, grazing skin and pulling a shocked noise out of you. he doesn't give you room to breathe.

"say it," he growls. "say you were wrong."

you shake your head. still stubborn. still you.

"no?" he scoffs. "fine." his thigh presses harder between your legs, rocking up once. your clit throbbed pathetically at the feeling, it was just enough friction to make your eyes roll back. you try to keep your composure, but he watches your face change—watches your pride falter.

"don't lie to me, baby." his voice drops lower—hungrier. "you're dripping. over the same guy you dragged for months."

you gasp, trying to turn your face away from him, but he leans in again, his nose brushing your cheek.

"you gonna blog about this too?" he whispers. "tell your little followers how jake sim manhandled you and made you eat your words with his cock halfway down your throat?"

you whimper and it disgusts you how fast your body betrays you. how wet you already are. how much you want him to ruin you just to prove you were wrong.

and he can tell.

he sees the shift in your expression. how your resistance is slowly, deliciously, falling apart.

your wrists are still pinned, your breathing uneven, chest rising and falling fast as jake leans in like he owns the air around you.

"i'm done hearing you talk," he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "i think it's time you showed me just how sorry you really are."

he releases your hands and steps back. you don't move. your legs are trembling, your pride hanging on by a thread.

"on your knees," he says simply.

you scoff, arms folding defensively across your chest, "you can't be serious—"

he tilts his head, "i'm not asking again."

there's no loud threat. no yelling. just the terrifying calm of someone who already knows he's won. you hold your ground—barely. but something about the way he looks down at you, already palming the bulge in his jeans, makes your body respond before your mind does.

you sink, slowly. knees hitting the floor like it's a confession. he watches you with quiet satisfaction, like he's waited for this exact moment.

he had been dreaming about the moment he would get you to himself, on your knees—right where he wanted you.

"look at me," he says, and you do—eyes meeting his as he unzips, the sound ridiculously loud in the silence.

he's already thick in his hand when he pulls it out, and your mouth goes dry. you don't want to admit it, but fuck. it's big. way bigger than you ever gave him credit for. your throat tightens at the sheer weight of it, thick and flushed and veined.

his smirk deepens when he sees the way your eyes drop.

"what was that again?" he mocks, giving himself a slow stroke. "micro?"

you glare up at him, heat crawling up your neck. "i was clearly misinformed."

"say it properly."

you hesitate, his free hand tangles in your hair—firm, but not painful. just enough to tilt your face up toward him.

"say. it."

you grit your teeth, "i was wrong."

"about what?"

you groan. "about your dick. okay? you don't have a micro dick."

he raises an eyebrow, "that all?"

"it's big," you mutter, cheeks burning. "you made your point." he laughs—low and satisfied—and guides your face closer, "not yet."

you gasp when you feel his tip touch your cheek, he grins at your expression—feeling satisfied with your shock. he does a few experimental taps, dragging his length over your lips. you hold in a whine when he smears his pre cum over your bottom lip, almost as if he was applying lipgloss on you.

and then he pushes in.

there's no easing into it—he gives you the thick weight of his cock all at once, making you choke. your hands scrambling to grip his thighs as he holds you there, watching with dark, satisfied eyes.

"look at that," he murmurs. "mouth so full of me you can't even talk shit now." you gag again, but his grip stays steady, fingers flexing against the back of your head as he rocks his hips in slow, controlled thrusts. just enough to make you feel how deep he is and prove how wrong you were.

he could feel how warm your mouth was around him, basking in the feeling of not only pleasure but the satisfaction of shutting you up.

"this what you wanted?" he groans. "to see what i've been hiding in those pants you loved to degrade?"

you can't respond. not when he's using your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking every insult out of you with a punishing rhythm. spit drips from out of your mouth and onto your chin. tears prick at your eyes and yet—somewhere deep in your gut—you like it.

jake's grip on your hair gets stronger, the pain causing your jaw to slack as you continue to take his brutal pace. you could feel the head of his cock rub against the back of your throat, the force not strong enough to make you gag but enough to cause a stream of tears to run down your face.

your nose touched his pelvis with every thrust, indicating how deep he was going. "fuck. look at you, __. who knew cock being in your mouth is the only way to shut you up."

you whine at his words, looking up at him with pleading eyes—yet you didn't know what exacting you were begging for. you rub your thighs together in hopes for some temporary relief, the scene so lewd that you could feel yourself gush in your panties—holding in the urge to let your hands wander down to touch yourself.

jake looked down at you with hungry eyes, his lip twitching as his grip in your hair grew tighter with each thrust. he let low moans slip from his mouth every time his dick grazed the back of your throat.

"aren't you a dirty little whore.." jake drawls out, his chest heaving with pleasure when he notices how tightly you have your thighs clenched. "getting all worked up for someone you've publicly shat on for having the least sex appeal."

you moaned around him when suddenly he pushed your thighs apart with his foot, wedging his sneaker between your legs—giving you something to ease up the tension in your core.

you mewl when he pushed against your clit, almost urging you to grind down against him while he used your mouth to his hearts content. slowly, but surely—you allowed yourself to ground yourself against him. it sickened you how desperate you had become in just a span of a few minutes.

jake almost cums when he sees you move your hips, desperate for any kind of friction to relieve you from your throbbing clit.

the familiar feeling in his stomach begins to tighten, his grip on you becoming unforgiving as he loses self control and allows himself to push himself into your mouth as much as he could. his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly now, a mixture of his cum and your spit dribbling out of your mouth.

"f-fuck," he groans. "m'gonna cum.. you're gonna take it? yeah? take it in that bratty mouth, hm?" jake murmurs to what seems himself just before he combusts in your mouth. you swallowed a chocked moan when you feel his warm cum coat your mouth, gagging around him as he twitches.

jake felt as if he was on cloud 9, his head lulling to the side as he keeps your head planted where it is—ensuring that you swallow what he gave you fully.

when he finally pulls back, cock glistening with your spit and his cum, your jaw aches as you swallow the salty yet sweet taste of his release. your chest heaving like you've just survived something.

"mouth open and tongue out," he demands. you hesitantly open your mouth, your tongue out as you show him that you swallowed everything.

you whine out desperately when he slides his foot away, leaving you aching again. jake tsk's, "desperate slut."

he crouches down to your level, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth.

"still think i'm a pillow princess?" his voice is a little breathless now. dark and smug. "or you finally ready to admit you don't know shit about me?"

your throat still burns. your lips are swollen, coated in spit and shame, and jake's leaning over you like he's just getting started.

"on your feet."

you hesitate, still panting, still dazed from the way he fucked your mouth like it was owed to him. but something in his voice—firm, expectant—makes you move. your knees tremble as you rise.

jake doesn't give you time to adjust. the second you're upright, he steps in close, hands on your waist, guiding you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

you're pressed back against the mattress, thighs parted under his hands, still catching your breath from how rough he'd just been with your mouth. but instead of backing down, you do what you do best—deflect.

"look—how about this," you say, voice shaking but holding onto some scrap of cocky defiance. "i'll just say the blog was satire. irony. you know, performance art or something. no one has to know i meant any of it."

jake's expression doesn't change.

"or better yet—i'll make a new post trashing someone else. redirect the attention. easy." you flash a grin that's all teeth. "maybe i'll even throw in a little praise for you. balance it out."

he just blinks at you. slowly.

"you think you're negotiating right now?" his voice is calm, but the grip on your thighs tightens.

you blink. "i mean, i'm trying to be reasonable—"

"reasonable?" he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "you publicly dragged me for weeks. humiliated me. and now that you're caught, you want to rewrite the narrative?"

"i'm offering solutions—" "you're offering bullshit," he snaps, and in a second he's climbing over you, his body slotting between your legs like it was made to be there. "and you think you still have leverage? cute."

your breath hitches. your hands push at his chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them down again, harder this time—your body arching into him involuntarily.

"here's what's really gonna happen," he says, leaning in, nose brushing yours. "you're gonna try to flip this. act like you're still in control. try to turn the tables on me."

your throat tightens.

"but you won't. because the second you try, i'll remind you who made you beg. who had you gagging on the dick you said didn't exist." his voice drops lower, dangerous. "and then i'll ruin you all over again."

you glare up at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and defiance."you know what? fine." your voice is sharp, shaky. "you wanna play games? i'll play. let's see how fast you fold when i turn this around."

he raises an eyebrow. "is that right?" you reach down between your bodies—slow, deliberate—wrapping your hand around him. he's still hard. unfairly so. hot and heavy in your palm.

"maybe i was wrong about the size," you murmur, stroking him slow, his breath hitching. "but maybe you really are just a pillow princess. maybe you like being praised more than you like fucking."

his jaw ticks.

you press a kiss to his neck, voice a taunt against his skin. "what happens if i ride you instead? if i make you cum all over yourself."

he freezes.

"what if i write about that next?" you sit up dragging your tongue along the edge of his jaw. "'jake sim—big dick, zero stamina.' think the internet'll love that?"

you think you've got him.

until suddenly—he flips you.

you yelp, back hitting the mattress again as he rips your hand away from his cock and shoves your thighs up around his waist. the shift is fast, dominant, practiced.

"you really thought that'd work?" he's laughing now—mean, breathless, hungry. "thought you'd rile me up and get the upper hand? you forget who tracked you down and got you here in this room." his voice is pure venom now, thick with want. "who had you gagging and drooling on your knees while you fucked yourself on my shoes not even 5 minutes ago?"

his hands expertly yank off your jeans, his thumb hooked around the waistband of your baby pink cotton panties—teasing you. you writhe beneath him, but he doesn't budge—he presses into you, cock sliding between your clothed folds just to tease, just to show you what you don't get to control.

