#and then when i try to stop thinking about it and just feel it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charles-leclerizz · 2 days ago

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MIDNIGHT, MONTE CARLO - LN4

on the runway : lando norris x fem! reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : smuttt (unprotected sex, creampie, jealousy, slight public risk, alcohol (reader tipsy), possessive behavior, fingering, oral (f receiving) Lando being obsessed and unhinged), secret relationship, jealousy.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs], [@dallaavv, @nichmeddar, @sisinever, @athanasia-day,@mehrsdigitaldiary, @sainzachuu, @jiminrawrr] IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK, AND MUTUALS LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE REMOVED ON PRIV !

Before the show begins ( synopsis ) : It’s late. The Grand Prix is over. You’re supposed to be celebrating. But Lando’s patience is already wearing thin-and that silk dress isn’t helping.

Designer notes : sooooo, I have no excuses for this.... anyways enjoy xxxx wear your seatbelts.

The party is all blurred lights and basslines. Somewhere above the marina, the Monaco sky hangs thick with heat and cigarette smoke, and the yacht rocks gently beneath a mass of bodies too drunk to notice. Music pulses through the soles of your heels, champagne flutes clink, and somewhere behind you, someone’s definitely fucking in the guest cabin.

You lean against the deck railing, letting the wind play with the hem of your silk dress - deep navy, low-backed, too expensive for your lifestyle but borrowed for the occasion. Monaco demands a kind of decadence you’re still learning how to fake.

“Careful,” comes a low voice beside you. “You keep standing like that and someone’s gonna think you’re looking for trouble.”

You turn your head, smiling. Not him.

Not the voice you were hoping to hear.

It’s one of the reserve drivers - tall, flirty, and just tipsy enough to think he’s got a shot. He’s been orbiting you all night, ever since Lando disappeared into the crowd with his arm slung around Max, a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face like nothing mattered. Like you weren’t trying to hide a relationship from half the paddock. Like he didn’t absolutely ruin you against a hotel window the night before.

You laugh politely, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just enjoying the view.”

The driver steps a little closer. “And here I thought the view was enjoying you.”

Your smile tightens. You’re about to say something dismissive - something smooth and practiced - when a hand wraps around your waist from behind, firm, low, familiar.

“Mind if I steal her for a sec?” Lando’s voice is sweet. Sharp. Possessive.

The other driver stiffens a little, eyes widening just slightly before he steps back with a raised brow. “Didn’t know she was taken.”

“She is.” Lando’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Now you do.”

Before anyone can say another word, Lando tugs you away from the railing, weaving you both through the crush of dancers and spilled drinks and glowing neon that coats the yacht like candy floss. You feel the weight of eyes on you - curious glances, drunken stares - but Lando’s hand is tight on your waist, and he’s not stopping.

“Lan-” you start, breathless.

“Don’t,” he mutters, eyes forward. “Not right now.”

You don’t ask where he’s taking you. You already know.

The hallway below deck is dim and narrow, lined with sleek wood paneling and the distant thrum of the engine. Your heels click against polished floors as Lando guides you past private cabins, his hand never leaving your waist. He doesn't look at you. Doesn’t speak.

Not until the cabin door shuts behind you with a soft click.

Then, silence.

You barely have time to exhale before he turns on you.

“You like the attention?” he says, voice low, words slow like they’re pulled through gritted teeth. “Standing there in that fucking dress, letting him look at you like that?”

Your breath catches. “I wasn’t-”

“Don’t,” he snaps again, stepping forward. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

His eyes rake over you - the thin straps slipping off your shoulders, the way the silk clings to your body, the soft swell of your chest from the low neckline. His jaw clenches.

“You’ve been driving me insane all night.”

You swallow. “So do something about it.”

He moves in one smooth step, caging you between the door and his body, and kisses you hard - all heat and frustration, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s trying to prove something.

You moan against his mouth, threading your fingers through his curls. He tastes like champagne and salt and something hot underneath it all, something unspoken and tense and furious.

When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t move far. His forehead presses to yours.

“You’re mine,” he says, softer now. Rougher, too. “I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

Your lips part, heartbeat echoing in your chest.

“Lando-”

“I’m serious.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly. “I hated watching him talk to you. Hated pretending like I didn’t want to grab you right there and make it obvious who you belong to.”

He runs a hand up your thigh, under the silk. Finds the lace garter you wore - the one he didn’t know about.

His breath stutters.

“You really came out here wearing this?” His laugh is strained, disbelieving. “And you expect me to stay sane?”

“You were the one who said we had to keep it quiet,” you whisper. “You said no one could know.”

He’s already sliding the dress up. “I changed my mind.”

You barely register the shift - one second, Lando’s kissing you breathless against the cabin door, the next, he’s dragging you toward the en suite bathroom like a man on a mission.

The moment the door clicks shut, the mood shifts. The low pulse of music filters through the walls, muffled bass thudding with the rhythm of your racing heart. The room is sleek and expensive: marble countertops, gleaming chrome, a mirror so large it reflects the whole mess of you two back at yourselves.

And Lando doesn’t hesitate.

His hands are on your thighs instantly, lifting you onto the cold marble like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs fall open around his hips, the slit in your dress parting like it was made for this.

His eyes are stormy. Fixed. Ferocious.

“This dress,” he says, tugging the straps down until your chest spills free. “Is coming off. But not yet.”

Your breath hitches when he lowers his mouth to your collarbone, kissing down - biting, soothing with his tongue, marking you. You lean back on your hands, chest rising to meet him, silk barely hanging on, your head spinning from champagne and lust and him.

“You looked like fucking sin tonight,” he growls, voice rough against your skin. “Standing at that railing, laughing like you weren’t ruining me.”

He grinds against you - hard denim meeting lace - and you moan, low and sharp, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, even though you both know you were.

He laughs - low and dangerous - before catching your jaw and turning your face toward the mirror. Your reflection is flushed, lip-gloss smudged, pupils blown. His hand wraps around your throat gently, just enough to make your breath stutter as his other slips beneath your dress and between your thighs.

“Then explain this,” he murmurs, dragging two fingers along the soaked lace. “You’re so wet for someone who wasn’t trying to tease me.”

You bite your lip, chest rising. “It’s not my fault you’re easy to wind up.”

His eyes flicker. “Oh, baby.”

Then he rips your panties - the sound sharp and unmistakable in the marble silence.

You gasp. “Lando!”

“Quiet,” he says, mouth against your neck. “Or they’ll hear.”

He sinks to his knees.

Right there, in the middle of the glossy bathroom, tux jacket discarded, curls messy, Lando Norris spreads your thighs wider with firm hands and kisses the inside of your knee like a promise. The cool air hits you. Then his mouth.

Hot, unrelenting, starved.

Your thighs are trembling around his head, back pressed against the cool mirror as you sit half-perched on the bathroom counter. Lando’s on his knees between your legs, tongue buried in you like a man starved.

You slap a hand over your mouth, head thrown back, heels digging into the counter’s edge. His grip tightens as he licks into you like he’s missed you for months, like he’s desperate to prove something, like he wants every part of you trembling.

He’s relentless-tongue and fingers working you open in tight, greedy strokes like he’s starving for you, like this is his only chance to eat you alive.

“Lando-fuck-baby, I’m gonna-”

Your voice breaks as he groans into you, holding you down, nose buried against your clit like it’s his goddamn mission.

It’s filthy. Messy. You’re grinding against his tongue before you can stop yourself, moaning into your own palm as the party carries on obliviously upstairs.

You come fast, sharp, thighs trembling around his head. He doesn’t stop-not right away. He licks you through it, slower now, like he’s savouring the taste, like he needs to.

You’re still panting, cheek pressed to the mirror, hips cocked out like an invitation. Your dress is hitched up around your waist. You should be coming down. But the way he’s looking at you-like he’s just getting started-your breath catches again.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth is wet, chin slick, curls wild. He looks up at you, wrecked and glowing. “You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he breathes, kissing your inner thigh before standing.

His hands slide under your thighs to lift you slightly, guiding you off the counter and spinning you gently to face the mirror. You barely have time to catch your breath before he bends you over the cold marble, your palms pressed flat to the mirror to brace yourself, your dress still hitched up around your hips.

You lock eyes in the reflection-your flushed, glassy expression against his dark, ravenous stare.

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear as he presses the hard line of his cock against your ass.

“You want me to fuck you like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes-please-”

You feel him behind you, one hand gripping your waist while the other strokes himself. Then he’s there-thrusting into you in one slow, deep motion that has your eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, both hands tightening on your hips. “You’re so wet for me already.”

His right palm is braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist so hard it borders on bruising, and his voice is low and ruined in your ear.

You whimper, forehead resting against the glass. “You made me like this.”

He thrusts again-harder this time-and you cry out, your breath fogging the mirror.

Lando leans over you, his chest pressed to your back. “Eyes up, baby. Look how pretty you are when I fuck you.”

You obey-barely-watching the mirror fog and clear with each gasping breath as he pounds into you, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the echoing bathroom.

“Look at you,” he pants. “You see how fucking gorgeous you look? Dress all pushed up-fuck-you’re dripping down my cock, baby.”

The stretch burns in the best way, your body still sensitive and fluttering around him, but you’re greedy for more. You try to pull him closer, tilting your hips to take him deeper, and he swears under his breath, forehead pressed to your neck.

“I’m not gonna last long,” he mutters. “You feel too fucking good. Been dying to fuck you in this dress all night.”

You moan against the mirror, “Then do it. “ you whisper, breathe wet and thick, “Ruin me.”

That’s all it takes. He presses you harder against the mirror as he fucks into you deep, fast, filthy-like the kind of secret that doesn’t stay secret for long.

“Oh my god, Lando-”

“That’s it.” His hand slips lower, fingers working tight, fast circles over your clit. “Let go. I’ve got you. You gonna come for me?”

You nod frantically, mouth open, no sound coming out at first. Your nails scrape at the countertop, legs shaking as he keeps fucking into you like he owns the space inside your body.

“Lando-fuck-don’t stop, please-I’m so close-I’m gonna-shit, baby, I’m gonna-”

“Come for me,” he growls, rutting deeper. “Give it to me. You’ve been teasing me all night-walking around like that, smirking like you didn’t know what you were doing-take it. Take your orgasm, princess.”

That’s all it takes.

You break with a soundless scream, thighs trembling as you fall apart, clenching around him in hard, wet pulses. He moans at the feel of you-loses it-pulls you tighter against him and doesn’t stop moving.

You can barely hold yourself up.

“Good girl,” he rasps, mouth hot against your ear, pace getting messier. “You hear me? You’re mine-you fucking hear me?”

You whimper, too wrecked to speak, but he knows.

He always knows.

And when he follows - hips snapping once, twice more before he buries himself deep and groans your name into your shoulder - it’s raw and ragged and real.

Silence falls heavy after. The sound of the sea through the tiny porthole, the faint thump of music above, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Your legs are shaking. The mirror is fogged, smeared with your handprints and the kiss of your breath. You’re half aware of your dress still bunched around your waist, your cheek pressed to the cool glass, lipstick long gone. Lando’s still inside you-warm, hard, pulsing.

And then-

“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice low, rough. “I’m not done.”

Your breath hitches. “Lando-”

He rolls his hips forward, just once, slow and deliberate, and you gasp like it’s the first time he’s touched you all night.

“Oh my god-”

“I said,” he growls, hand sliding around your throat, tilting your head so your ruined reflection meets his, “stay still for me, baby.”

You freeze under the weight of it-his voice, his hand, his cock still dragging inside you like he owns it.

“Look at yourself,” he whispers, nipping your earlobe. “So fucked out. All that teasing-wearing this dress-thinking I wouldn’t do something about it. Hm?”

You whimper, eyelids fluttering.

“I wasn’t-fuck-I wasn’t thinking-”

“Clearly.”