"you wanna test stamina?" he growls. "i'll fuck you 'til that smug little attitude disappears. 'til you're begging me to stop. 'til you're crying and calling me daddy."

you gasp—rage, arousal, panic blending in your gut—but you can't deny the throb between your legs. the way your body betrays your pride.

he feels it too.

his free hand runs up your sweater, your breath shaking as you feel him run his fingers up your stomach and make themselves comfortable on your tits. letting your hands go momentarily, he's yanking your sweater off and throwing it across the room.

"didn't know bratty girls like you wore baby pink. ruffles, lace trim—bows?" he grins, his hands playing with the frills of your bra as you twitch beneath him.

"fuck you," you spat out, voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. jake only smirks, his hand reaching up to pull the straps of your bra down—letting your tits fall out. "oh i will," and with that he's taking one of your nipples hostage in his mouth. his grip on your wrists stays planted, not allowing you to move or struggle against him when he nips at the sensitive skin of your breasts.

he switches from left to right for a few minutes, basking in your whimpers and mewls before he kisses down your stomach. pulling away he's back to being face to face with you, a smug look on his face before he plants a kiss to your jaw. the kiss turns into bites, nipping at your neck and chest as he leaves behind purple splotches.

"maybe you can post the marks i left and then bash me," jake grins against your skin. you roll your eyes in response only for jake to shoot you a look that says: behave.

he moves your underwear to the side, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. he runs his thumb through your slit, gathering your slick.

"so wet," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock against your slit. "guess your body knows who's in charge, even if your mouth doesn't." he slams into you—deep, all at once—and you scream.

no teasing now. no easing in. no prepping.

just punishment. just proof. just him, ruining you from the inside out like it's the only way to shut you up.

"gonna make you forget every insult," he grits, hips snapping into yours over and over. "gonna fuck the hate right outta you."

he could feel your velvet walls convulse, sucking him in like a vacuum as he thrusts into you. you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching, mind blurring. you hate how good it feels. how right.

"gonna ruin you," he whispers, lips at your neck. "and you're gonna thank me for it." his mouth traveling down to your tit to engulf one of your nipples once again.

your body jolts with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping and moans filling the room as you struggle to adjust to his girth.

you're still trembling when jake lifts your chin. his touch is deceptively gentle, but there's nothing soft in his expression. smug. commanding. dangerously patient.

"you still think you were right?" he asks lowly, voice scraping down your spine like velvet over steel. you blink up at him, lips parted, but your throat is dry. no sass now. not with the way your body's still recovering, knees weak, throat raw from every choked sound he pulled from you.

when you don't respond jake stops his movement, his hips go still as he simply stares down at you with a dark look in his eyes.

you were falling apart.

his cock was deep inside you, filling you so completely you couldn't even think straight— but jake wasn't moving. he just held you there, pinned beneath him, wrists trapped against the mattress, his hips grinding slow and mean against yours.

you whimpered, hips twitching up against him helplessly, desperate for more. he smirked down at you, cruel and smug, loving the way your body shook, the way your face twisted in frustration.

"what's wrong?" he murmured mockingly, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. "thought you'd be tougher than this."

you rationed with yourself for a moment, were you really going to beg? yes.

you tried to twist your wrists free but his grip only tightened. "please," you gasped out, tears welling in your eyes from how badly you needed to cum. "please, jake, i need it—"

he laughed, low and sharp, and snapped his hips forward once—deep and brutal—making you cry out. but then he stilled again, ignoring your desperate whines.

"you need it?" he repeated, pretending to think. "need my cock? need me to make you cum like the stupid little whore you are?"

your cheeks burned, shame rolling through you, but you nodded frantically.

"say it," he ordered, voice dropping, rough. you squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated, but the words still poured out.

"i need your cock," you sobbed. "please jake, please—i'll do anything, i'll be good, just let me cum—"

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied with himself.

"should've thought about being good before you started running your mouth online," he muttered, dragging his cock slow and deep inside you, making you arch and cry out.

you were shaking now—your whole body burning, every nerve stretched tight and ready to snap.

"you want it that bad?" he asked casually, grinding his hips just enough to make you sob.

"yes," you choked out. "please, jake—please, i need to cum, i can't—"

he grinned wickedly and finally, finally started fucking into you hard—deep, punishing thrusts that made you see stars. your walls clung onto how dick like a suction in attempt to milk him dry.

your moans spilled out loud and wrecked, your whole body bowing off the bed.

"good girl," he murmured darkly, "you're gonna cum when i say. not a second before." you nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. and when he finally, finally leaned down and growled, "cum for me, slut,"

you shattered.

you came so hard you were sobbing, spasming around him, your body giving out completely under his.

jake fucked you through it, laughing under his breath, dragging every last bit of pleasure and humiliation out of you until you were left shaking and gasping for air.

and even then, he wasn't done with you yet. he hadn't cum yet, and at the end of the day that's what you were here for—to be his little cum slut. you barely had time to breathe—your body still spasming from the orgasm he tore out of you before jake grabbed your hips and pulled you back down onto him, grinding even deeper.

you yelped, broken noises spilling out of your mouth, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"no," he snapped, voice sharp and final, one hand locking tight around your waist to keep you from moving. "you don't get to run."

your head lolled back, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body a twitching mess.

"too much," you sobbed, trembling violently.

he laughed—laughed—at your misery.

"too bad," he muttered against your ear. "you're not done." he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard, fast, merciless. your thighs shook, your nails dug into the sheets, your mouth fell open in helpless, gasping cries. you could feel yourself spiraling again—pain and pleasure tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"you think you're in control?" he grunted, slamming into you harder, making you scream. "you think you can say whatever you want about me and not pay for it?"

your whole body jolted with every thrust, the humiliation making your head spin.

"say it," he growled. "say you were wrong."

you whimpered, stubborn even now, biting down hard on your lip. he slowed down, grinding his cock against your sensitive walls in deep, deliberate circles that made you keen helplessly.

"say it," he repeated, cruel and low, "or i'll edge you until you're fucking crying."

your pride crumbled fast.

"i was wrong," you gasped out, voice cracking. he smirked, hips snapping forward again. "about what?"

you squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. "about—about your dick," you choked out. "i lied, you're big—you're fucking huge—"

he chuckled darkly, like he already knew. "good girl," he breathed, voice dripping with mockery. "what else?"

you shook your head frantically, body jerking with overstimulation. he pulled almost all the way out—your cunt squeezing around nothing— before slamming back in so brutally you cried out.

"what else?" he hissed against your throat.

"i—i'm just a stupid bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about," you sobbed, face burning hot.

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied, so cruel.

"that's right," he murmured. "a stupid little whore who can't stop begging for the cock she said was too small."

you whimpered, broken, humiliated beyond repair. and still—your body clung to him, desperate for more. you realized with a sick twist in your gut that you would do anything—say anything—just to have him fuck you harder.

and jake knew it too.

he leaned down close, mouth brushing yours cruelly.

"beg," he whispered. "beg me to ruin you."

you could barely think. your body was burning, trembling, stretched tight around him— your mind a broken mess of shame and need. and still jake kept fucking you deep, rough, relentless.

his hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, your throat, your jaw—manhandling you like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

you whimpered when he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him.

"beg," he ordered again, voice dark, breathless with lust. "beg me to ruin you, slut."

you shook your head at first, a broken little sob tearing from your throat. he growled low, slammed into you even harder—your back arching, a scream ripping from your lips.

"you don't get to say no," he hissed. "you wanted this." tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling violently.

"please," you gasped out, the word slipping before you could even think. "please jake..ruin me, use me. fuck me however you want—"

he laughed, so fucking smug, dragging his cock out slow just to make you whine. "good fucking girl," he murmured. "finally learning your place."

you babbled desperate nonsense, sobbing into the sheets, your pride shattered into dust.and jake fucked you through it all—using you like a fleshlight, pounding into you until your legs gave out, until your voice was wrecked and broken.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he sneered, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a sting. "to get fucked dumb? to get put in your place like the stupid little whore you are?"

you nodded frantically, gasping, sobbing, brain completely mush. "can't even speak anymore," he muttered, mocking. "just a cockdrunk mess." your nails clawed helplessly at the sheets, your cunt squeezing him so tight he groaned.

you felt another orgasm building—sharp, unbearable—but you were too gone to even ask permission. you just sobbed and gasped and let him take everything from you.

"yeah, that's right," he growled, voice thick with pleasure. "cum all over my cock, slut. make a fucking mess."

you shattered, your whole body convulsing around him, screaming his name like a prayer, a curse, a broken confession. and jake fucked you through it, dragging every last bit of your pride and resistance out of you, until there was nothing left but a crying, ruined mess on his cock.

you were shaking. your body was limp, wrecked, trembling under the weight of everything he made you feel.

and jake still wasn't satisfied.

he kept moving, grinding his cock deep inside your overstimulated cunt—mocking every broken sob that fell from your lips.

"what's wrong?" he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "too much?"

you could only whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he grabbed your face again, rough, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his.

"you wanted to run your mouth so bad," he sneered. "now you can fucking thank me." your brain barely processed the words, too fogged with shame and pleasure. he slapped your cheek lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back.

"say it," he barked. "say thank you."

you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"th-thank you," you stammered, voice barely a whisper.

he smirked, cruel and satisfied.

"louder," he ordered, snapping his hips forward viciously, making you cry out. "thank you!" you sobbed, your voice hoarse and broken.

he chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down your throat, pressing lightly just enough to make your head spin.

"thank me for ruining you," he muttered, rolling his hips slow and deep, dragging another helpless moan from your lips.

your pride was turned into ash, your mind gone.

"thank you for ruining me," you gasped out, shaking uncontrollably, completely destroyed. he groaned, clearly getting off on how ruined you were—your body slack, twitching, drooling, your cunt spasming weakly around him.

"pathetic," he muttered against your ear. "look at you." you could feel how wet and messy everything was—your thighs sticky, the sheets underneath you soaked.

and still—still—he wasn't finished.

"gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice rough with the effort of holding back. "gonna fuck you so full you'll be leaking for days."

you sobbed, the humiliation sinking deeper into your bones.

"please," you whispered, because you didn't know what else to say anymore. he grunted low in his chest, thrusting faster, chasing his release. he could feel that familiar tinge in his stomach, he was close.

"such a good little cumdump," he growled. "just a hole for me to use." you broke again, another weak orgasm rolling through your abused body.

and jake finally spilled inside you—deep, hot, filling you up exactly like he promised.

he didn't pull out immediately. he stayed pressed deep, making sure you felt every drop. when he finally did pull out, you collapsed completely, a ruined, twitching, crying mess.

and jake just chuckled, so fucking smug. running his fingers down your slit before plugging your fluttering hole, making sure that his cum stays in you for as long as it could.

"maybe next time you'll think twice before running your mouth about me," he said, releasing your wrists before he gets off the bed. he left you there, spread open, dripping, humiliated beyond repair.

and you realized with a sick twist of your gut— you liked it.

you fucking loved every humiliating second of it.

✎﹏﹏

your body aches.

not in the romantic, soft-lit, post-orgasm kind of way.

no. it's raw. it's degrading. it's embarrassing.

your legs are trembling so badly you have to lean on the sink just to stay upright. your thighs sticky, sore. your throat dry and stretched thin from the pathetic, wrecked sounds he pulled out of you.

you yank your clothes back on as fast as your shaking hands allow, muttering curses under your breath. you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. because you know what you'll see: the ruined, wrecked version of yourself jake created.

and you hate him.

you hate how smug he looks when you finally stumble back into the room—hair mussed, shirt untucked, standing like he didn't just break you open with nothing but his cock and his fucking mouth. you hate how he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that says he's already won.

you hate that he was right.

and you really, really hate that you liked it.

you roll your shoulders back, force yourself to stand straight even if your body is begging you to drop.

"that what you wanted?" you rasp out, voice wrecked and scratchy. "you win. congrats. want a trophy or something?"

jake doesn't say a word. he just watches. calm. amused. smug.

and it pisses you off. burns you alive from the inside.

"you got what you wanted. you ruined my pride," you snarl, stepping closer even though your knees are ready to give. "so what now? supposed to kneel and thank you? beg you to keep ruining me?"

he cocks his head slightly, lips twitching.

you hate how unbothered he looks. you hate it so much it makes you reckless.

"you don't actually believe i meant all that, right?" you spit. "you really think i meant it when i said you're big? when i cried about how good you fucked me?"

you scoff, shaking your head with a cold, sharp laugh.

"you're pathetic. you got played because i moaned a little."

and that's when everything shifts.

because jake steps forward—smooth, controlled—grabbing your jaw so hard you gasp, slamming your back against the wall without even looking like he's trying. his face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes dark and furious.

"still lying?" he murmurs.

your heart pounds wildly. you try to twist away but his grip on your jaw tightens, bruising.

"you begged for my cock," he hisses, thumb dragging across your trembling bottom lip. "you fucking cried for it. and you're gonna stand there and lie to my face?"

you choke on your words, humiliation pouring down your spine in cold waves.

he laughs bitterly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "guess you really are as dumb as you look."

you flinch.

and jake leans in closer, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanna pretend you're still in control?" he taunts, dragging his fingers down your throat slow, almost tender. "you wanna act like you didn't cum so fucking hard you couldn't even say my name?"

you tremble.

but you don't back down—not yet. pride and fear tangled up, keeping you frozen.

he chuckles darkly.

"fine," he says, voice a low threat. "i'll remind you."

his hand snakes between your thighs, shoving your jeans down again, your underwear dragging with it, baring you completely in seconds. you gasp, struggling—but he's too strong, too fast. he grabs you by the hips, throws you onto the bed like you're weightless.

and then he's on you.

he presses your wrists to the mattress with one hand again, his weight pinning you down, his other hand roughly forcing your legs apart.

you barely have time to gasp before he's inside you again—deep, brutal, fucking the defiance out of you one savage thrust at a time.

you cry out, throat raw. he fucks you like he's furious, every slam of his hips meant to punish. "not so fucking smug now, huh?" he pants against your ear.

you whimper, broken sounds spilling out without permission.

"what happened to all that fake confidence, princess?" he mocks, rolling his hips harder, forcing your body to take every inch. "thought you said you could handle it."

you sob, writhing under him, but he doesn't let up. he leans down, dragging his teeth across your jaw, making you shudder helplessly.

"gonna make you beg again," he growls. "gonna make you say it like you fucking mean it."

you try to shake your head—but you're drowning. he's everywhere. he's everything. and no matter how much you try to cling to your pride, it crumbles between your shaking hands.

you're crying now—humiliated tears streaking down your flushed face—as he pounds into you mercilessly.

"please," you choke out, voice cracking.

he chuckles, cruel and satisfied.

"please what, baby?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to a deep, punishing grind that makes your whole body twitch and seize.

"please," you sob again, shame burning you alive. "please let me cum."

he leans back slightly to look at you—hair a mess, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"you don't deserve to cum," he says, voice mocking. "whores who lie don't get rewards."

you whimper, hips stuttering against his, desperate, broken.

"but," he adds slowly, almost lazily, "if you beg real nice... maybe i'll consider it."

you sob harder, pride shattered into dust. and then—you beg.

you beg like a good little whore.

"please, jake," you cry, voice wrecked and hoarse. "i need it—i need to cum—please, please—"

he grins, dark and cruel, and finally—finally—lets you fall apart again, your body convulsing, cunt clenching around him helplessly as he fucks you through the brutal, soul-crushing orgasm. and you barely have a second to breathe before he's moving again—pulling out, grabbing your face in both hands, forcing your mouth open.

"open wide," he orders.

you're so wrecked you don't even think to disobey. you just open—lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

and jake leans over—spits straight into your mouth, thick and wet and humiliating.

you gag slightly, tears burning your eyes.

"swallow," he commands sharply.

you do.

you obey without even thinking.

and he smirks—grabbing his phone, flipping open the recording he just made of your pathetic begging, letting you hear it on loop while you lie there ruined, body trembling, throat raw.

he tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. "remember this next time you wanna talk shit," he says, voice low and smug.

he kisses you—mocking and possessive—and leaves you there: used, wrecked, humiliated, and so thoroughly owned that you can't even pretend anymore.

jake sim ruined you and there's no taking it back.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

3K notes · View notes

ama3003 · 2 months ago

Text

In the Middle

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: Being caught in the middle is always hard.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!! I have seen Thunderbolts* on Thursday (amazing btw) and have been craving Thunderbolts!Bucky. Also reader is like mid to late 20s.

Also double whammy with these fics. Also thank you those who requested some fics. I'm getting on them right now. Keep em coming!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

“I cannot believe this dude,” Sam says, pacing the living room like it personally offended him. His hands are moving almost as fast as his mouth. “I tell him Ross wants me to rebuild the Avengers, right? I open up—I mean really open up. I tell him I’m not sure I’m the guy for it. That maybe Steve made a mistake giving me the shield.”

He stops mid-step and points dramatically in the air, like he's building up his case.

“And you know what Bucky says? ‘No, he didn’t.’ That’s it. No discussion. Just—‘No, he didn’t.’ Point. Blank. Period. And I'm not gonna lie, that's all I needed to hear."

You open your mouth to say something, but Sam’s already spinning toward you.

“And I believed him! I believed him because I thought he was my best friend.”

"Hey!" you cut in, brows raised.

Sam waves you off. “Nah, nah—don’t ‘hey’ me. You know you’re like my sister. Ultimate mega best friend status and all that, but not the point right now. Lemme vent about your ugly boyfriend real quick.”

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you!” Sam claps once, then starts pacing again. “Then I find out there’s already a ‘New Avengers’—capital N, capital A—already up and running. And guess who’s right in the middle of it? Bucky! Like I wasn’t gonna find out!”

He stops again, staring at you like it’s your fault. “You know what I call that? Betrayal.” He jabs the air for emphasis. “Straight-up betrayal.”

You’re sitting on the sofa, letting him work through it. Honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Bucky had called not ten minutes ago to talk about—of all things—the copyright on the Avengers name.

Now Sam wants to sue them.

“Fourteen months,” Sam says, voice rising, “of back-and-forth with this man and his ‘new family.’ You remember what we went through? What he went through? Guess what? We were his family first. And now he’s calling me like I’m the one stepping on toes? Like I’m in the wrong for trying to do what Ross asked me to do?”

“He told you to back off?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Sam gives you a long-suffering look. “He wants me to give him the rights of the name."

"So it didn't end well..." You sighed, rubbing your temples.

"Y/N… if I’m venting like this, how do you think the call went?”

You try to offer something. “Can’t you just… I don’t know. Combine the teams? Be the MegaVengers or something? Steve literally said ‘Avengers, assemble’ and there were like a thousand people who showed up. We all kind of worked together then.”

Sam looks horrified. “No. No combining. It’s not about numbers—it’s about principle. That man knew what this meant to me. And now he’s trying to sidestep it like it’s nothing.”

He crosses his arms and looks at you with purpose. “You need to talk to him. Get him to step back.”

You shake your head. “Nope. Not getting in the middle of this.”

You meant it. You’ve known Sam for years—he was your ride-or-die, your day-one, the brother you got to choose. But through Sam, you met Bucky. And he became your favorite person. You were in between your best friend and the love of your life.

You learned about the ‘New Avengers’ team at the same time Sam did. The two of you had stared at the screen in disbelief.

But after hours of yelling at Bucky—tears, arguments, explanations—you got it. You understood that he hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. That Valentina made moves he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t betrayed you… not intentionally.