His fingers return to your clit, maddeningly gentle now, barely grazing you-but you twitch like it’s too much, like every nerve is still singing.

He groans, dragging his hand down your front, palm splayed over your stomach like he wants to feel everything he just did to you. “You’re so tight like this. Fuck. You feel that?”

You nod, breathless. “Mhm-yes-Lando, please-”

“Please what, baby?” His hips snap forward again, harder this time, and you choke on a moan.

“Please-fuck me-need you to-”

“Oh, now you’re polite.”

He bites at your neck, your shoulder, the skin where your strap slipped off-like he’s trying to leave a trail, proof of the places he’s had you. Your hand shoots back, gripping at his thigh, trying to ground yourself, but he catches your wrist and pins it to the mirror.

"You're not gonna run now, are you?"

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” you whisper.

“Good.” He pulls out almost all the way-just to watch-before slamming back in so deep you cry out.

The sound echoes. The music from above doesn’t quite drown it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

He groans behind you, his control finally starting to slip. “That’s it. You’re gonna come for me again. Know you can. Know your pretty little cunt’s just begging for it.”

“God, Lando-!”

“Shhh. You don’t want them to hear us, do you?” he teases, but there’s a wildness in his voice now, the kind that comes just before he lets go. “Be a good girl. Come for me again and I’ll fill you up-you want that? Want me to come inside you while everyone’s upstairs pretending we’re just friends?”

Your knees almost buckle.

“Yes-yes, I want it, please-”

He fucks you through it, hand on your hip, chest pressed to your back, moaning your name like it’s a promise, like it’s a prayer.

You come undone with a soft, broken sob-and he follows, teeth buried in your shoulder, thrusts slowing as he spills into you.

Silence, again.

But heavier this time. Almost reverent.

You're both still breathing hard, chests rising and falling in rhythm, bodies slick with sweat. Lando presses a kiss to the side of your neck, something softer blooming under the possessive high of it all.

He leans in to your ear. “You okay?”

You nod, still slumped against the counter, wrists limp on the mirror, when Lando finally pulls out, breathless and grinning like he just won pole.

He kisses you again. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” you whisper.

He laughs, warm and smug and still drunk on you. “Good.” you take his hand and let him guide you off the counter

Lando hums, catching your hips when you sway. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

He bends to grab your panties from the floor, tucks them into his jacket like a souvenir-again-and then starts adjusting your dress, tugging it back down over your ass, smoothing the fabric like he wasn’t just fucking you into a mirror twenty seconds ago.

He kisses your shoulder lazily, smoothing your skirt down over your hips with zero shame. “You alright, love?”

You nod weakly, still trying to blink your vision back into focus. “Can’t feel my legs.”

“Perfect.” He flashes that cocky, post-sex smirk and smacks your ass-gentle but definitely not helping your recovery. “Means I did my job.”

You blink at him, dazed. “You’re so annoying.”

He just grins. “And yet, you keep crawling back.”

You’re about to smack him back, when he crouches slightly, zipping you back up with a reverent kiss to your shoulder. The silence after is warm. Familiar. His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“We should go back up before they come looking.”

You swallow. “Think anyone heard?”

Lando smirks. “I hope they did.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when there’s a knock on the bathroom door.

Knock knock.

And then a voice.

“Mate. I know this is your yacht but-next time maybe warn us before you start testing the acoustics.”

Lando chokes on a laugh.

“Fuck off, Max!” he yells through the door, still breathless.

There’s a round of hollers and whistles from outside. Someone (Oscar, probably) shouts, “Congrats on the cardio, king!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

Lando’s just laughing now giddy, flushed, chest still heaving. “You can’t even be mad,” he grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You were the one screaming.”

You shoot him a look in the mirror. “You were the one saying, ‘eyes up, baby’ like we weren’t two doors down from the DJ.”

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “It’s Monaco. Everyone’s too drunk to care.”

You groan, tugging your hair out of the messy bun he’d yanked halfway through. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He kisses you again-smiling, salt-slick, and still a little breathless. And you melt. Because of course you do.

Of course.

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hangmanwrites · 20 hours ago

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your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason.

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared.

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told.

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him.

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I��”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now.

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking.

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up.

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is.

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts,

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier.

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

#clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fluff #clark kent smut #smut #superman #superman x reader #david!superman #david!clark kent #superman 2025 #david corenswet x reader #david corenswet

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inthelow · 3 days ago

Text

TEMPORARY FRAGMENTS — jeon jungkook (1).

summary: When you meet Jungkook— an older man who is amazing in bed, you thought it would be a simple arrangement of casual sex. Except things start getting serious and before you know he’s asking you on dates and introducing you to his daughter… Of course, he doesn’t know that you’re bad with kids and never wanted one of your own— well, at least it was just something temporary… right?

pairing: business! fem reader x dad! jeon jungkook

genre/warning: fluff, crack, smut, angst / a lot of themes like insecurity, jealousy, death, dysfunctional family, etc— This chapter contains a lot of sexual talk/scenes (fingering, penetration, oral sex, dirty talk). Read under your own discretion. — reader mentions her age but just for the plot of the age difference.

chapters: intro; one; two; three; four; five; six; seven; eight; nine; ten; eleven; twelve; thirteen; fourteen; fifteen; sixteen; seventeen; eighteen; epilogue

You woke up to the smell of coffee. Not burnt espresso or whatever horror So-hee brewed from your capsule machine when she crash in your apartment — this was rich, earthy, and freshly ground. It filled the air like something deliberate. Comforting. Domestic. You blinked your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim, warm light spilling through the window. The sheets were cotton, the good quality, not stiff or scratchy. The bed was too big for one person but clearly used to being slept in alone. You could tell by the symmetry of the pillows, the quiet in the air. No mess. No clutter. No sign of another woman.

Your head didn’t ache. Your limbs didn’t feel heavy. There was no immediate rush of regret flooding your chest. Instead, there was quiet. You turned your face into the pillow, let out a breath, and muttered to no one, “Okay.” Time to face the uncomfortable talk after sex.

You sat up and took in the room. Simple. Masculine. Clean lines, warm colors, nothing flashy but nothing lazy either. There were books on the nightstand — actual books, not decorative ones —, a leather jacket slung over the back of a chair and some paintings around the drawers. On the dresser: a watch, a set of keys, and a single photograph of a little girl with messy hair and a missing tooth smile, holding a glitter-covered rock like it was treasure. You stared for a second and then looked away.

You found your dress draped neatly over the foot of the bed. Your heels were lined up side-by-side. Your phone was plugged in. He had plugged in your phone.

Jungkook was already annoying.

You uncomfortable put the dress on and wandered barefoot into the apartment, your shoes and bag in one hand. The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen, where you stopped. It looked like a catalog ad. Sleek counters. Stainless steel. A French press on the counter, half-full. And Jungkook — standing at the stove, shirtless, in grey sweatpants, flipping something in a pan like this was a Tuesday. You could see all his tattoos better now in daylight.

“Morning,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Hope you like eggs.”

“Are they poisoned?” you asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Only slightly,” he said. “I didn’t want you getting attached.”

You smirked, leaning against the wall. “You cook breakfast for all your one-night stands?”

“Only the ones who snore like they pay rent.”

“I don’t snore.”

He shrugged. “You snore pretty.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

There was something infuriating about how comfortable he looked. Like your presence didn’t throw him at all. Like he’d been cooking for someone his whole life and had learned the art of giving without asking. He handed you a mug of coffee without being prompted.

You took a sip. “Okay, fine. This is good.”

“Roasted it myself,” he said. You narrowed your eyes. He raised a brow. “What? You think tattoo artists can’t have hobbies?”

“No, I think you’re trying too hard to be impressive.”

“I’m really not,” he said, plate in hand now. “You’re just easily impressed.”

You followed him to the kitchen island, sliding onto the stool while he set down two plates — eggs, toast, avocado. Clean, unfussy, hot.

“You know,” you said between bites, “I was expecting more… chaos.”

“Because I have tattoos?”

“Because you have a child.”

Jungkook nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Fair. But I like things in order. When you’ve got a seven-year-old who believes glitter is a personality trait, you need to carve out the calm somewhere.” You paused mid-chew. He caught it. “Yeah, you saw the picture.”

“I saw a glitter rock,” you said carefully.

“Suni’s masterpiece,” he said. “It lives in my glove compartment now. She made me promise to take it with me ‘in case the car gets sad.’” You blinked, and for the first time that morning, something twisted slightly behind your ribs. Jungkook reached for the pepper grinder. “Relax. She’s with her mom this week. You don’t have to run screaming just yet.”

Now you knew his daughter’s name. You needed to leave that place as soon as possible.

“I’m not running.”

“Yet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re older than me, aren’t you?”

He smirked. “What gave it away? The bad jokes or the emotional regulation?”

“Both,” you said. “How old?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Shit.”

“You?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Seven years,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Not bad.”

“Debatable.”

“Oh, come on. That just means I had a flip phone while you were still wearing glitter lip gloss.”

You gave him a long look. “It was Dior glitter lip gloss, thank you.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Of course it was.”

You two ate in a companionable silence for a moment. The kind that only came when both people knew exactly what this was and weren’t pretending otherwise.

“You live alone?” you asked.

“Most of the time. Sunni’s here on weekends and some weeknights. Her mom’s got a career that eats up a lot of travel.” You nodded, impressed by how easily he said it. No drama. No resentment. “And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not scaring men in bars?”

“I run a company.”

“What kind of company?”

“Some Italian restaurants” you shrugged.

Jungkook blinked. “You don’t look like a woman who tolerates gluten.”

“I don’t,” you said, joking. “But I respect the culture.”

He smiled. “You’re funny.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. He leaned back, watching you now. Not ogling, but observing. Calm. Focused. The kind of gaze that made most men look like they were fidgeting.

“You’re smart,” he said. Not like a pickup line but just a fact.

You didn’t hesitated. “I am.”

“Went to school for it?”

“Law. Worked in a firm for three months and then I got bored.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “You’ve got that ‘I will destroy you with precedent and poise’ energy.”

You laughed again. Goddammit. Jungkook reached for something on the counter — a pen, a sticky note — and scribbled quickly. Then slid it toward you across the granite like it was a contract.

“My number,” he said. “In case you ever want to feel in control again.”

You stared at it for a second, amused. “You giving this to all your hook-ups?”

“No,” he said. “You’re the first one who’s tried to negotiate my egg seasoning.”

You folded the note, sliding it into your bag. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

“I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Neither am I.”

You two locked eyes for a beat too long. Then you stood, brushed invisible lint off your dress, and said, “Well. This was surprisingly pleasant.”

Jungkook leaned on the counter, smiling like a man who had nothing to prove. “You say that like it’s a threat.” You didn’t reply. He watched you slip on your heels, toss your hair over one shoulder, and head toward the door. “Hey, Y/n,” he called out as you opened it.

You turned. “Huh?”

“You left your phone” he said, holding it up.

You crossed back, snatched it from his hand, and paused. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

You left. And Jungkook… shirtless, with two empty plates and the smell of coffee still warm in the air, just stood there for a second. Then he smiled to himself, shook his head once and thought softly, “Trouble.”

———

The Mariani office didn’t look like a restaurant headquarters. It looked like a magazine spread — clean marble surfaces, white oak floors, carefully curated vases that changed weekly, and coffee that somehow tasted like it had flown first class. You stood at the far end of the long glass conference table, arms crossed, legs sharp under a tailored navy suit dress that made people listen harder. The sunlight hit your hair just right, enough to not make you more annoyed that you already were.

You weren’t yelling. You never needed to yell. You just asked one question, the kind of question that made three department heads rethink their career choices.

“Why,” you said, tapping your finger once on the printout, “are there plastic menus in a space with velvet chairs and hand-painted walls?”