Still, the line between intention and impact? That’s where Sam lived.

He stares at you for a moment, then reaches into his jacket and hands you a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” you ask, skimming it. Then you stop. Your eyes widen.

“I want you to join my team,” he says simply. “The new Avengers.”

Your jaw drops. “Sam…”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says quickly. “You really think I’d build a team without you? Come on. We’ve never not been on a team together.”

“Sam, I… I can’t sign this,” you say, handing the paper back. “You know I can’t.”

He rolls his eyes. “You can. You should. Y/N, I’ve already started recruiting. I’ve got a plan, but I need my right hand. I need you.”

You stand, walking toward him. “And I can’t go against Bucky.”

He exhales sharply, then softens. “Just… think about it, okay? I don’t need a yes right now. Just don’t say no yet.”

“Sam…”

“Think about it,” he says again, looking at his watch. “Ugh—venting session’s over. Gotta go pitch Ross on the plan. Wish me luck.”

He leans in, presses a quick kiss to your cheek, "Please think about it," and walks out the door.

You sit back down, staring at the paper. Then you run a hand through your hair, heart pounding.

A few quiet moments pass.

Then you grab your bag and head straight for the other tower.

*****

“James Buchanan Barnes—you are in so much trouble.”

Your voice echoed through the tower as you dropped your bag with a thud. The team—scattered around the lounge doing everything from eating chips to watching TV—immediately snapped to attention.

A chorus of "Ooooooh!" broke out like a middle school lunchroom.

Bucky stood up fast, hands already in the air like he was facing down a SWAT team. “Okay, doll, don’t be mad.”

You marched forward, hands on your hips. “Don’t be mad? You asked Sam to drop the Avengers name.”

“He’s suing us!” Bucky shot back, already defensive. “We had the name first! Val got the jump on it—we just made it official.”

He crossed his arms like a stubborn teenager. Behind him, his teammates exchanged exasperated looks, a few shaking their heads like, here we go again.

“Are you both five?” you snapped. “You need to talk. Face to face. Not through lawyers. Not through phones. Like actual adults.”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Bucky muttered. “And honestly, I don’t want to see him either.”

He tried to hold his glare, but it faltered when he looked at you. He could see it written all over your face: this was tearing you up. And he hated that he’d played a part in it.

“I saw Sam today,” you said quietly. “He asked me to join his team.”

The room fell completely silent. Even Yelena put down her snack.

Bucky blinked. “And… what’d you say?”

“I told him no. For now. But he asked me to think about it.”

Bucky scoffed like that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Think about it? What’s there to think about? You’re not joining them.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Every single person in the room physically cringed. Even Red Guardian mouthed oh no.

“You’re not serious right now,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Did you just try to tell me what to do?”

“I’m saying Sam’s being irrational,” Bucky argued, digging his own grave. “He’s suing us, Y/N. You can’t join them. That’s not how this works.”

You stepped toward him, fire in your eyes. “He’s not being irrational. He’s hurt, Bucky. He thinks you betrayed him. And the truth? Even if it wasn’t on purpose—you kind of did.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I get it,” you added, softer now. “He shouldn’t have filed a lawsuit. It’s messy. But this—this whole thing—is a disaster. And you’re both too stubborn to fix it.”

Bucky slowly reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I never wanted to put you in the middle of this. I just... I won’t give up on this team.”

You let him hold you, but your heart was heavy. “I know,” you whispered, then gave him a small kiss. “But I can’t keep being the bridge between you two.”

He pulled back, looking at you. “Then don’t be. Move in with me. You said you were thinking about it. And hell, you could just join us too. We’d be unstoppable.”

You stepped back, blinking. “Are you seriously asking me to join your team right after I told you Sam asked me the same thing? Are you kidding me, Bucky?”

“Not cool,” Yelena muttered, earning a death glare from Bucky.

Then your phone rang—loud and dramatic. Mariah Carey’s voice filled the room. You groaned and answered.

“What, Sam?”

“Figured you were over there,” he said. “So I’ll keep it short. Ross and I have a few new recruits saying yes already. We might fast-track things. So I need an answer. ASAP.”

“You gave me thirty minutes—”

“Thirty minutes for what?” Bucky leaned in, practically pressing his ear to your phone.

“Would you stop?” you muttered, pushing him back.

“Is that Barnes?” Sam asked over the line. “Yo, Barnes—fuck you.”

Bucky blinked. “What did he just say?”

You sighed. “He said—”

“I said fuck you,” Sam shouted, louder this time.

You snapped.

“That’s it!” you barked, stepping between the two of them. “Both of you, shut up.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“I am so done being in the middle of your pissing contest,” you said, voice shaking now. “You used to be a family. We used to be a family. And you two are tearing it apart like a couple of overgrown toddlers.”

Bucky looked like he’d been slapped. Sam was silent on the other end.

“You know what’s really messed up?” you added. “You both say you love me, you both trust me—but you’re trying to make me pick between you. And I won’t. I won’t.”

Everyone was still, barely breathing.

Then Sam, faint over the phone: “Wait… Did Barnes ask you to join the FAKEngers?”

“We’re the real Avengers, for the record,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh my god,” you said, throwing your hands up. “I’m done. Until you both grow up and get your shit together, I’m out. I’m not picking sides.”

You turned, grabbed your bag, and stormed toward the door.

“Wait—what do you mean?” Bucky called, chasing after you.

You turned back, pointing between him and your phone. “I love you, Bucky. And Sam—you’re my brother. But if you two can’t stop acting like enemies, then you don’t get to have me caught in the crossfire.”

And with that, you hung up the call and walked out.

Back in the room, Walker slowly picked up the paper. “Ouch,” he said, wincing. “Don’t you just hate when they walk away?”

Yelena smacked him in the head. “You’re not helping.”

***********

It had been a few days since everything exploded—and both Sam and Bucky were unraveling in their own ways.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it: the quiet ache where you used to be. The texts left on read. The silence that said more than any shouting match ever could.

Eventually, they both found themselves doing the same thing—sitting alone, staring at their phones, thumbs hovering over each other's names.

Bucky sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and hit the contact.

Sam’s phone lit up. He stared at the screen for a long second before finally answering.

“Barnes,” Sam said flatly.

“Wilson,” Bucky replied, just as dry.

A beat.

Then Bucky exhaled. “I miss her.”

Sam’s voice was quieter this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another pause.

“We gotta fix this,” Bucky said. “This whole thing… it’s not worth losing her over.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam agreed. “We should talk. In person. Try to settle this."

“Tomorrow?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s good.”

“Alright.”

“Cool.”

“…Fine.”

They hung up.

No apologies yet. Not out loud.

But it was a start.

Maybe this whole MegaVengers idea wasn’t so bad after all.

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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 2 months ago

Note

rafe x pouge!reader trying to have sex but their kid keeps interrupting

❛ GETTING DISTRACTED DURING SEX ❜

pogue¡mom¡reader . . . dad¡rafe cameron

You’re pressed tight against Rafe in the quiet of your bedroom, the heat of his bare chest under your hands sending a thrill through your body.

His lips are on your neck, hot and deliberate, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that makes you bite back a gasp. Your fingers trace the hard lines of his shoulders, nails digging in just enough as you tug at the waistband of his boxers, the air heavy with the desperate edge of a moment you’ve been chasing all day.

The kids—your six-year-old twins, Ellie and Max, and the two-year-old, Luca—are finally asleep after an exhausting evening of tantrums, bedtime stories, and one spilled cup of milk.

This is your first chance to be alone, and the need for each other is palpable, crackling in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

“Missed you so fuckin’ much,” Rafe murmurs, voice low and rough, vibrating against your skin as his hands slide under your tank top, fingers grazing the curve of your waist, possessive yet careful.

You arch into him, breath hitching, your lips brushing his jaw as you feel him, hard and ready, pressing against you through the thin fabric.

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-desperate, your hands fumbling to push your shorts down. “That’s all we’ve got before someone wakes up.” His chuckle is dark, promising, as he helps you, his fingers quick and eager, the heat between you spiking fast.

You’re just starting to lose yourself in him, your body melting under his touch, when a small, plaintive voice cuts through the haze. “Mommy!” It’s Ellie, her footsteps pattering down the hall, the bedroom door creaking open before you can even react.

You freeze, Rafe’s hands stilling on your hips, both of you holding your breath as your daughter stands there, clutching her stuffed bunny, eyes bleary with sleep.

Rafe’s head drops to your shoulder, a frustrated sigh escaping him as you pull back, heart still racing. “Ellie, baby, what’s up?” you ask, sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of her, smoothing her messy hair. Your skin’s still flushed, your body screaming for Rafe, but you force a calm smile.

“Bad dream,” she mumbles, lip trembling. “Monsters again.” You glance back at Rafe, who’s sitting up now, running a hand through his hair, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“No monsters, kiddo,” he says, voice softer but with that familiar edge. “We checked, remember?” He swings his legs over the bed, tugging on a t-shirt, and you shoot him an apologetic look as you guide Ellie toward the door.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” you say, taking her hand, your body still buzzing with unspent desire. You mouth sorry to Rafe, who just smirks, leaning back on his elbows like he’s already plotting how to pick up where you left off.

It takes longer than you’d like—Ellie needs a story, then a hug, then a promise to leave the hall light on.

When you finally slip back into the bedroom, closing the door with a soft click, Rafe’s waiting, sprawled across the bed, eyes locking onto you with that same hungry glint.

“She good?” he asks, voice low, already reaching for you as you climb onto the bed, your heart kicking up again.

“Yeah,” you whisper, straddling his lap, your hands finding his chest, the heat of him reigniting that ache inside you. “Where were we?”