The woman across the table, Marisa, Events Director, blinked once. “They’re temporary. Just for the soft launch. We thought—”

“No. You didn’t think. You assumed,” you said, calm as possible. “Do you know what assumption tastes like, Marisa?”

The woman swallowed. “…cheap.”

“Exactly.”

You turned, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the street below. Your office was just the penthouse floor of a restored building full of different offices in the heart of the city. Elegant but not flashy. Just like you. The newest Mariani location was three blocks away, still about to finish some last touches but the soft launch was already sending out invitations to critics and investors who had the collective power to destroy or elevate a brand in one dinner.

“Look, I’m not being difficult for sport,” you added, softer now. “We’re selling an experience, not just spaghetti and rigatoni. That means everything, from the plates to the fucking bathroom soap, tells the story of who we are. And we are expensive.”

There was silence. Then murmurs of agreement. You didn’t gloat. You just sipped your cold espresso and moved on when everyone agreed that it needed to be changed immediately.

Later that morning, you stepped into your personal office, shut the door with a firm click, and let yourself exhale. The new espresso cup you had was stale. You didn’t care. You hated interruptions when you were working, and this place - this bubble you’d built of quiet control - was the only space that ever felt fully yours.

You sat behind your desk and opened your laptop. Three dozen emails. Menu revisions from the Spain team. Budget approvals for Valencia. A note from the lawyer about a new licensing regulation. You moved through it fast, efficient, razor-sharp, completely in command. You weren’t just pretty or rich or terrifyingly well-dressed— you were brilliant. The kind of person who caught the missing zero in a spreadsheet before the finance guy noticed. Who remembered the name of the pastry chef’s dog and the exact shade of red the director had painted their front door.

And yet, despite your ruthless control, there was something fragile beneath it. Something you kept buried.

Halfway through responding to an investor memo, your phone lit up with a notification from the nursing home. You stared at it. Then clicked.

Rosa Mariani - Medical Update Available.

Rosa had been the only person who ever told you “no” and meant it. She had raised you between revolving door babysitters and parents who treated affection like a tax write-off. Rosa, with her gruff voice and soft hands. With her biscotti that could break teeth and the gentlest lullabies in Italian you had ever heard.

Now she was fading. Slowly, stubbornly, but definitely fading.

You sat back in your chair and ran a finger along the edge of your espresso cup. You didn’t cry. You never cried at work. Instead, you picked up your phone, dialed the facility, and asked for an update in that same composed, expensive voice you used with investors. After a few minutes of reassurance and politeness, you hung up.

Then you sat there for a moment, just breathing.

No one in the office would know that you were two seconds from driving to the other side of the city to sit at a bedside and beg a woman with Alzheimer’s to remember your name. No one would see that the CEO of and Italian chain food, a rich egocentric girl, was still the twelve-year-old girl who once clung to an apron and begged for another bedtime story in Italian.

You straightened. Pulled your jacket tight. And got back to work. Because vulnerability was not part of your brand. You decided to walk it off. Going to see the next thing in your list of duties of the day.

The new photos of the new - at least, about to be- Mariani location in Spain was a construction site dressed in potential. You were sure it smelled like sawdust and cement dust, but you could already picture the finished space in perfect detail: soft warm lighting, high arches, the curve of the host stand, the brass cutlery that would feel cool in a diner’s hand. You could see it like memory— because you’d built it in your mind a hundred times. You were ready to invest in that place. A step closer to Italy.

With a better mood, you decided to visit the new location in Seoul. The one that was about to launch soon and was just some streets away from the office.

You moved through the site in Louboutins, naturally. Your team… architects, designers, the head chef, a frazzled assistant named Gina with three iPads and a mild caffeine addiction, swarmed around you like bees trying to keep up.

“This wall was supposed to be Venetian plaster,” you said, voice calm, pointing at a freshly primed panel. “That’s drywall. Fix it.”

“Noted,” the contractor muttered, scribbling.

“And the sconces?” you asked, turning toward the entryway.

“Delayed. Backordered,” Gina jumped in, already scrolling.

“Find alternates. Hand-blown, amber glass, minimum three inches in diameter. If you show me anything that looks like it belongs in a Marriott I will walk into traffic.”

“Yes, boss.”

You turned on your heel, barely glancing at your tablet. “And where’s the espresso machine?”

“We change it for the bigger one you wanted. Shipping tomorrow,” one of the kitchen leads said. “Alessandro said he’d handle the calibration once it lands.”

“Good. Alessandro likes the pressure at 9 bars, not 11. It messes with the crema. And it actually makes the cortado taste better.”

There was a pause. “How do you know that?” Gina asked, blinking.

You looked at her. “He’s always bitching about it”

You knew the effect you had in people. The scary boss, the annoying CEO. The hateful manager. You knew what most people thought about you the first time they met you. Annoying, only cares for money and her business. It was true, in part.

You never smiled for effect. Never performed softness. But you remembered birthdays and food allergies. You caught mistakes before they became issues. You knew which chef refused to work under fluorescent lighting and which server got anxious before inspections. You expected excellence but you rewarded loyalty. And most people would rather disappoint a god than disappoint you. So you let the hate happened, because your team knew you by now. Specially when the pressure got you.

This, the life you had worked for. It was something that made you happy.

———

Your apartment sat like a crown atop the building — two floors of steel, glass, and unapologetic luxury. The kind of place people only saw in movies or real estate porn. High ceilings, dark marble floors, a spiral staircase that curved up like sculpture. Every detail was intentional. The lighting was soft, the art minimalist but personal — a giant abstract canvas from an artist Bohyung had once drunkenly hooked up with in Berlin, a few framed black-and-white photos from a trip the three of you had taken to Tokyo five years ago. The penthouse smelled like fresh basil and roasted tomatoes, the aftermath of your very rare decision to cook. Not that you couldn’t cook, because you definitely could. But it usually meant taking time for it — and you couldn’t waste seconds when you were running a big company— so you just preferred not to, unless you were showing off or trying to forget something.

Tonight was neither. Tonight was routine. Tuesday night dinner. An unspoken tradition between your two best friends and you, no matter how busy or jetlagged or generally dramatic your lives got.

Bohyung was already barefoot on the couch, swirling wine in one hand like a bored nobleman. His linen shirt was half-buttoned, his hair messily perfect. He worked in luxury estate acquisitions aka convincing rich people to buy even more properties they’d never live in. He had a gift for languages, for diplomacy, and for saying devastatingly rude things with a charming smile. Se-hoo sat across from him, legs crossed, sipping slowly from a glass of Barolo she’d brought. She ran a private consulting firm for high-profile rebrands — politicians, CEOs, scandals waiting to happen. She had a mind like a scalpel and the emotional range of a Russian novelist. Beautiful, deliberate, and cool as ice — except when she laughed, which was rare but honest.

You and Bohyung had been friends since kindergarten— trauma bonded over ballet recitals and broken curfews. Se-hoo arrived later, in your second year of university, transferring in after a semester scandal involving someone else’s fiancé and a shattered Baccarat tumbler. You two hated her for a week, then fell in love with her for life.

“You used real garlic,” Se-hoo said, tasting the pasta like she was judging it for a Michelin star.

You poured yourself a glass of wine. “I’m not a monster.”

“I mean, you are,” your other friend said, “but a monster with taste.”

“Thank you,” you said, pleased.

The three of you sat around the open-plan kitchen island, warm lighting and an already half-finished bottle of wine in the centre. The three of you ate, the three of you bitched. The three of you gossiped. And eventually, after the pasta had been cleared and the gelato opened, Bohyung struck.

“So,” he said casually, “how was mystery man?”

You rolled you eyes. “There is no mystery. He was just… you know.”

“Oh,” he said, lips twitching. “Just a fuck.”

“Exactly.”

Se-hoo raised an eyebrow. “A nameless fuck?”

“Jungkook,” you muttered.

“That sounds hot. He was hot.” she pointed out

Bohyung snorted. “Oof. That’s such a daddy’s name.”

You took a slow sip of wine. “Funny you say that.”

There was a beat of silence before Se-hoo blinked. “No way.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… actual dad?” she asked.

“Seven-year-old daughter,” you said, licking a bit of pistachio gelato off your spoon. “Mild glitter obsession, according to him.”

Bohyung leaned back. “Jesus. How did that come up? During foreplay?”

Se-hop snorted. “Did he show you her report cards between rounds.”

“No, he didn’t. And Ew, disgusting.”

Your friend raised his glass. “Honestly, missed opportunity.”

“He mentioned it over breakfast.”

“Oh, you stayed?”

“He made eggs. I didn’t want to be rude.”

Bohyung put a hand over his heart. “Wow. Look at you, supporting single fathers. You’re basically a philanthropist.”

You gave him a flat look. “It was good sex. He was hot. I was bored.”

“And emotionally repressed,” Se-hoo added helpfully.

“Exactly,” you nodded.

“He was hot.”

You laughed. Not in a cruel way — just the kind of laugh that came with knowing someone too well to lie. The kind of laugh that loved you, even when it roasted you.

“He was…” you trailed off, then shrugged. “Fine.”

Bohyung narrowed his eyes. “Oh no. She said fine. He was not fine. He was big and broad and responsible, wasn’t he?”

“He owns a tattoo shop,” you said, as if that answered something.

Se-hoo blinked. “Of course he does. Did you fuck a romance novel, Y/n?”

Your other friend leaned forward. “Wait. Does he have forearms? The kind that look like they could carry you and the weight of your childhood trauma?”

“Dude.”

“Did he call you sweetheart in that ‘I pay my taxes and use my hands to built furniture without instructions’ voice?”

You bit back a smile. “You are both insufferable.”

Se-hoo smiled lightly. “You’re still thinking about him.”

“I’m not. He gave me his number and I took it because I’m polite. I don’t even know his last name.”

“Sure,” Bohyung said. “And I only follow hot rugby players for their footwork.”

You moved on, eventually— because you always did.

Talk shifted to other things. Se-hoo’s newest nightmare client — a tech CEO with the personality of a wine cork. Bohyung’s latest business trip to Paris where a billionaire tried to buy a 17th-century chateau without seeing it. Your upcoming launch event and whether or not you were going to wear the red heels that cost too much.

It was comfortable, easy. The kind of dinner that felt like a deep exhale. A reminder that no matter what the world expected from you all — clean lines, sharp deals, expensive control — here, in this room, you could let it bend.

As the night wound down, Bohyung curled into the corner of the velvet couch and sighed. “Honestly, I love us.”

Se-hoo drained her glass. “I tolerate us.”

You leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, lips twitching. “You both wish you were me.”

The girl stretched. “I do wish I had your closet.”

Bohyung smirked. “And your apartment.”

“And your cheekbones,” she added.

“But not your daddy issues,” he said.

You raised your glass. “Cheers for that.”

You clinked glasses

Somewhere in the city, Jungkook was probably folding glitter-stained laundry or putting a little girl to bed. And here, in your castle in the sky, you were full, half-drunk, adored. And exactly where you belonged.

��——

It was almost midnight when you stepped into the coffee shop.

The street outside was mostly empty, lights low and hazy from the rain earlier. The café sat on the corner of a quiet neighborhood you rarely visited— a little too slow, too far from the pulse of the city. But you’d had a meeting nearby that ran late, and after hours buried in contracts and menus and talking to architects who couldn’t follow instructions, you needed caffeine and a quiet table that wasn’t backlit by luxury branding. The place was warm, dim, and half-empty. Mostly college students with headphones and a couple of people staring blankly into their screens. The barista looked half-asleep. Jazz played low on the speakers, old-school and moody.

You stepped in, ordered a double espresso with an oat milk cookie— which took longer than it should— and turned to find a seat… when you heard it.

“Y/n.”

You looked up. Jungkook sat in the back corner, sleeves rolled, sketchbook open in front of him, a pen twirling loosely between his fingers. There was a mostly empty mug beside him, and a pastry he’d clearly forgotten existed. His hair was a little messy. He had glasses. His eyes were calm and sharp and amused… He looked better than you remembered. Or maybe exactly the same, and that was the problem. It had been almost three weeks.

“Well,” you said, walking over slowly, one brow raised. “If it isn’t the tattooed dad.”

Jungkook grinned. “Still remembering me by my most defining trait, I see.”

You sipped your coffee. “You wish. You’re also ‘that guy who made very decent eggs.’”

“High praise from a woman who probably eats in Michelin star kitchens by accident.”

“I don’t eat in them,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him. “I own them.”

He laughed, low and warm. He seemed amused by you “Of course you do.”

There was a pause. A beat where the past sat between you two like static. Both maybe trying to remember what was said that morning after the one-night stand. The first one that wasn’t awkward for you.

You tilted your head. “What are you doing out here? You work… where, exactly?”

“Ten minutes that way,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the window. “I was working late at the shop. One of the guys stayed late to finish a sleeve— and the AC jammed. Took me an hour to fix it.”

Of course he fixed it.

You nodded, leaning back. “So, caffeine and quiet?”

“Exactly. And you?”

“Work. I had a meeting with an investor who likes to schedule things at strange hours like he’s in some kind of high-stakes European thriller. I was ready to strangle him halfway through.”

Jungkook grinned. “Did you?”

“No. I just charged him an extra three percent.”

He laughed again. “Still terrifying.”

“I’m efficient,” you said, lips twitching. “Terrifying is a bonus.”

You two talked for a while. Nothing big. Just easy words in a quiet space. About the neighborhood (you still hated it), about tattoo machines and supply issues, about espresso and bad lighting and why good jazz never played in the places that needed it most… It wasn’t flirty. Not obviously. But there was something in the way he looked at you — calm, curious, still very much aware of every detail. And something in the way you kept glancing at his hands, remembering without meaning to.

Eventually, you both stood up at the same time.

Outside, the air was cool, damp from the earlier rain. Your steps slowed at the corner, where you’d have to split.

Jungkook looked at you. You looked back, lifting an eyebrow. “What?”

“You never saved my number, did you?” he stated more than asking.

You smirked. “I didn’t think we were doing that.”

“We weren’t.” You two stood there for a beat. Then he asked it. Quiet. Direct. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t hesitate. You just smiled and said, “Lead the way.”

You walked off down the street. Not together, exactly. Just side by side. No promises. No labels. Just two people with unfinished business and nothing to explain.

His house wasn’t that far from the coffee shop. You remembered. Since he didn’t bring his car, he took your keys from your hands and drive you both to his place. At least you had a drive for later to go back home. It didn’t take you too much to arrive. Five minutes later you were walking inside his building and he was already grabbing your hand to lead you to the elevator and to his apartment.

It didn’t take him long to lose control and kiss you

Jungkook leaned you against the wall of the hallway, next to his door. His hands wrapped around the sides of your face as he kissed you hard and needy, as if he had been waiting for this more than he would like to admit. His lips pressed against yours with strength and excitement. It made you remember the first and only night you spent together. Slightly - too - drunk to remember it perfectly but sober enough not to forget how good it was.

His touch. His lips. His naked body against yours. You remember every moan and every thrust. You could remember the feeling of every sigh and every touch.

You wanted him more.

His lips were soft. His kiss searing and full of desire. The fire inside you almost flooded his, flaming and full of heat. His hands roamed to your body, from your cheeks to your hips, tracing every part of you with his fingers, burning every part of your skin over your dress and under your coat. He pressed harder on your hips and moved the hem of your dress to start pulling it up slowly until your your panties showed. The dress giving him better access to you.

He was burning for you. You could hear your heart trumping in your ears, Jungkook made you feel so alive and energetic— and you knew you made him feel the same way, for the way he kissed you hard and deep, coaxing your lips open and forcing his tongue inside. He wanted to burn his name inside your mouth and keep anyone else from kissing you again.

He takes one hand on your jaw to keep your mouth open and pliant while the other travels down to squeeze your hip and run wildly across your tummy to your core. Jungkook moved his mouth to your jaw, sucking the skin and trailing his lips down to your neck. even just touching you through your panties is getting him lightheaded. His fingers moved down to your center, his thumb starting to rub your clit on top of your underwear.

You threw your head back to the wall, sighing of pleasure.

“Wait— Jungkook, we’re in the…”

“Let me take care of you, pretty.” he didn’t let you finish, finger working on making you wet. His tongue laves over your skin as he pants into your neck. He has to keep himself from rutting against your thigh, getting too heady at the feeling of finally touching you again. “Tell me you like it.”

You sighed again, feeling your panties getting soaked wet, his fingers working slowly on you. Your voice barely hold its own. “I like it.”

But that wasn’t enough for him.

He wants to see your knees buckle and give up. He wants you crying. He wants to watch your eyes get glossy and wet. He wants you trembling and begging for mercy, wants to give you more and more because he knows that you’ll be good and take it. Because this time he wasn’t going to give you the control, he was the one to have it.

You gasp as his fingers circle your clit, and he’s starting to feel how wet you are even through the layers of clothes. He moves your underwear, his fingers tease your entrance and he presses down on your clit, watching your mouth drop open as he swipes it fervently, needing to get you dripping and ready. He steals your lips for another kiss, letting you pant into his mouth as he takes everything he wants from you.

“You want me to fuck you with my fingers, baby?” He asked, voice lower and rough, full of desire. “Is that enough for you, uhm?”

Baby.

“Shit— Just fuck me.”

Your voice was low, trying to keep it together. Jungkook liked how you tried to keep control, even in this situation. So he chuckled, a dark and grutal one that made you freeze slightly.

“Not yet, pretty. I’m just starting with you.”

He circles his finger around your entrance, teasingly applying pressure just to watch you squirm before slowly fucking two fingers into you, with the intention of making you lose your mind little by little.

And he wants to smile. With the way he has you pressed against the wall of his building, fingering you slowly and making you sigh in pleasure with the low lights of the hallway barely holding on. And he wants to fuck you there, where anyone can show up and see you breaking apart like this— but he has enough control to just made you lose your mind to have you beg for it. Just enough so you could ask for it— His cock sits hot and heavy in his pants, but he barely pays it any attention. He’s much more focused on working you up, make you dripping on his fingers.

He increases his pace a little more, curling his fingers up and fucking you harder. It takes him a minute to find the spot he was looking for, but he knows he’s got it when you moan and your leg kicks out helplessly. He keeps pressing into that spot, curling his fingers up to hit it every time, relishing in the garbled moans that spill out of your mouth.

“Ngh— shit, go harder.”

“Yeah?. Are you feeling good?” He increased his pace, fucking his fingers deeper into you. “You’re dripping on my hand, baby.”

His fingers continue to rub recklessly at your cunt, making you a little dumb. For a moment, Jungkook doesn’t care about being sweet or gentle or slow— he wants you to be blinded by your need for him, to ache for him so bad you’d cry. But then— he feels you tightening around his fingers so hard he can barely move, stuck pressing into you relentlessly to get you to your peak. And you’re getting there, so fast and excited—

But it stops.

Your orgasm doesn’t come.

Jungkook takes his fingers out of you and your hips involuntarily move to reach them in a needy way. He presses his palm to your tummy and you make a sweet little noise of complaint that he founds adorable and so hot it makes his cock twitch in his pants.

“What are you doing?” your voice sounds more needy that you wanted it to be.

“I won’t fuck you here, baby. Come on now.”

You blinked. Thinking how you were so horny you didn’t mind getting fuck like a whore in the middle of a hallway. But it makes you feel a little good how he was such a man to not do it and take you to his bedroom to fuck you properly.

It doesn't take you two long to get to his room. Jungkook giving you a quick kiss on the lips before pushing you onto his bed, moving you with little to none delicacy so he can spread your legs and kneel in front of you. Knees pressing hard on his cold carpet. He holds your legs open, staring at your center with a wicked grin, your panties ruined and soaked in full display. He kisses up your leg until he gets to your core, ghosting his lips over your heat and blinking up at you.

“I’m going to taste you. And I want you to look at me until you come in my mouth.”

His voice was rough. It wasn’t a request, it was a command.

And you were dripping for him. He was so hot you wanted him to fuck you all day long. The only thing you could do was nod slowly. And he smirked. Because you were such a bossy bitch and now you were spread, lying in bed and nodding like a good girl for him. And you knew how much he wanted that after the first night where you had him under you, grunting and trying to keep his composure while you were taking control.

He likes you that way. Too much to admit. Spread for him and ready to take him in any way. His hands roamed over your tights before taking your panties off. And it doesn’t take him long to give you what you want. Because he wants you more than he likes to admit. In less than a second, he’s salivating like a dog, abandoning all his patience and smothering his face between your legs without a care in the world. He brings his mouth to your clit, sucking lightly and rolling his tongue over the bud his tongue dives into your cunt, desperately pushing into your walls. He wants to hear you cry, to feel you squirm— for him. He likes to find relief in knowing he can make you feel good.

His nose is right against your clit as he fucks his tongue into you. You’re moaning out, a little louder, much whinier than the first night you had and what he’s heard from you. And that does crazy things to him. He wants to fuck you so bad. He’s rock hard, almost leaking from his jeans. Your fingers fist his hair, your back aching at the pleasure that his tongue was giving you.

Jungkook pushes his face further against you, desperate to get as close as he possibly can, reach as far into your cunt as his tongue will allow. He is aching to finally taste your orgasm. His fingers immediately moved to your cunt across your clit, he comes back down to your hole, lapping up the arousal that spills out of it hungrily, moaning at the taste.

But before he can taste all of your juices, your cunt dripping of your orgasm, you pulled his hair to look at him— too serious that he freeze for a moment.

“Jungkook, fuck me already.”

And he obeys.

He immediately pulls away from your cunt— not before sucking one last time your clit—, he stands up and kneels in bed, between your legs. Quickly taking off his shirt in one motion before using it to clean off your juices from his jaw. And he looks so hot on top of you. Perfect clean skin. Broad shoulders and back. Toned arms and abs. Tight stomach and narrow waist. He looked like a sin, specially with one arm all inked full of tattoos you want to lick to death.

Jungkook moves over you. His heat poured onto your torso immediately and you shivered, letting your fingers glide over his narrow waist, getting under the waistband of his jeans and pulling them down to his thighs with his underwear. You see his cock, jumping hard until it hits his lower stomach. Red, veiny and big, his tip leaking pre-cum. You wanted to lick it off clean. He was so hot and such a manly man.

Jungkook fisted your hair before kissing you, hard and open. His hands moved to your dress, taking it off fast as possible and leaving you naked. His body stretched as he reached for his bedside table, opening the drawer and haphazardly pulling out its contents until he found what he was looking for. Your mouth only left his mouth once he rose up, taking out a condom, looking down at you from between your legs. His eyes never left your body as he pumped his cock slowly, leaking more. He looked like a sin staring down on you as he rolled the rubber on.

“You looked so hot” He told you a little breathless. “I’m gonna fuck you hard now, okay?. And you’re going to take it.”

Jungkook kissed you again, hand in your jaw to keep you in place. He taps his tip against your entrance. And before you have time to register he slides his cock between your slick folds, aching to be inside you. You wrap around him tight, making his head spin, nothing but primal instinct driving his actions. He groaned into your mouth as he fucked you, keeping your hips still with his harsh grip.

He squeezed your thigh, pushing it down on the mattress, and you spread your legs wider. A whimper leaving your mouth when he came down grinding on you. Your back arching, eyes closing as he sucked a nipple into his mouth

His hips dipped again, rolling against you. And you bit your lips, pulling his face toward your mouth. “You told me—” you tried as another roll of his body made you clench. “Uhm— Is this hard for you?.”