You lean down, kissing him, slow and deep, his hands sliding up your thighs, pulling you closer until you can feel him again, the tension snapping back into place like no time has passed.

You’re just about to tug his boxers down, your fingers grazing the waistband, when the baby monitor crackles to life.

Luca’s wail pierces the air, sharp and insistent, and you both go still, the moment shattering. Rafe lets out a low, incredulous laugh, his head dropping back against the pillow. “You’re shittin’ me,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You can’t help but giggle, even as your body protests, the interruption almost absurd. “My turn,” you say, starting to slide off him, but Rafe catches your wrist, pulling you back.

“Nah, I got it,” he says, rolling out of bed, adjusting himself with a grimace. “Kid’s got my timing, I swear.” He grabs a pair of sweatpants, glancing back at you. “Stay right there. We ain’t done.”

You flop back against the pillows, half-laughing, half-sighing, your body still thrumming with need. The house is quiet again, save for Rafe’s low, soothing voice through the monitor, calming Luca with a murmured,

“Easy, buddy, you’re good.” You close your eyes, trying to hold onto the spark, but the weight of the day tugs at you, the constant interruptions a reminder of your life now.

When Rafe finally slips back into the room, closing the door softly, you’re propped up on your elbows, watching him. He looks tired but determined, his eyes glinting with that relentless drive you’ve always loved.

“Luca’s down,” he says, crawling over you, his lips hovering over yours. “Now, where were we?”

You smile, pulling him down, your kiss hungry, desperate, his hands less patient now, tugging your tank top over your head as you fumble with his sweatpants. The need is sharper, more urgent, and you’re just about to give in completely, his weight pinning you to the mattress, when—

“Mommy, I need water!” Max this time, his voice muffled but insistent from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable thud of his little feet.

Rafe freezes, a low laugh rumbling in his chest as he presses his forehead to your collarbone. “We’re cursed,” he mutters, and you laugh, the sound bubbling up despite the frustration coursing through you.

“I’ll go,” you say, still giggling, pushing at his chest. “Get him water before he wakes Ellie.” You slip out from under him, grabbing a robe and tying it around yourself, your body still tingling, your heart pounding from the nearness of him.

As you head down the hall, glass in hand for Max, you hear Rafe flop back onto the bed with a dramatic groan. You settle Max quickly, his sleepy request for “just one sip” turning into a negotiation about leaving the cup on his nightstand.

When you finally return, Rafe’s waiting, propped against the headboard, one arm behind his head, his eyes tracking you like a predator. The air shifts, heavy with intent, as you let the robe fall, climbing onto the bed.

“No more interruptions,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, as he pulls you onto his lap, his hands gripping your hips. “Lock the fucking door.” You laugh, reaching for the lock, your body already responding to his touch, the promise of what’s coming hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

𓂅 taglist ― @littlelamy @dollyfiles @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt @urcoolgf @camercns

return home ⸝⸝

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littlegochu · 27 days ago

Text

hold me tight │ jjk 18+

"I never stopped loving you."

Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers

rating: 18+, fluff w smut.

synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."

Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.

Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.

Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.

“Maybe,” you start, voice light and sweet, “the reservation can wait.”

You round the corner into the bedroom, heels in hand, lips slightly parted at the sight in front of you.

Black dress shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tattoos. Silver watch, subtle chain. Hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try.

He glances up from the mirror.

Smirks.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, walking over, eyeing your dress like he wants to ruin it.

You loop your arms around his neck lazily, standing on your toes. “You just look so good, baby. It feels wrong to let anyone else see you like this.”

Jungkook chuckles, low and rough, hands finding your hips like instinct.

“Pretty sure you’ve seen me look better.”

You pout. “Not recently.”

His brow lifts. “That right?”

Before you can answer, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you down on the kitchen counter with a grunt of satisfaction.

Your breath catches.

He steps between your legs, crowding your space, lips ghosting over yours.

“We have all day, baby,” he murmurs, voice a little rough. “I’m all yours.”

You fake a whine. “You’re teasing.”

He grins, kisses your cheek, your jaw, then finally your lips. “Maybe.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper into his mouth: “Ten minutes.”

He pulls back just enough to grin. “Dinner first. Then I’ll give you all the time you want.”

The sunset hits just right — golden and warm, spilling over the skyline like it’s bending just for you. String lights sway gently above your heads, casting soft glows on silverware and champagne flutes. The city buzzes somewhere below, muffled by height and distance, replaced by the quiet clink of plates and the lull of soft jazz floating through the speakers.

Sitting in Le Morte— the restaurant his parents gave to him on his 21st birthday. The same restaurant where he asked you to be his girlfriend, the same tiny restaurant you both promised his parents to build up to success. Now, it's a beautiful restaurant sitting at the top of the tallest towers in South Korea.

You sit across from Jungkook, candlelight flickering between you, and he looks—

God. He looks unreal.

Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, collar loose. Gold chain sitting just at the base of his throat. One arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other lazily stirring the ice in his drink like he has all the time in the world.

But his eyes are locked on you.

The whole time.

Not just glancing. Not just admiring. Watching you like he’s soaking in every second. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your lip gloss catches the light, or how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh too hard.

“Stop,” you murmur, cheeks warm from the wine. “You’re staring.”

His smile is crooked. Intimate. Like it’s just for you.

“Let me,” he says softly. “Might not get to do it like this again.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, fingers rubbing gently at the base of his glass. The sunset behind him catches the glint of something silver in his palm.

A small box.

Your breath stops.

You freeze.

He stands up.

“I was gonna wait until dessert,” he says, voice low but certain. “But I can’t. Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve been carrying this for months.”

The world quiets.

He drops to one knee.

Your heart stumbles.

“You’re it for me,” he says. “Even when I’m loud. Even when I’m wrong. Even when I piss you off and leave dishes in the sink. I want you. I want lazy mornings and midnight drives and grocery trips with a shared cart and matching house keys.”

Your eyes are already burning.

“So marry me. Let me wake up next to you for the rest of my life. Let me be yours, fully, finally, forever.”

He opens the box.

A silver ring. Simple. Elegant. Yours.

You cover your mouth, tears slipping before you can stop them. And your voice shakes as you whisper, “Yes.”

He lets out a breathy laugh like he was holding it in for hours.

You stand. He grabs your waist and pulls you into him — tight, full-body, arms around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He kisses you.

Slow. Certain. Familiar.

And when you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you smiling through tears.

“Told you I’d give you forever,” he whispers.

You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.

The ring is still snug on your finger, your heels are kicked off, and he’s kissing you like the air in his lungs depends on you.

Your back hits the wall. His hands are everywhere — one at your waist, one sliding up your thigh, slow and sure and possessive like he’s already memorized every inch.

But it’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s deliberate.

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You look so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.

You whisper, “You’re shaking.”

He swallows hard. Smiles, a little unsteady.

“I’m in love. Give me a break.”

You reach for him — fingertips curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

And he lets you.

Lets you tug him down. Onto the couch. Into you.

He kisses you like a prayer, like a secret, like a man terrified and overwhelmed and deeply, undeniably yours.

His hands are slow.

His mouth is reverent.

Every inch he touches feels claimed, branded, held.

“Say it again,” he whispers as his nose grazes your collarbone.

“What?”

“That you’re mine.”

Your voice breaks against his shoulder. “I’m yours.”

And he breathes out the quietest, most broken “Good.”

His lips press into the crook of your neck, soft at first, barely there — like he's grounding himself. Like he needs to feel you just to believe you're real. His breath is warm, shaky against your skin. You can feel the smile in it. The ache, too.

You exhale slowly, hand threading through the hair at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the undercut.

He kisses your collarbone. Then again. And again. Slower. Lower.

Your dress slips off one shoulder. His mouth follows the exposed skin like it’s his path home. His hands — warm, steady — trace your hips like he’s reminding himself you said yes.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the top of your chest. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “You already have me.”

He leans back just enough to look at you — really look — and the way he stares makes you forget how to breathe.

Like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

His thumb grazes your jaw, then your bottom lip, slow and reverent.

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

Before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time, hungry but restrained, like he’s savoring it. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him instinctively, your body already arching into him like it knows its place.

He lifts you without warning, hands gripping the backs of your thighs, walking you toward the bedroom like he’s done it a hundred times — but tonight it feels different.

Charged. Worshipful. Final, somehow.

He lays you down like you're made of glass.

Then he follows.

His weight settles between your legs, but it’s not heavy — it’s perfect. Warm. Familiar.

His kisses slow. Dragging. Like he wants to memorize how you taste.

You feel his hand slide down your side, slipping under your dress, skimming the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches.

You shake your head, voice breathy. “Don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” His eyes darken. “You want me to take my time with you?”

You nod.

And he does.

The dress comes off inch by inch — not rushed, not desperate. Like unwrapping something sacred. His eyes never leave you, like if he blinks, he’ll lose you.

Your back arches when his mouth moves lower, slow kisses across your chest, your ribs, the dip of your stomach. His hands are warm and sure, holding your waist, smoothing over your skin like he’s trying to learn every inch by feel.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, voice almost shaky. “You always have been.”

Your chest clenches. Because the way he says it—so full of awe, of devotion—it sounds like he’s been waiting his whole life just to tell you.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed. It’s slow. Deep. Everything.

You cling to him — arms around his shoulders, nails lightly digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist — because it feels too good. Too full. Too much.

He moans into your neck, low and guttural, breath hot against your skin.

“This… you… this is it for me,” he murmurs, hips rolling deeper, like he can’t get close enough.

Your eyes blur. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer.

Every stroke is steady. Intimate. The rhythm building slow, like he's not just trying to make you come—he’s trying to mark you. Remember you.

And when it finally crests—when you cry out and he groans your name like it’s carved into his lungs—he holds you through it.

Shaking. Pressing kisses to your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his hand softly stroking your side.