Jungkook stops before looking at you. His hand in your jaw moving to your cheeks to squeeze tight, looking at you with narrowed eyes.

“This isn’t hard for you?” he nods, looking at your eyes. Dark and blown out. “This isn’t enough, right?. You’re a greedy girl, you want more. Fucking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he proves you wrong. He slammed his hips into yours with strength. He sank into you, filling you to the brink, so deep, stretching you so completely that a single whimper torn straight from your throat. His mouth crashed into yours, making you moan, bringing your legs to the small of his back as he withdrew and sank back in deeper and harder. He fucks you hard, not faster. He thrust into you with meaning, deeper and meaner. Jungkook pressed a hand hard in your lower stomach, making you feel him better.

Your back arches and you moaned his name with meaning, feeling him so good, so rich. Jungkook rolled his hips into you on command. Sweat glistened your bodies, and it was getting hard to breathe for both of you. You moaned, relishing how he stretched you. You gasped, trying to mold his body to yours as your orgasm started building. Your nails dragged down his back, burning his skin as you arched into him again. His mouth finds your neck again, kissing harder. His fingers in your cheeks find your clit, moving them to it faster so you could reach your high.

“Shit— Jungkook. Fuck, wait—”

“No.” His voice is demanding, manly. In a way that makes you know you’re not in control. “This is what you wanted, right?. You can take it. You’re gonna take it, pretty”, Jungkook bites your neck and your eyes get glossy in tears. “Shit— Come on, you’re so good. You’re doing so good for me…”

You squeezed him hard, and his hips stumbled at the feeling. He moans, and lets a growl when you moaned his name into his ear. A sweet noise he’s sure he will remember for weeks. You cried out as you found your release. The world spinning, your body wrecked as euphoria crashed into you. Jungkook came completely undone a few erratic thrusts later, with the sexiest moan you’d ever heard in your life. He managed to hold himself from collapsing on top of you, shifting gently to the side.

It takes you both some minutes to come down from the high. Your body too tired to even get up to shower or clean yourself. Luckily, Jungkook seems to notice because— after catching his breath— he stands up to grab some tissues and clean you and him. With a softness that didn’t match the way he was fucking you just some minutes ago.

When he finish cleaning you off and putting his shirt over you, your face touched his pillow and you almost passed out of tiresome.

And you knew, that wasn’t going to be the last time you’ll be seeing Jungkook.

———

Sunday morning in the city was quiet in the way you liked: no traffic, no emails, no one asking you about marble tile samples or supplier invoices or which appetizer would look better on the press photos. Just the low hum of things waking up slowly — the clatter of silverware in cafes, the hiss of espresso machines, the shuffle of strollers and dogs and hungover twenty-somethings pretending they were early risers.

You were already on the street, oversized sunglasses on, coat tied loose at the waist. You hadn’t slept over. You never slept over. You’d left Jungkook’s place around five… still dark enough to pretend it was nighttime, early enough to pretend it wasn’t a walk of shame. Not that you felt any shame. You’d brushed your hair with your fingers, borrowed his comb, stolen a sweatshirt that definitely didn’t match your skirt, and left with your heels in one hand and your phone in the other. No kiss goodbye. Just a muttered “see you” that didn’t mean anything.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

By the time you reached the café, Bohyung and Se-hoo were already seated at a sidewalk table under the heaters, sipping coffee like they’d been there for hours instead of ten minutes.

“Y/n,” Bohyun said, without looking up from his phone. “You look like a sexy widow escaping a crime scene.”

“I am,” you said, slipping into the chair between them. “And I’m very tired of hiding the body.”

Se-hoo handed you a coffee. “Who was it this time?”

You took a sip before answering. “Same as last time.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow. “The tattooed dilf?.”

“God,” you groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Well what do you want me to call him?” Bohyung asked. “Zaddy Ink?”

Se-hoo smirked. “How is he, anyway?”

You shrugged. “Still hot. Still knows what he’s doing. Still very much not my boyfriend.”

“Good,” your other friend said, dramatically relieved. “Because if you start dating a man who’s emotionally balanced and knows how to make eggs, I will actually die of neglect.”

“He does make excellent eggs,” you muttered.

Bohyung clutched his chest. “This is how it starts.”

“It’s not anything,” you said. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. We text. I go to his place. We have sex. I leave. That’s it.”

“No sleepovers?” Se-hoo asked, eyebrow raised.

“No after we establish this was casual sex,” you said firmly. “And before you ask—no, I haven’t taken him to my place. I’m not an idiot.”

Bohyung leaned in. “So you’re just casually boning a very hot, very grown man with a child, feelings nowhere in sight, and no complications whatsoever?”

“Exactly.”

He nodded. “You’re going to explode.”

“I’m fine,” you said, half-laughing. “You two are so dramatic.”

“You say that like it’s an insult,” he said, biting into a piece of toast.

You settled into your chair, sighing like you were exhausted by them both but secretly comforted. You liked this part of your life — the routine of brunch with your friends, the rhythm of easy conversations that didn’t require explanation or effort. The way Se-hoo always ordered the same thing and ate it with a knife and fork like a villain. The way Bohyung flirted with the waiter just enough to get them free mimosas but not enough to get banned.

You talked for a while. about her latest campaign (a tech CEO with a scandalous burner account), his new client (a Russian heiress trying to buy a vineyard in Spain because she liked the name), and whether or not you all should all just run away to Tokyo again and start over.

Then Bohyung leaned back, stretching, sunglasses catching the sun. “Oh, by the way,” he said, casually. “Your parents’ thing is next week.”

You groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You can’t skip it,” Se-hoo said, not looking up from her phone.

“I absolutely can.”

“You skipped last year,” she reminded you. “And the year before that.”

“And the year before that,” Bohyung added.

“And you know what happened?” you said, sipping your coffee. “Nothing. They made awkward conversation with people who don’t know my name, toasted to overpriced wine, and pretended to love each other. No one died.”

He grinned. “Come on. It’s a party. The food’s good. The gossip’s better. And your dad always hires at least two jazz bands for no reason.”

“Because he likes to feel cultured,” you muttered.

Se-hoo put her phone down. “You should go. Show face. Wear something sharp. Remind them you exist and are terrifyingly successful.”

You made a face. “You mean remind them I’m successful thanks to their money and that I didn’t marry Jungwoo and give them photogenic grandchildren.”

“Oh god,” Bohyun said, dramatically fake-gagging. “Jungwoo. I forgot that was almost a thing.”

“Same,” you lied. “Blessed amnesia.”

“Please, you loved him” Se-hoo said to your friend. “Smart. Witty. Generous. Could keep up with us.”

“Honestly, he was kinda perfect” Bohyung sighed. “Knew too much about my job and the laws of it. Was pretty funny, smart and hot. The perfect man— except for his ability to disappear for weeks because of his job.”

“And you didn’t have to have sex with him,” you said dryly.

He shrugged. “A perfect arrangement.”

You laughed, finished brunch, and ordered another round of coffee just because you could. After some talk, you said goodbye to your friends, you called your driver to start work.

Your car moved through the city like it had memorized every route. Your driver, Oscar, barely spoke unless you asked — which you never did — and the ride was silent except for the quiet hum of pop music from the speakers and the steady tap of your acrylic nail against your phone screen. You were way to a meeting with a wine distributor who had the social skills of a taxidermied cat but owned vineyards in Tuscany, so charm was optional. Your mind was already sifting through numbers, names, details — the things that mattered.

Then your phone lit up.

The name of a woman you knew.

You stared at the screen for a second before picking up. You adjusted the volume and cleared your throat.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Honey! Good morning,” your mother said, voice like a soft silk scarf — warm, polished, controlled. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I’ve been up since five.”

“Of course you have,” your mother said with a light laugh. “You’ve always been my little early bird.” That wasn’t true. you hated mornings but always did the effort for work. “How are you?” she continued. “I feel like we’ve barely spoken this week.”

You tilted your head back against the seat, watching the buildings pass. “Busy. I bought the place in Spain so the launch it’s calculated to be in eight months or less so everything’s chaos.”

“You’ll make it perfect. You always do.”

There was something in the way she said it — kind, proud, but… automatic. Like she was reading it off a script.

You exhaled through your nose. “Thanks.”

“And how’s everything else? Life, love, health? Eating well?”

“I’m fine.”

“Just fine?” you mother’s tone lifted slightly. “You’re not burning yourself out again, are you? You know you tend to overdo it when you’re in your perfectionist mode.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s every mode.”

“Well,” she laughed, “then I suppose it’s genetic.”

Another thing that wasn’t true. You had no idea what mode your mother operated in. You barely remembered her outside being on a plane or in another time zone for most of your childhood.

“What about you?” you asked. “Where are you guys now?”

“London. Your father’s giving a lecture at the Royal Academy, something on architectural postmodernism and Eastern symmetry—I stopped trying to follow halfway through.”

Right. Your father and his lectures. Your mother and her panels and consultancy projects. They were always somewhere. You sometimes joked with Bohyung that you learned geography based on your parents’ voicemail greetings.

“How long are you staying?”

“Just until Thursday. Then back in time for the gala.”

You tensed slightly. “Oh, right.”

“I just wanted to remind you,” your mother said gently, as if she sensed it. “Next Saturday at the house. Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight. You don’t have to bring anyone, of course.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“But you’re coming?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Her voice softened. “I know it’s not your favorite thing. But it means a lot to your father.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s fine.”

It was always “fine.”

The party wasn’t a surprise. They hosted them every year… formal, elegant, full of silver cutlery and floral centerpieces and the kind of people who called you “impressive” and then forgot your name. Technically, it was a fundraiser — your father’s favorite word for throwing himself a well-lit celebration. This year it was for the city’s heritage commission. Last year it was for a scholarship. The year before, clean energy. All good causes. All good optics. And always the same. Same guest list. Same photographers. Same sense of standing in a house that wasn’t yours, surrounded by people who knew your face and none of your history.

“You still like the blue Valentino?” your mother asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“The dress I brought you last spring. You looked stunning in it. I thought you might wear it again.”

You paused. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You can bring Bohyung and Se-hoo, of course. I mean they’re always there for the champagne but they’re always very fun to be around.”

You smiled, despite yourself. “You mean they know how to talk to people without sounding like hypocrites?”

“Exactly.” Another silence, not awkward — just empty. Your mom cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day. I know how busy you are. I just wanted to hear your voice. You’ve always had the most beautiful voice.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you, darling.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended. The car kept moving.

You stared out the window, lips pressed together, hands resting on your lap. You knew your mother meant well. Always had. She was gentle, thoughtful, generous in her own manicured way. But there had always been a kind of space between you two. Like the difference between a hug and a photograph of a hug. Familiar, but never quite lived in. It wasn’t that they didn’t love you. They just… loved the version of you that they had imagined. The girl who never threw tantrums. The girl who skipped stages. The girl who grew up well, with straight teeth and good posture and business acumen.

A perfect product of two people who missed everything in the middle.

Fifteen years ago.

You had made it your personal mission to destroy every nanny who stepped foot into the house. It wasn’t that you liked being difficult — not exactly. But at twelve years old, you’d already learned that the quickest way to get your parents’ attention was through disaster. Broken windows. Expelled tutors. Hysterical voicemails. You didn’t cry anymore when they left for Tokyo or Berlin or Buenos Aires. You just got mean and loud.

It worked... Sometimes.

Today, you stood barefoot in the front hall, arms crossed, watching the newest casualty storm out of the house muttering something about demon children and emotional abuse. Your mother hadn’t even been there. Your father had sent a driver to escort the woman out, followed by a politely distant phone call:

“We’ll find someone new, honey. Don’t worry. We’ll be home next month.”

Next month. Always next month.

You kicked the wall and left a black scuff mark just because you could.

Two days later, the door dinged and out stepped a small, sharp woman in orthopedic shoes and a beige wool coat. She didn’t smile when she saw you. She didn’t compliment the apartment or coo over your name or ask if you liked ice cream or what hobbies were you into. She just looked you over, slowly, as if examining a stray cat on the edge of a good shoe.

“So,” the woman said, thick Italian accent curling the word. “You are the bambina selvaggia.”

You blinked. “What?”

The woman dropped her bag on the floor with a grunt. “Wild girl. The one who chases the nannies. You look smaller than I thought.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Who are you?”

“Mi chiamo Rosa,” the woman said. “But you can call me Nonna Rosa. Because I am too old for this shit, and la signora told me I could do whatever I want if you don’t end up in juvenile prison.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “You won’t last a week.”

Rosa shrugged off her coat and hung it— not on the rack, but on the bannister.

“You think I want to last?” she said, already walking toward the kitchen. “I came here to eat well and keep my bones warm. Your mother pays like a royal and doesn’t ask me to clean the floors. Perfetto. If you run me off, I’ll go back to Sicilia and you’ll still be crying in your golden room.”

“I’m not crying!,” you snapped.

“Not yet,” Rosa called from the other room.

It went downhill fast.

You refused to follow her schedule. You stomped around the apartment slamming doors. You threw a tantrum when Rosa moved your tablet charger without asking. At dinner, you dumped the minestrone Rosa made straight into the trash. Rosa said nothing. She just poured herself a glass of red wine, sat across the table, and ate the rest of the soup in silence.

On the second week, you locked yourself in the guest bathroom and refused to come out for hours. Rosa didn’t knock. Didn’t coax. Didn’t bribe. She just stood outside the door and said:

“Va bene. Then you stay in there. You don’t come out until you want to act like a person and not a porcupine with lip gloss.” Silence. “You’re not the first lonely girl I’ve met, bella,” Rosa added. “But even the loneliest wolf learns not to bite the hand that feeds it.”

You kicked the door. “I’m not a wolf!”

“No?” Rosa said, voice amused now. “Then come out and prove it.”

It wasn’t immediate.

But over the weeks, things shifted.

Rosa never coddled you. She corrected your Italian, rolled her eyes when you whined, and once smacked a Vogue magazine out of your hand and told you to read something with a brain. She throw you an Italian old book about the cold war— you didn’t understand anything at that time but for the first time you wanted to try. She made dinner every night. She remembered that you hated the smell of coconut lotion, that you didn’t like too much parmesan in your pasta. She asked about your day without making it sound like a checklist.

And one evening, when your mother called to cancel another return flight, you didn’t scream or cry. You just handed the phone to Rosa, sat down at the table, and ate your ravioli without speaking.

After the call, Rosa sat next to you, poured you both a tiny glass of wine. Your first one, even if you were twelve, and said, “You don’t need them to grow up strong.”

You looked at her. “Then why do I still want them to be here?”

Rosa sighed. “Because you are not a rock. You are a little girl. And little girls deserve to be held.”

Then she placed a hand on your head, softly, like she was checking your for fever and left it there a long time. And it made you a feel little more light to know someone was there, home with you. Hearing your nonsense and your feelings. And giving you your first taste of a good wine.

Present.

You blinked.

The memory lingered in your chest like a breath you forgot to exhale. You were still in the car, the city moving past the tinted windows, the sky turning the color of pewter. You didn’t know why you’d remembered Rosa just then. Maybe it was your mother’s voice still echoing in your head. Maybe it was the look on that little girl’s face you’d seen crossing the street, the one gripping her father’s hand like she didn’t want to let go… Or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t called Rosa in over a week.

You pulled out your phone. Scrolled to ‘Nonna’ in your contacts. Paused. Then typed:

“Ti penso sempre. Sto venendo a trovarti questa settimana.” I’m always thinking of you. I’m coming to visit this week.

You hit send. And for the first time all day, you felt something close to peace.

———

Jungkook slammed his hips against yours hard. Your head fell back over his shoulder as you tried not to make louder sounds. He was fucking you good. Like he had learned how to better than before now that he knew your body better. There were little things you love lately about putting yourself out there in your single life, the first one being getting— very well—fucked.

Jungkook had you pressed against him, with your back against his torso. Fucking you against his mattress. His right hand was pressed against your neck so that you wouldn’t get far away from him every time he slapped his hips hard against yours. His right hand was pressed in your lower abdomen to hold you in place. He kissed and bit your neck delicately— delicately that was at odds with the way he slammed his hips against you. Your right hand was gripping his hair and the other was held tightly against the bed so you could have some control not to fall passed out in bed.

He was fucking you so good it almost made you cry.

“You feel so good, pretty.” he groaned against your ear. “Are you close?.”

You were only able to nod. Jungkook was becoming greater at making you feel good. Every damn time. And he knew it.

He slipped out of you. Man-handling you around to turn around. Your back hit the bed and he was quickly to grabbed your right thigh and put it around his hip before slipping inside you again. This time faster.

“Fuck me— faster.”

“Fuck, fuck. You’re so hot, baby.”

It didn’t take you too long to finish. And neither it did for him.

You leaned against the bed trying to come back to your senses, same as Jungkook who stayed on top you for a couple more seconds to come down from his high. It was good being like this. Quiet and close. It was after some minutes more that he kissed your naked shoulder softly before pushing himself to his drawer to take some tissues and start cleaning you both. It had become kind of a routine for him to be the first one to come to his senses and start the aftercare.

Your were both still catching your breath when you flung one leg off the bed like you were dramatically escaping a scene of seduction. Jungkook laughed quietly from where he lay, one arm behind his head, entirely too satisfied with himself.

“You always leave like you just robbed me,” he murmured.

You didn’t even look back as your reached for his shirt.

“That’s because I did,” you said, moving your hair outside the fabric. “You had something I wanted. I took it. I’m leaving victorious.”

“Criminal mastermind,” he said, smiling.

“Don’t compliment me,” you called over your shoulder. “It’ll go to my head.”

You padded barefoot out of the bedroom and down the hall, headed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen—or the bathroom—or anywhere that would lead to caffeine and/or soap. But then it happened. A crack, a pop, and a sound so visceral it could only come from one thing. A LEGO. Right beneath the arch of your left foot.

You let out a shriek that could’ve shattered glass. “FUCKING FUCK, FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

A worried voice came from the bedroom “Whoa—what?! What happened?!”

You limped forward like you’d been shot, one foot dangling mid-air like it had touched lava. “I stepped on a fucking landmine is what happened!”

Jungkook appeared around the corner in nothing but boxers, already looking half-concerned and half-amused. “Wait—did you just step on…?”

You held up the offending piece of plastic with the drama of a courtroom prosecutor. “This. This is what your spawn has left to assassinate me.”

Jungkook burst out laughing. “A Lego? You screamed like someone got murdered.”

“Because I was,” you snapped. “By a three-centimeter block of doom.”

He stepped closer, still laughing, and grabbed your waist before you could hobble any further. “Let me see.”

“I don’t need medical attention—”

“I’m not medically trained, I’m just trying not to let you die in my hallway.” You glared at him as he crouched slightly, inspecting your foot with exaggerated seriousness. “Okay,” he said gravely. “I think the Lego punctured your dignity.”

“Ha-ha,” you muttered, balancing dramatically against his shoulder. “Remind me again why people choose to breed.”

Jungkook looked up at you, biting back another smile. “We’re really doing this?”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, still wounded. “I never understood the appeal of tiny humans whose hobbies include screaming, spilling, and laying traps like this.”

“She probably dropped it by accident.”

“Oh, yeah?” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think it was a coincidence that the one Lego left in this fortress of neat-freak masculinity just happened to be where my foot landed?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think my seven-year-old daughter set a booby trap to take you out?”

“Absolutely,” you nodded. “She can sense I’m not one of them.”

“One of what?”

You gestured vaguely, still balancing. “The… happy kid people. You know. The ones who like park picnics and Baby Shark and post photos like ‘My whole life’ with a sticky toddler eating sand.”

Jungkook full-on laughed then, and it vibrated through his chest as he pulled you in slightly. “You’re insane,” he said, grinning.

“I’m in pain,” you corrected. “Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.”

Still smiling, he gently set you foot down and looked up at you. “Come on. You survived it. You can have coffee. On me.”

“I want coffee and an apology from your child.”

“She’s at school,” he said, already turning toward the kitchen. “But I’ll write one on her behalf and draw a sad dinosaur. Will that help?”

“It might,” you muttered, limping dramatically after him. “But only if it cries.”

You were, once again, reminded why you didn’t like kids.

———

Jeon Jungkook’s mornings didn’t start with silence or introspective stillness. They started with cereal. More specifically, the sound of cereal being aggressively poured into a ceramic bowl by a seven-year-old who hadn’t quite figured out ratios.

From the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth, he called out, “Sunni, are you using the entire box again?”

“No!” came her innocent voice.

He stepped into the kitchen. The entire box was in the bowl. He just grinned, grabbed a second bowl, and redistributed the mountain of chocolatey puffed sugar without a word. It was a routine. Mess, correction, minimal drama. He liked those kind days, the ones where everything was the same and at the same time it wasn’t— you never knew what you could get from a seven-year-old child.

Sunni sat on the barstool with her hair half-combed and her socks mismatched. “Is it library day or music day?” she asked mid-bite.

“Music,” Jungkook said, sliding a thermos of coffee into his bag. “And don’t forget your recorder this time or Ms. Jennings is going to give me that look again.”

“She always looks at you like that.”

“Because she’s terrified I’ll volunteer to perform with you.”

The little girl snorted, and he ruffled her hair.

After school drop-off and a quick drive through traffic with his windows cracked and Springsteen on low, Jungkook walked into his tattoo shop just as the first artist of the day was setting up her station. The shop — “My Time” — sat on the corner of a leafy street just far enough outside the city’s most tourist-clogged parts to feel like a hidden gem. The windows were full of plants. The walls were covered in framed art, flash designs, vintage photographs. It was clean, calm, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus and ink.

It had taken him seven years to build it. Five artists, one piercer, and a rotating assistant manager who kept the books and occasionally brought him pastries he didn’t ask for but always ate.

“Morning, boss,” called Mia from her chair. Her hair was pink today.

“Morning,” he said, setting down his sketchbook and rolling up his sleeves. “Client at ten?”

“She’s early. Wants a floral rib piece. Showed me a Pinterest board the length of the Constitution.”

Jungkook groaned. “God bless Pinterest.”

He headed to his station, thumbed through his design folder, and sipped the coffee he didn’t really need.

The day passed in a quiet, rhythmic loop. Appointments, sketches, cleaning, music in the background, and the satisfying silence of people letting you create something permanent on their skin. He liked it. The small talk. The intimacy. The trust. Between clients, he leaned over the front counter where his best friend and shop partner, Park Jimin, was sketching in a notebook, AirPods in. Jungkook tapped his pen on the paper. The older looked up.

“You done ruining another collarbone or did your floral girl flinch again?” He pulled one earbud out.

Jungkook leaned on the counter. “No flinching. She was great. Talked about her dead grandmother for two hours and then tipped like a saint.”

“Damn. And here I thought tattooing grieving millennials would be the death of you.”

“Nah,” he said, stretching his shoulder. “They cry, I hand them a juice box, and we both survive.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “So… speaking of surviving. How’s your hot younger non-girlfriend?”

Jungkook snorted. “You mean Y/n?”

“Oh, we’re on a first-name basis now? Cute.”

The younger rolled his eyes. “It’s not a thing. We’re just— hooking up. Casually. Like grown-ups.”

“Right,” his friend said, leaning back in his chair. “Totally casual. No emotional involvement. Just penis diplomacy and the occasional Lego-related injury.”