“I love you, my wife.” he whispers.

“We’re done.”

You don’t yell. You don’t have to.

The silence between you and Jungkook splits open the second the words leave your mouth.

“We’re fucking done.”

He’s frozen where he stands — barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He just got out of the shower. His hair’s still damp, clinging to his forehead. He looks… normal. Relaxed.

Like he’s not about to lose everything.

Like he has no fucking clue.

Your hand is trembling as you hold your phone out, the screen still glowing. His name is highlighted in the thread of messages, half-jokes and ego and the kind of careless boyish cruelty you never thought could come from him.

[Taehyung]: “Yo, you actually gonna do it?” [Jungkook]: “Already started. She’s cute. This’ll be easy.” [Namjoon]: “Bet you 200 she falls for you first.” [Jungkook]: “Watch me make her say I love you.”

Your voice trembles. “How long?”

He doesn’t answer.

You swallow, hard. “How long were they laughing at me?”

He takes a step forward and you step back, heart racing, breath caught.

“Y/N,” he says, quietly. “I can explain—”

“No. Don’t.” Your throat tightens so suddenly it almost chokes you. “You don’t get to look at me like that right now.”

He blinks like he’s been slapped.

“I wore your ring for two months,” you whisper. “Two months I’ve been waking up beside you, loving you, planning forever with you—while your friends texted you behind my back, congratulating you for playing me.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it?” The crack in your voice finally splits open. “What the fuck was I to you, Jungkook? Some prize? A challenge?”

He flinches like it physically hurts.

“It started as a dare, we were young,” he says, voice low, ashamed. “I was drunk. It was stupid. But the second I actually got to know you—”

“Stop.”

“—I fell so fucking hard, Y/N.”

“Stop.” Your eyes sting, but you refuse to cry in front of him. “Don’t stand there and feed me that now. Not when the only reason you ever spoke to me was because someone dared you to.”

He looks like he’s falling apart.

You wonder if he feels it the way you do—like the air’s been punched out of your lungs. Like your body’s full of splinters, breaking from the inside out.

“You were never a bet to me,” he says softly. “Not once I knew you.”

You almost laugh. It comes out broken.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

You take a shaky step back, the ring suddenly burning on your finger.

“You had so many chances, Jungkook. We dated for two fucking years, you proposed two months ago. You could’ve told me after our first date. After the first time we slept together. After the night you held me when I cried about my mom. You could’ve told me before you proposed.”

“I was scared,” he admits, voice breaking. “I knew I’d lose you.”

“Good.”

His eyes lift to yours—glassy, wounded.

You don’t care.

“I trusted you,” you whisper. “With everything. My body, my heart, my life. And you… you humiliated me.”

His breathing hitches. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I am,” he says quickly. “I am. You know me better than anyone—”

“No, Jungkook.” You shake your head, blinking back tears. “I knew the version of you you let me see. I never knew this.”

Silence stretches between you, unbearable and sharp.

You slide the ring off your finger. Slowly. Like peeling off a layer of skin.

His eyes drop to your hand.

“No,” he breathes. “Don’t—”

You step forward. Place the ring on the counter. Not thrown. Not dramatic. Just... final.

“I was going to marry you,” you whisper. “I wanted to build a life with you.”

Tears slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe them.

“I would’ve given you everything.”

Jungkook’s voice is raw when he speaks. “You still can.”

You shake your head once, then again. Firmer.

“I’ll never know what was real,” you say. “I’ll never know if you looked at me like that because you loved me—or because you knew you’d already won.”

He breaks then.

Takes a step forward like he can’t stay still anymore, his voice cracking open.

“You were never a game to me.”

“But I was a joke to you once,” you whisper. “And that’s enough.”

His face crumples. “Please don’t leave.”

“I already did.”

You grab your bag. Sling it over your shoulder.

His feet move before he can stop himself. “Y/N, please. Baby—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He freezes.

You reach for the doorknob with trembling hands.

And then—because you can’t help it—you turn back one last time.

He looks ruined.

Hands limp at his sides. Eyes red. Chest rising too fast like he’s barely breathing.

He whispers your name like it’s the last thing he has.

You whisper back, barely audible—

“Goodbye.”

Then you walk out.

And this time… he doesn’t follow. Because he knows he lost you the second he lied.

[2 years later]

It’s warm inside the café.

Not the cloying kind—just soft. Familiar. The kind that seeps into your bones and tells your chest to stop bracing so hard. The kind of warm that smells like cinnamon and vanilla, where the hum of espresso machines mixes with quiet music and the occasional clink of mugs.

You’re sitting at a window table, one hand wrapped around a latte, the other steadying Jiho as he bounces lightly in your lap. He’s sticky with syrup and joy, a piece of pancake still clutched in one tiny fist. His laughter bubbles up when your boyfriend leans in and makes a quiet, ridiculous face just for him.

And you laugh too. Soft. Full. Real.

Your boyfriend has been good to you. Patient, steady, kind. He doesn’t push. He never tried to fill shoes that weren’t his to wear. He just showed up and stayed. And when you finally let him in, he didn’t treat your past like baggage. He treated it like part of the road that led you here.

So yeah, mornings like this? They feel okay. Safe.

Until the bell above the door rings.

You hear it, but you don’t look up right away. You’re busy wiping syrup off Jiho’s chin with a napkin, murmuring a quiet, “Hold still, baby,” while he wriggles.

And then you feel it.

Not just a presence. A rupture.

Your breath catches before you even know why.

You glance up.

And everything stops.

Jungkook walks into the café like a memory you weren’t ready for.

He’s with Taehyung. Laughing at something he says. But the moment he sees you, his body goes still. His expression falls apart in real time. And then his eyes drop—to Jiho.

To your son.

His son.

You feel the air punch out of your lungs.

He looks older. Bulkier. His hair is longer now, a little curl tucked behind his ear. He wears a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing familiar tattoos that used to trace your skin. He looks…

Ruined. But whole in a new way. A version of him you don’t recognize. One that never held your hand in the middle of the night or whispered promises against your spine.

“You okay?” your boyfriend asks, his voice cutting softly through the tension.

You don’t answer at first.

Jungkook is still staring. At Jiho. Then at you. And there’s something in his expression that’s not shock anymore.

It’s betrayal.

“He’s getting fussy,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on Jungkook. “Can you take him to the car? I’ll just run to the bathroom and meet you there.”

Your boyfriend nods without hesitation, presses a kiss to your temple, and lifts Jiho easily into his arms. Jiho yawns and rests his head on his shoulder, thumb slipping into his mouth.

You can feel Jungkook’s stare as they leave.

You rise. Walk past him without looking.

The bathroom is down a narrow hall, dimly lit. You lock the door behind you and grip the sink until your knuckles ache.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

You rinse your hands slowly, as if that could wash off the past year.

And when you open the door—he’s there.

"Cheater." Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You were mad at me this whole time,” Jungkook says, low and cold, “but you were out here carrying some other guy’s fucking baby?”

Your heart twists.

He laughs, humorless. “That’s rich, Y/N. You didn’t want me, but you moved on just fine, didn’t you?”

You stare at him. Silent.

The hallway feels like it’s shrinking.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t think I deserved to know?”

“Did I deserve to be a bet?”

That shuts him up.

You shake your head, eyes burning.

“I was pregnant when I left,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know it yet. I found out alone. I stayed alone. I gave birth alone. I raised him—your son—alone.”

Jungkook goes pale.

He looks stunned. Pale. A man watching the earth split under his feet.

His mouth opens once. Then closes.

“Y/N…”

You step back.

“And yeah, I moved on,” you breathe. “Because I had to. Because loving you almost destroyed me. Because trusting you did destroy me.”

His hands shake. His chest rises like it hurts to breathe.

“I would’ve been there.”

“Would you?” you whisper. “You lied every day for months, Jungkook. I don’t know what part of you was ever real.”

He swallows, eyes desperate now. “All of it. I loved you. I still—”

You cut him off with a cold laugh. Final. Solid. Unforgiving.

“Then you should’ve fought harder.”

There’s silence. Dense. Trembling.

“His name is Jiho,” you say flatly. “He’s brilliant. He has a real dad now. Someone who shows up, every day, no matter what. Someone who didn’t need to be biologically connected to love him better than you ever could.”

Jungkook flinches.

You feel nothing.

You take a step closer, voice low and sharp.

“You want a role in his life?”

He nods slowly. Hope flickers behind his eyes.

You smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Too fucking bad.”

And then you walk.

You don’t look back.

Let him break.

Let him wonder.

Let him live with what he lost.

Because you have a son.

And a man who never made your love a game.

And a life you built from the ashes he left behind.

[jungkook pov]

Jungkook doesn’t remember how many shots it takes before the guilt finally numbs.

He doesn’t feel the booth beneath him or the sticky table under his forearms. Just the pressure in his throat—the kind that burns more than the liquor. The kind that doesn’t let go.

“She said his name is Jiho.”

His voice is rough. Slurred, but not from the alcohol. From everything else.

“He’s brilliant. Got a smart mouth. Big eyes. My fucking eyes.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. He just watches him from across the table, jaw tight.

“She didn’t need to say it,” Jungkook mutters. “I knew the second I looked at him. That’s my kid.”

Yoongi leans back in his seat, arms crossed. Hoseok twirls his empty glass, saying nothing.

“She told me he has a real dad now.” Jungkook laughs, but it’s hollow. “Said he shows up. Loves him better than I ever could. Said he doesn’t need to be blood to be his father.”

The table goes quiet. No one meets his eyes.

“She meant it,” Jungkook breathes. “Every word.”

Taehyung finally speaks. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Anger. Screaming. Anything but that fucking smile she gave him.”

Jungkook rubs his hands over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrub the memory off his skin.

“She looked happy. Safe. Not because of me. In spite of me.”