Jungkook shook his head, laughing. “She stepped on one fucking Lego and acted like she got sniped by a Navy SEAL.”

“That’s because she’s a childless woman, man,” Jimin said, mock-serious. “They don’t understand the sacrifices we make daily. We’re warriors. Foot soldiers in the plastic toy trenches.”

He smirked. “You don’t even have kids.”

“I babysit my niece every two weeks. I’ve stepped on a Polly Pocket heel. I know pain. I actually empathize with that poor girl. You should clean your place better.”

Jungkook chuckled, flipping to a fresh page in his sketchbook. “Well, she’s hilarious. Kind of ridiculous. But smart as hell.”

“Yeah? She got a job or is she just hot and angry?”

“I think she manage some Italian restaurant. She’s very vague but brags a lot about it.”

The older blinked. “Damn. You’re dating a pasta tycoon?”

“I’m sleeping with a pasta tycoon. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is,” Jimin said, nodding sagely. “Until she meets Sunni and runs for the hills.” Jungkook didn’t say anything for a moment. Jimin looked up. “She hasn’t met the little one yet, right?”

Jungkook shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Smart. Don’t introduce your kid to a woman who’s allergic to Play-Doh and feelings.”

Jungkook let out a breath, one of those little huffs that was half amusement, half… something else. “I like how easy it is,” he admitted. “I don’t have to explain anything. She doesn’t ask about the future. We text, we hook up, we joke around, and she leaves with her earrings in her purse like a criminal.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “But?”

Jungkook shrugged. “No ‘but.’ Just— haven’t had something uncomplicated in a while. And that’s good.”

“Unless you start liking it too much.”

The younger made a face. “Christ. Spare me the Dr. Phil speech.”

“I’m just saying,” his friend said, putting his sketchpad down. “Don’t let the hot sex and sarcastic banter distract you from the fact that dating with a kid is like driving with a trunk full of explosives. You crash, the whole car goes.”

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Noted.”

But he wasn’t worried. He liked where things were. He liked that you made him laugh. That you never tried to impress him or prove too deep. That you didn’t flinch at his age or his kid or his life or his life before you. He liked that you weren’t also one of those who were crazy to just be in a family or try to get him because he was divorced with a daughter. And yeah, you definitely weren’t in it for Sunni. Or family vibes. Or cozy domestic bullshit. But it worked. It worked better than anything had in a long time for him. And he liked it enough to keep it that way for the moment.

That evening, He picked up Sunni from her after-school theater club. She ran to him with her backpack bouncing and her ponytail crooked, and he crouched down just in time to catch her mid-jump.

“Dad! I was the narrator! And no one forgot their lines except Thomas but we pretended he was a ghost so it still made sense!”

“Genius,” Jungkook said. “Absolute star behavior.”

She wiggled out of his arms and reached into her backpack. “Also I drew a tiger wearing a leather jacket. But I ran out of orange so it’s actually a bear.”

“Perfect. We’ll hang it on the fridge next to disco dinosaur.”

“Disco dino is sacred,” she said seriously.

They walked to the car, Sunni chatting nonstop about her music teacher, the cafeteria cookies, and whether or not dogs dream in color. Jungkook listened. Nodded. Threw in a “hmm” and a “tell me more” at the right beats. He’d gotten good at that, letting her talk and giving her space to be. He had learned how to be present and how to be patient. He knew how to move around any part of life without being scared or playing. He was mature enough to know how to do things right.

Back home, she ate spaghetti with too much cheese while he cleaned up the kitchen and checked a few shop messages. After she’d fallen asleep in her bed, diagonally, surrounded by stuffed animals it was almost dramatic, he showered and finally collapsed onto the couch with his phone. One new message.

Y/n: You alive or did your daughter finally kill you with Legos?

He smirked. Typed back:

Jungkook: She spared me today. You free tomorrow night?

Three dots appeared. Then:

Y/n: Sure. Your place. But hide the toys this time. Or I’m charging you for physical third-party abuse

Jungkook leaned back, smiling at the ceiling. No strings. No pressure. Just good sex, good banter, and the occasional Lego-related injury.

Perfect. For now.

so first chapter here!! i was supposed to put it out tmrw but i got excited hehehehe

WHY AM I SO NERVOUS ABOUT POSTING THIS??? guys i wrote this long ago and i edit it this week so if you see any mistake,NO you didn’t. Also:; you guys put me in so much pressure cuz why the fuck so many people wanted to read this??? anyway tell me how it was and if you guys are liking it so far pls >_<

anddd don’t quote me with my italian cuz it’s gonna be a lot more in the future hohohoh i cooka da pizza

taglist:

@sanguchitodeternera @yneisstuff @smoljimjim @almatiarau @annpeachy @mar-lo-pap @taetaecatboy @rrosiitas @httpsmei @jeonnabi11 @gigi4evr @sabrinahiddig @tatzzz-25 @slythermania @yuyu0y11 @ultracnt @baekpop05 @tinyxrose @satisfied18 @kissyfacekoo @synamon @smut02 @alextgef @lindsayjoy444 @ottergirl @imagine-this-motherfucker @dream-lover200 @astralovesu @dragons-flare @jungkookswifeeeeeee @jungkooknippleanddicksucker @yuniesluv @kookooquette @lanyia @dearkayzel-blog @katie-tibo @strawberryacethingz @jalexad @llallaaa @eyesforjungkook @wandabillywrites @flowinj @strawberrysweetness @osakis-gf @bambijuicee @dollyunjinz

#bangtan x reader #bts x reader #bts one shot #bts fanfic #masterlist bts #reader x jeon jungkook #jk x reader #bts army #jeon jungkook fanfic #reader x jk #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #reader x jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook oneshot #jk one shot #golden jungkook #jungkook

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blaysreid · 3 days ago

Text

STRAWBERRY PICNIC - S.R

pairing = touchy!bf!spencer + gf!reader

summary = A sunny picnic turns into soft kisses, tangled limbs, and quiet laughter under the trees. Later, it’s warm sheets and wandering hands, breathless moments and one too many philosophical tangents. Spencer’s mind races, yours melts, and somehow it’s perfect anyway.

content warning = MAKING OUTTTT, lots of touches all in bed. No actual smut!! They're very close and cute.

A/N = My account is legit flopping please interact and check out my other posts.. 🙏

The blanket is too big for just two people, but Spencer insists on unfolding the whole thing anyway.

“It’s better this way,” he mumbles as he smooths the corners down against the grass. “That way, if we roll around or if the wind picks up nothing gets dirty.”

You laugh softly, sitting cross legged near the middle while he fusses over the edges. His hair is curling at the ends from the summer air. Warmth clings to his cheeks in a pinkish hue, the same one that always shows up when he’s proud of something or nervous about being close to you.

The park is quiet, just after noon. A few families in the distance. A dog barking happily near the trees. But here, under the shade of a tree Spencer claimed was “statistically the safest place to avoid sunstroke,” it feels like you’re in your own little world.

He finally sits beside you, close but not quite touching, until you lean your shoulder against his.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once.

Then, after a pause, his voice softens. “I just… really like this. Being here with you.”

Your chest warms. You glance at the basket between you, filled with things he packed, half of which are way too specific to ever come from a regular grocery run.

You pull out a small container of strawberries. They’re perfectly red and neatly sliced.

“You cut these?”

Spencer shrugs, but his lips curve up.

“I read they taste sweeter if you chill them and slice them in halves before serving. Something about the surface area and sugar exposure. I” He catches your expression and stops himself, cheeks flushing again. “Sorry. That wasn’t very romantic.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“It was,” you say.

A beat of silence. Then another.

He lets out a breath. Relaxing into you.

You feel the weight of his hand settle gently over yours where it rests on your knee. His fingers play lightly with your skin, tracing tiny, absentminded patterns. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing words.

A breeze moves through the branches above, ruffling his hair. You reach up to brush it from his eyes. He closes them for a moment under your touch, like it’s something holy.

Then his voice, soft like the July wind.

“I used to think quiet meant lonely.”

You glance up at him. He’s still looking down at your hand.

“But now…” he trails off.

“Now?” you whisper.

He finally lifts his eyes to yours. There’s something shy in his gaze. Something reverent.

“Now I think it can mean safe.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

He leans into it like he’s trying to remember how it feels forever.

Later, after the strawberries are gone and the air grows a little heavier with heat, Spencer shifts behind you and fluffs the pillow he brought from home. You didn’t even realize he’d packed it, but of course he did. Of course he thought ahead.

You tilt your head with a smile. “You planned this like a stakeout.”

He gives you that small, crooked grin, the one that melts just beneath his eyes.

“Technically, I planned it like a field operation. Optimal shade, low noise exposure, ideal visibility, a soft perimeter for comfort.”

You crawl back toward him and sink down between his legs, letting your back rest against his chest. His arms come around you right away, warm and secure. He exhales like you just completed something.

“A soft perimeter?” you echo, eyebrows raised. “Are you talking about the blanket?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. “And also your body. You’re very soft.”

You snort. “Did you just call me a human perimeter?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, smug now. “An exceptionally cuddly one. Top-tier defense system.”

You reach back and swat lightly at his thigh. “You’re such a nerd.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in my lap. Voluntarily.”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mmm. Classic deflection. Also, by the way, I packed three flavors of jam. I don’t know if you noticed. But that’s love.”

You blink. “Did you just equate emotional commitment with a jam variety?”

“I’m not saying all love can be measured by jam,” he says, pausing for effect. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

You tilt your head back against him and laugh, full and real. His arms squeeze a little tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you say, still smiling.

He grins into your hair. “You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love me,” he sings, the words muffled against your shoulder.

“Tragically.”

“Say it.”

“Nope.”

He drops his head with a dramatic sigh. “I bring you shade, strawberries, structural support, and jam. And still. No verbal validation.”

You twist around a little in his arms until you can meet his eyes. They’re soft and golden and way too proud of themselves.

You kiss him. Light at first. Then slower.

When you pull away, he’s flushed and smiling.

“That was validation,” you murmur.

He kisses you again. Just because he can. Then he tucks his chin over your shoulder and speaks into your ear.

“You’re my favorite human perimeter.”

You groan. “Stop. I’m never letting you plan another date again.”

“Yes you are.”

You sigh. “Yeah. I am."

You lean into his face pressing another kiss on his cheek before closing your eyes and letting the sun wash over you both.

After a while when the heat isn't as strong, the wind gets stronger, you both know you slowly have to make your way back home.

But for now you’re still nestled between Spencer’s legs, your back to his chest and his arms looped lazily around your waist. The sun’s shifted now, light dappling through the branches above. There’s a half-empty bottle of lemonade rolling around somewhere to the side, but neither of you moves.

You’re too deep in it now.

Not the cuddling. The conversation.

“I just think Kant had this way of moralizing action that kind of overlooks how… fundamentally irrational people are,” you say, twisting the edge of the blanket between your fingers. “Like, duty and obligation? Sure. But people don’t really behave based on abstract reason. Not consistently. Not unless there’s something primal anchoring them to it.”

You pause, turning your head slightly like you’re waiting for a challenge.

Silence.

No rebuttal.

You glance up at him.

Spencer is just staring at you.

Eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. Like he’s witnessing a solar eclipse.

“What..?” you ask, squinting. “What is that face.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. His voice comes out quiet.

“You’re talking about Kant. While sitting in my lap. In a park. Eating strawberries. And you’re actually criticizing him correctly. With nuance. And passion.”

You blink.

“Okay, but you taught me half of this stuff.”

“Still,” he breathes, brushing his fingers slowly along your arm like he’s grounding himself. “Hearing you say it. Like that. I think my entire central nervous system just short-circuited.”

You grin.

He doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes still fixed on you. “This is very attractive behavior.”

You laugh. “Did you just say my philosophical rant turns you on?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. It genuinely does. Please continue. Possibly slower. Possibly with a bibliography.”