“You hurt her,” Hoseok says, careful but blunt. “You don’t get to be surprised she moved on.”

“I’m not,” Jungkook snaps. “I’m not surprised. I’m—” He stops, breath catching.

“I’m destroyed.”

The word hangs there. Honest. Raw.

Yoongi taps a finger on the table. “You said you didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I didn’t,” Jungkook growls. “I didn’t fucking know. If I did—God—do you think I would've let her go? Let her raise him alone?”

Taehyung’s voice is low. “Doesn’t change what you did before.”

Jungkook looks up slowly. “I never meant to fall in love with her.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters. “That’s kind of the problem.”

The silence turns heavier.

“She's a mom now,” Taehyung finally says. “And you? You’re the guy who made her a dare.”

Jungkook flinches.

“No mother worth a damn is gonna risk her child’s safety—or her own peace—on a man who turned her love into a joke.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispers.

“You say you want to be there for Jiho,” Hoseok says, “but you’re not the one who decides anymore. She does.”

“I’m not trying to take him,” Jungkook says hoarsely. “I just—I want to know him. I want him to know me.”

“He has a dad,” Taehyung says gently but firmly. “The one who stayed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply. His head drops into his hands.

“She said I couldn’t love him better. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t deserve the chance.”

No one replies.

“I just want to try.”

The words leave him in a whisper. Barely there. But the silence that follows feels deafening.

No one answers.

Taehyung just stares at him like he’s already bracing for impact.

And maybe Jungkook was hoping for something—anything—a crack of sympathy, a nod, a sign that someone still believed in him. That he wasn’t completely fucking ruined.

But there’s nothing.

Only the echo of his own voice, pathetic and hollow.

And that’s what finally makes him snap.

He shoves the chair back so hard it topples. Kicks it across the floor without thinking. Glass clinks and shatters as a bottle rolls off the table and explodes near the wall. Hoseok jolts up, trying to steady him, but Jungkook shoves him off with a harsh, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

His breathing turns ragged, chest heaving as he grips the edge of the booth like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“She didn’t even give me a chance,” he spits, venom coating every word. “She just looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was the fucking villain.”

“Jungkook—” Taehyung tries, but he’s not listening.

“She never even told me. She made that choice for me. Took him away from me before I even knew he existed.”

He pounds his fist into the table—once, twice—until his knuckles split open. Blood pools against the cracked wood. He doesn’t even flinch.

Yoongi stands up slowly. “You’re scaring people.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook growls. “I’m already a ghost in my own life. What’s one more mess?”

Taehyung’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not helping anyone like this. Least of all yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying to help myself!” Jungkook shouts, eyes wild. “I just wanted to try. I wanted to be something—to someone. To him.”

He sways slightly, blood dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are glassy now, somewhere between fury and devastation.

“I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. I didn’t ask to lose her. But I did. And I lost him too.”

He finally sinks back into the booth, shoulders sagging like the fight’s drained out of him all at once.

“I’m not asking her to forgive me,” he whispers. “But she doesn’t get to erase me either. That’s my son.”

Nobody speaks.

The bar is quiet around them. Tense. Distant music playing beneath the weight of everything unspoken.

Taehyung finally breaks the silence.

“You’re bleeding.”

Jungkook looks down at his hand, broken skin and bruised knuckles.

He just laughs.

It’s almost midnight.

The apartment is still—blanketed in that soft kind of silence that only exists when the world’s asleep. Jiho is down for the night, his tiny breaths steady through the baby monitor on the table. The lights are low. My tea’s cold. Cassi’s face lights up the screen of my laptop, her voice a soothing constant in the quiet.

“So this girl—hand to God—she told her man, ‘If he wanted to, he would.’ And then this man shows up outside her job with a damn sign.”

I laugh into my cup. “A sign?”

“A literal cardboard sign. In public.”

“Okay, fine. That’s cute.”

"Hm, you have that look again."

"What look?"

“The one where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not.”

“Sure,” she drawls, then leans closer to the camera. “Bet he’s still hot. I wonder if he’s single.”

I laugh. “Wanna stalk him?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Her fingers are already moving. “What was his full @ again?”

I try to hide my grin. “You’re horrible.”

“Got him,” she says triumphantly. A second later, a notification pops up. Cassi’s just sent me his profile.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Instead, I lean back, feeling the air shift. That weird, aching weight that creeps in when you let a memory hang too long.

Cassi notices. “Hey,” she says gently. “You okay?”

Before I can answer, the door opens.

The lock clicks.

I freeze. Cassi’s expression sharpens. “Is that him?”

I nod and quickly end the call. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The apartment door creaks open. Han steps inside—jacket askew, smelling like beer and sweat and the kind of cheap cologne that clings to your skin for hours. His smile is crooked, lazy. A little drunk.

“Baby,” he calls out, dropping his keys to the counter, “you’re still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He stumbles over and drops onto the couch beside me, pulling me into his lap without waiting. He’s clingy—hands all over me, breath hot against my neck.

“I missed you tonight,” he says, lips grazing my cheek. “Was thinking about you the whole time.”

“You smell like beer.”

“I had a few.”

His fingers start trailing down my side. I pull away.

“Han, Jiho’s sleeping.”

“Let him sleep. I want you.”

“I’m tired.”

He stills. Then pulls back slightly to glance at the screen I didn’t have time to close. The Google tab is open again.

His eyes narrow.

“What’s this?”

I move to shut the laptop, but he snatches it first. Reads the screen.

His voice sharpens. “You’re looking up his shit?”

“It was nothing.”

“You miss him?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

He stands abruptly, sending the laptop sliding off the couch.

“I go out for a few drinks and come home to this? You—still thinking about that fucker who left you?”

I rise to my feet. “Han, you’re drunk.”

He steps closer. “You want him again? That it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No, I’m not—”

He grabs my wrist hard.

“You were mine,” he growls. “I took care of you. Took care of your kid. And you’re still out here googling your ex like some pathetic little girl.”

“Han,” I whisper. “Let go.”

But he doesn’t. His grip tightens.

And then he slaps me.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the room.

My head jerks sideways. My cheek stings. My ears ring.

I freeze.

He doesn’t.

He lunges again, fists balled, grabbing my shoulders now, shaking me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the one who ruined him.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “I fed him. I stayed. And you still look at me like I’m not good enough.”

I cry out as his knuckles graze my collarbone.

“Please—stop—”

But he won’t.

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

I shove him back with everything in me and sprint for Jiho’s room.

My heart is slamming in my chest.

I grab Jiho—still half asleep, clinging to my shirt—and the baby monitor. I don’t even grab shoes.

Han’s shouting behind me, but I don’t listen. I don’t stop.

I bolt.

Out the door.

Down the stairs.

Into the night.

It’s almost 2 a.m.

I’m sitting on a metal bench outside a shuttered pharmacy, cold biting through the thin fabric of Jiho’s blanket, my coat, my skin—everything.

He won’t stop crying.

His little hands keep clawing at my chest, his body trembling as I hold him tighter and tighter, whispering, “I know, baby, I know,” even though nothing I do is helping.

He’s cold.

I’m cold.

And everything is closed.

I tried every door. The gas station. The diner. Even knocked on the back entrance of a convenience store until my hands went numb.

No one answered.

I pull him tighter into my chest. Try to rub warmth into his back, over and over, like friction and desperation will be enough to make him stop shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, rocking him slightly, even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean to bring you out here. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

My voice cracks before I can finish.

Jiho’s sobs aren’t the loud kind. They’re tired, hoarse, hiccupping. The kind that gut you. The kind that sound like trust breaking down.

And I’m failing him.

I’m failing my baby.

I try not to cry. I really do. But my eyes are stinging so hard I can’t see, and my throat’s so tight I can’t breathe.

I press my lips to his forehead. He’s too cold. His skin is damp with sweat and tears.

“Please stop crying,” I whisper, like begging him will undo everything. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where to go.

Everyone I thought I could call—Cassi, gone. My old neighbor, asleep. Family? Not an option. I burned that bridge when I chose Han. I told myself I could fix him. I told myself Jiho would never see the worst of him.

I lied.

I bounce Jiho lightly in my arms, trying to calm him down even though I’m shaking just as badly.

He coughs once. Shudders again.

Something cracks inside me.

I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it. I scroll. Scroll again. I open every app like something magic might be waiting there—someone, anyone—who could help.

But there’s no one.

And then… I don’t know why I think of it. I just do.

That stupid restaurant name. Le Morte.

The place he made me promise we’d build together.

My thumb hovers over the browser.

I shouldn’t.

I swore I’d never give him another chance to hurt me.

But Jiho’s still crying. His whole body trembling against mine.

And I have nothing left.

I type the name.

The website loads. I don’t read it. I just find the number.

I hit “Call.”

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I almost hang up.

Then—

“Le Morte.”

His voice is deeper than I remember. Quieter. But still him. Still Jungkook.

I don’t say anything.

"Hello?" A pause. A faint inhale. Then again, softer this time— "...Hello?" The sound of his voice breaks something open.

My throat caves in on itself. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a choke—sharp, ugly, aching.

I press the phone tighter to my ear, like that could steady my hands, like that could hold me up.

Another gasp escapes me. “I… I don’t…”

“Y/N?” His voice shifts. Urgent. Gentle. “Is that you?”

"Bab—" He stops himself. Breathes out slow. Then, careful and quiet: “Y/N, I need you to breathe. Just breathe for me, okay? I can’t help if I can’t understand you. Please—just tell me where you are.”

I blink, but everything’s a blur—wet and trembling and spinning. Jiho’s still crying against me, his little sobs going straight through my chest like wire.

“I don’t know—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Hey. Hey, stop.”

His tone softens again, that low warmth I haven’t heard in two years, like balm against an open wound. “I’m glad you called me. It’s okay, I promise it’s okay. Just tell me where you are. Anything you see around you. Anything, Y/N.”

I look around wildly, heart clawing at my ribs. “Pharmacy. Near… near the intersection by the overpass, across from—there’s a bus stop. Metal bench. I—he’s so cold, Jungkook. He won’t stop crying and I didn’t mean to bring him out I just—”

“Okay. Okay, I know where that is. That’s enough. I’m coming. Right now. Don’t hang up, alright?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay.”

“I want you to hold Jiho just like you are. Keep your cheek against his. I’m getting in my car now. I’ll talk to you the whole way.”

His voice is quieter now. Thicker.

“I’ll be there soon. Just hold on for me. Please.”

And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—I let myself cry. Really cry. The kind that comes from somewhere deep. Not panic. Not frustration.

Just grief.

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the betrayal, the years apart—I still remember what it felt like to be safe in his voice.

The headlights cut through the dark like a promise.

I hear the tires before I see them—skidding slightly on wet pavement as the car pulls up to the curb. The engine dies, and the world goes quiet again except for Jiho’s whimpers, quieter now, fading into hiccups against my chest.

The door swings open.

Footsteps.

He’s still in his suit.

The one from Le Morte. Midnight black, sleek lapels catching what little light bleeds from the streetlamp above. His tie’s undone. Hair slightly windblown like he ran the second he got my call.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

Just stands there for a beat, eyes scanning me—Jiho pressed into my chest, my tear-streaked face, the way I’m shaking like my whole body’s trying to hold back a scream.

Then he moves.

His steps are fast but careful, like he’s afraid if he startles me, I’ll vanish.

He shrugs off the suit jacket and drops to his knees in front of us.

He drapes the coat around Jiho’s small frame, then pulls it over my shoulders too, like he’s trying to shield both of us at once. His hands linger there for a moment. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

My body caves forward.

I don’t mean to. I don’t even think. I just fold into him, and he catches us like he never stopped being mine.

I sob into his shoulder. Gasping, messy, completely undone.

Jiho clings tighter to me, still crying, but quieter now—like he knows something’s shifted.

Jungkook wraps his arms around both of us.

He doesn’t ask anything.

He just holds on.

Tight.

One hand cups the back of my head, the other bracing Jiho’s trembling spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay now.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That nothing’s okay. That I’m still broken, still afraid, still so angry.

But all I do is cry harder.

And he lets me.

His own breath stutters against my cheek, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ask for answers.

He just holds me like he never wants to let go again.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. On the cold pavement. Wrapped in the scent of him—cologne and city air and something achingly familiar.

Jiho’s hiccups start to slow. His small hand curls into the front of Jungkook’s shirt, and for a second, Jungkook stops breathing altogether. His fingers twitch slightly against Jiho’s back, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to react.

But Jiho doesn’t let go.

So Jungkook exhales. Slowly. And wraps both arms around us again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I whisper eventually. My voice is raw. Shaky. “I didn’t want to call you.”

“I know.”

He gives a small nod, like he’s scared saying anything will push me away. “But you remembered Le Morte.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. His face is shadowed, lit only by the flickering streetlamp, but I see it—every crack. Every line.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes are red. Not from the cold.

He’s hurting too.

“Why did you come?” I whisper. “You could’ve ignored it. You could’ve sent someone else. You could’ve—”

“I would’ve crawled through fire to get to you.”

I suck in a breath. My lip trembles.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, barely getting the words out. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t even know how I got here. I just—he hit me, Jungkook. He—he hit me and Jiho saw.”

His whole body tenses. His jaw ticks so hard I flinch, and he notices—immediately softening.

“I’m not him,” he says low. “I swear to God, I’m not him. But if you need me to leave after this, I will. I’ll go. Just tell me where you want to be, and I’ll get you there safe. That’s all I care about right now.”

I look down at Jiho. His head is resting on my shoulder again. One hand fisting the fabric of Jungkook’s coat. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his eyes are fluttering shut. He’s exhausted.

“Can we go somewhere warm?” I ask. “Just…for tonight.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, baby.”

I freeze.

He sees it—hears it—and his voice softens again.

“I mean—Y/N. Yeah. Let’s get you warm.”

He rises carefully, lifting Jiho from my arms without waking him. He holds him so securely, like he’s done it a hundred times, and my chest twists.

I stand too, legs weak. Jungkook watches me closely, like he’s waiting for me to collapse again. He keeps an arm around me as we walk toward the car waiting by the curb.

He opens the back door, gently places Jiho in the seat, then looks back at me.

“You sit with him. I’ll drive.”

And just like that, I nod.

Because for the first time in a long time— I believe him. We’re safe.

He places Jiho in the backseat, his hands steady but his jaw locked so tight it looks like it might shatter.

When he closes the door and turns to me, I expect him to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not at first.

He just stares.

At me.

His eyes flick over my face, pausing on the bruises beneath my makeup, the swelling just below my eye. My cracked lip. My trembling fingers still clutching the edge of his coat.

His whole body shakes as he exhales through his nose.

And then he’s in front of me—closer than I can brace for.

His hands reach out, hesitating for a breath before they find my cheeks, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over my skin like I might disappear. His brows are drawn so tight, his mouth pressed in fury, but his touch… God.

His touch is gentle.

Too gentle.

He wipes under my eyes with trembling fingers.

He swallows hard, like the words taste like poison. His thumb keeps brushing under my eye, trying to clean away the tears that won’t stop falling. His forehead leans close, almost touching mine, his breath shaky.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low, “what it did to me to hear your voice like that.”

I blink up at him. My knees feel hollow.

“You were crying. And Jiho was crying. And I wasn’t there—again."

“Tell me where he is,” he whispers. “Just tell me where.”

“Jungkook—”

“No,” he says, voice still soft, but steel beneath. “You don’t get to show up shaking and scared, with bruises on your face and tears in your eyes, and expect me not to burn the fucking world down.”

His voice falters at the end. His hands drop, then fist at his sides.

“I didn’t come to fall into you again,” I say quietly. “I came because I had no one left. That doesn’t mean I—”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes closing for a second like he’s steadying himself. “But I’m not strong enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

Silence lingers.

The wind cuts past us, but he steps in again, cupping the back of my head, his palm warm against my scalp. His other arm wraps around me slowly—cautiously—like he’s waiting for me to pull away.

I don’t.

I can’t.

He holds me against his chest like I’m glass.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers into my hair. “All along. Through everything.”

I cry harder.

Because despite everything I told myself— Despite the time, the pain, the silence—

A part of me never stopped wishing he had been.

The morning light slips through the blinds in pale streaks, soft and almost kind, like it doesn’t know how much pain this room has held overnight. I haven’t moved much. I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at the carpet, trying to pretend my stomach isn’t hollow, that my lungs aren’t tight, that the world hasn’t shifted underneath me again.

Jiho is asleep in the hotel crib across the room—warm, safe, breathing steady. Jungkook insisted we take the king bed, and he spent the night on the armchair, half-awake, shirt wrinkled, jaw locked. He left early this morning, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t coming back.

But the door opens.

My shoulders jump before I can stop them.

“It’s just me,” he says, voice low, careful. I don’t turn around. I just listen to the soft thud of his shoes as he steps inside.

“I brought breakfast.”

I hear the tray set down on the small table. Hear the lids lifting, the faint hiss of steam rising into the quiet. I don’t move. I can’t.

“You didn’t have to,” I murmur.

“I wanted to.”

His voice is closer now. I feel him looking at me, the silence stretching. I finally glance up.

He looks… tired. The same white button-down from last night, sleeves pushed up. No jacket. Dark slacks, black watch. His hair is messy, like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times since the sun came up.

I can’t hold his gaze.

He sits down slowly, arms resting on his knees. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t push. But his voice cuts through everything anyway.

“Why him?”

I freeze.

“Why Han?” he says again, quieter now. “What made you pick him? Stay with him? Let him around Jiho?”

I feel the sting in my eyes before I even try to speak.

“I thought I didn’t owe you that.”

“You don’t.” His voice catches. “But I need to know. Because last night you looked like you were breaking. And then you called me.”

I don’t answer.

“I thought you hated me,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “I did.”

His breath catches.

“But I didn’t have anyone else.”

That admission burns worse than anything.

He doesn’t speak right away. And when he does, it’s so quiet I almost miss it.

“I’m glad you called me.”

I blink hard.

“And don’t look at me like that,” he says gently, like he can read every line of guilt on my face. “I know you feel guilty. I know you think you shouldn’t have. But Jiho’s my son. And you’re his mother.”

He stands, steps closer.

“I wanted to do this. I want to be here. Don’t be guilty.”

His voice cracks. Just barely.

“I wanted to protect you.”

The room feels too small. My throat feels too tight. I can’t breathe with all this silence pressing on me.

When he reaches for me, I let him. His hand touches my cheek, his thumb brushing beneath my eye—and I realize I’m crying again.

His palm is warm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he says.

And I break.

I lean into him, and he catches me, arms wrapping around me like a shelter I never thought I’d need again. He holds me tight—tight like he doesn’t want to let go, tight like he’s afraid if he does, I’ll disappear again.

My hands clutch his shirt, and his lips brush my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t have to say that. Not right now.”

And before I can think—before guilt or pride can pull me back—I lift my face and kiss him.

It’s slow. Raw. Desperate. Like everything we’ve buried is clawing its way back to the surface.

His hand cradles the back of my neck, his breath shuddering.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting years for this.

And for once… I let him.

authors note: im ngl im tryna stay active by using my old stories, sooo they're lowkey unedited but again pls comment i love hearing ur opinions!!!

#bts smut #bts x reader #jungkook #jungkook scenarios #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts army #bts #jungkook smut #jungkook ff

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