You roll your eyes and reach back to flick his leg, but he catches your hand and kisses the knuckle.

“I mean it,” he says more softly, voice lower now. “You know how rare this is? To feel understood like this? You didn’t just read what I gave you. You… you felt it.”

You rest your head back on his shoulder again. His lips press into your hairline.

“You are unbelievably cheesy,” you murmur, grinning.

“And you are unbelievably hot when you quote Kant in a tank top.”

You gasp. “You can’t say that! That’s not even a sexy philosopher!”

“It is now.”

You both break into laughter, tangled up in each other, arms wrapped around limbs and sun-warmed skin. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, more like he’s grounding himself than anything else. He’s still smiling when he speaks again, this time quieter.

“You’ve got a little bit of me inside you,” he whispers.

You blink.

“Okay that sounded-”

“Yup,” you cut in.

“Intellectually,” he clarifies, laughing through the embarrassment. “That’s what I meant.”

You laugh too. “Sure, genius. We’ll go with that.”

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist.

And you stay like that. Under the trees. Philosophers and fruit and flawed humanity.

And two people who have never felt more perfectly understood.

—–-

It starts the way all the best things do, slow and unassuming.

You’re lying in bed now, after the park, after the leftover jam sticky fingers and forehead kisses and the slow walk home. The golden hour melted into dusk. The bedroom glows faintly with it. The windows are cracked, the fan hums low, and Spencer is under the sheets with you.

You’re curled into him again. Familiar. Warm.

But it’s different now.

You shift slightly, fitting your leg between his, and you feel it. The tension in his muscles. The sharp inhale. The way his hands, always hesitant, always soft, suddenly press into your back like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You don’t say anything.

You just move again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

That’s all it takes.

His lips are on yours a second later.

It starts soft. Lingering. Like he’s still trying to figure out if he’s dreaming.

But then you open your mouth to him.

And his brain shuts off completely.

He rolls you onto your back gently but firmly, kissing you deeper now, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your waist like he needs to memorize the feel of you. You arch into him without thinking, and he makes a quiet, broken sound in his throat like he can’t quite believe it.

You tangle your hands in his hair, tug just slightly.

He groans.

His mouth drops to your neck, then your collarbone, and you feel him there, flushed and solid above you, and everything starts unraveling fast.

His hand slides up your side, fingers grazing over your ribs. His other hand is tangled in yours. Your legs shift, opening slightly under his. His hips press down, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Spence.” you whisper.

He kisses you again, open mouthed, desperate now, one hand dipping to the waistband of your shorts. His fingertips slide beneath the fabric. He’s just about to-

“Wait,” he breathes.

You freeze. “What?” You're just about to ask if something's wrong. If you touched him in the wrong place or if he wants to go further.

But he doesn't let your thoughts linger any longer with his lips still on your neck when he says it, voice muffled.

“This is exactly what Kant warned about.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

“No.”

He lifts his head, flushed, dazed, breathing hard. “I’m serious. The blurring of rational thought in the face of human desire. He was terrified of this.”

“Spencer." you say, completely deadpan. “You were literally about to take my pants off.”

He looks down at your shorts. Then up at you. Then at your shorts again.

“I still am." he says, leaning down to kiss you again before giving you a cheeky smile and grinning in your face as if he didn't just turn the moment into a philosophical talk.

You pull back a fraction. “Not until you promise to stop quoting dead philosophers while you’re on top of me.”

“But it’s relevant.." he whispers into your ear. “Kant would be losing his mind right now.”

You shove his shoulder and laugh, and he drops his forehead to yours, still grinning, still out of breath.

You cup his face with both hands.

“Tell Kant to wait his turn.”

Spencer kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

“He’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “He deserves it.”

And then you’re kissing again, tangled limbs and warm sheets and laughter between every breath. His hands never stop moving. Neither do yours.

"And I deserve you right now" You softly mumble against his lips.

He smiles at that, soft boba eyes looking down into yours, admiring your face, your eyes. Admiring you.

And just then, somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear Spencer whisper:

“God, you’re such a beautiful moral contradiction.”

And you fall in love with him all over again.

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nymphaea-blue · 2 days ago

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Lads boys when you cry.

Info : 1,5k+ word count (around 350+ per part), fluff, hurt/comfort, possible grammar mistakes.

Notes : I took bits of inspo from their in game interactions and some of them were so cute! I don't listen to other boys since I'm a Rafayel main but awh Sylus was a cutie in Tete-a-tete ^^

Rafayel

You entered Rafayel's home just as he worked on another painting. You felt bad for disturbing his work, no matter how many times he said that you are more important it still made you feel bad, but you needed him now. Tears slowly slid down your cheeks as your lip trembled when the small, water beads shining like pears eventually hit the ground.

No words were needed, your boyfriend stopped painting for a moment and you saw his expression change to concern before he looked at you, as if he already knew what was going on in your head without needing to ask you.

“Cutie? What’s wrong?” He asked, the usual playful smile gone from his face.

He got down from his chair and opened his arms right as you ran up to hug him, now sobbing into his soft cardigan.

“I’m here, it’s okay… Nothing can hurt you now, not with me here.” Rafayel gently whispered into your ear as his hands wrapped around you, one hand on your back and the other gently holding your head as you cried into his shoulder.

The two of you stood like that for a moment. No words of judgement, no fussing, just deep understanding and comfort. Soft, honey sweet words came from your boyfriend in waves as the lemurian did his best to reassure you, to cease that growing pressure in your body and upsetting thoughts flooding your brain.

After a while, you calmed down, the feelings that pressed onto your heart going away bit by bit. Rafayel looked you in the eyes as you lifted your head up, he had a gentle smile on his face.

“There there, all better now. You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but I’m always here to listen, no matter if you are sad or happy, remember that, alright?.” He spoke as he wiped away the rest of tears from your cheeks as he caressed them.

“Now, what does my wonderful partner need? We can cuddle on the couch under a blanket, throw on a movie and order some takeout, or I can make us a nice, relaxing bath. We can do whatever you wish.”

Zayne

The apartment never felt smaller.

Oh how you wish you would feel better now, but you learned long ago that your mind mistakes a simple error for a reason to cry as if something horrible happened. So now, there you were, crying on your couch for who knows how long at this point. You felt hot, burning almost, and it was unbearable but at the same time you craved the warmth of someone familiar as the pitiful sounds flooded the room.

You didn’t even hear the sounds of keys opening the doors.

Zayne was just returning from his shift at the hospital, it ended early today and so he made his way back home after a quick visit to the local bakery, but the sounds immediately made him feel uneasy. He put down his keys and in what seemed like a second he was next to you.

“I’m here. Try to do deep breaths for me.” He said softly as he approached you, his voice quiet to not startle you.

You opened your eyes slightly, Zayne looked composed but he stared at you as if you were the most precious patient to him. Before you could stop yourself, you were already in his arms.

“It’s okay, focus on my voice. Deep breaths honey.” His voice instructed you and you found yourself following without thinking, slowly breathing in and breathing out as he guided you.

The entire time you didn’t leave his arms. He pressed close to you, resting your head on his chest to help your breathing sync with his. Zayne didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t ask why you were home right now and he didn’t pressure you into answering anything, all he cared about is making sure you were safe at the moment, and you were, because he was right there.

After a while, your breathing was more even and the tears less frequent. The both of you sat quietly now, though Zayne didn’t separate himself from you, letting you cry even if you were more stable now. The warmth of him by your side was a nice contrast to the natural cold of his hands that were working through the knots in your hair.

“Do you feel better now? I bought a new tea last week. It can help to relax one's mind, I can brew it for you if you like, I also got some new pastries to try. But for now, let’s stay like this a little longer, I’m not going anywhere.”

Xavier

This work day was just not for you. Everything seemed to fall apart but you did your best to not show it.

The faint clicking of a computer keyboard kept the room filled with noise, but your head was louder. You didn’t remember opening your email, you didn’t think about what you were typing, it was just automatic at this point as you also went through the motions in your head. The same thing over and over again, you tried to distract yourself, think about something else, focus on something happening in the future but it always failed and made you even more shaken. Your fingers started trembling over the keyboard, tears slowly escaping your eyes as you hoped none of your coworkers would notice.

But he did.

One moment you were typing a mission report to Jenna, next you were in Xavier's arms in the break room. How? You didn’t know, and you honestly didn’t care.

“... Do you need something? Water? Food? Just let me know and I’ll get it for you.” He asked, his voice calm and focused like during missions but his body felt soft against yours as he looked into your eyes.

You managed to shake your head and nuzzle closer to him. You could feel the systematic way his hands ran over your back in order to reassure you.

“I opened the window for you. Can you hear that? The birds chirping, the sounds of cars outside, the stray cat we sometimes pass by on our way to work? Listen to the surroundings and relax.”

Your boyfriend was worried, you knew that, you could tell by the way he did his best to figure out ways to distract you. Even though you didn’t have much faith in his method, you decided to try and do it as he asked and listened to what was happening outside. Soon enough, the sounds of nature and Linkons busy streets as well as the affection of your boyfriend made you calm down.

“Take your time and rest. Work will still be there tomorrow, it’s okay to focus on yourself and I’ll be there with you every step of the way.” Xavier said as he noticed you feeling better now, though he still didn’t let you go from the hold of his arms.

Sylus

Often you found yourself crying, a sudden flood of tears would come from your eyes. This growing pit formed in your heart in an instant but you never had with whom to share your pain. But that changed, now you have him - Sylus, the leader of N109 zone but also your wonderful boyfriend.

That’s why you arrived at his doorstep, already coming in since you had the keys and the twins didn’t try to stop you once they saw the state you were in. You weren’t exactly sure where you should go, he could be anywhere, he was a busy man after all but you had a feeling that he would be right where he always seemed to wait whenever something happened in your life.

Opening the doors to his bedroom, you saw him sitting on the bed, already changed into his bathrobe, a bunch of plushies on the bed and some food prepared on the table.

“Why hello sweetie. A little birdie told me that a certain hunter was in a particularly awful mood today, so I waited prepared.” Sylus said in his usual smooth, confident tone as he opened his arms to you.

You didn’t waste time and placed yourself in his arms, crying out into him as he toyed with your hair and held you tight. With him, you never felt like you had to suck up your feelings and play being somebody else, everything just came together, he always took care of you no matter what.

“Everything is alright now, you're safe, you can let everything out.” Sylus spoke softly as you clinged onto his bathrobe and sobbed. So many feelings were running through your head yet this never bothered him, he always welcomed you with open arms even if you felt bad.

The both of you stayed that way, he didn’t rush you, just offered words of comfort from time to time. Slowly but surely, you felt the ugly feeling in your mind pass and your eyelashes were no longer wet from tears.

“You can relax, I already took care of everything. There is food, drinks and essential oils. I know that you are strong but it’s okay to rely on me, I want to be your anchor.”

#love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #lads rafayel #lads #rafayel #lads fluff #fluff #love and deepspace rafayel #lads zayne #lads sylus #lads xavier #lads x reader

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satoruined · 18 hours ago

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18+

if there’s one thing to gripe about when you marry a man as obscenely perfect as kento nanami—though calling it a flaw feels blasphemous—is that when you want to be tossed like a ragdoll and fucked breathless against the kitchen counter, he brings you a glass of wine and a foot massage instead. (by no means a complaint) you love him. and you love the vanilla sex. but sometimes you want to be ravaged instead of worshipped.

“ken,” you say one night, kneeling up on the bed while he unbuttons his shirt, “do you think you could, like… manhandle me a little?” he pauses. “you want me to hurt you?”

“not hurt hurt. you’re so gentle. always.” you tilt your head. “i want to be roughed up. pulled around. pinned down. i want to feel how strong you are.” his expression twitches, baffled and a bit concerned, like you’d just asked him to choke out a nun.

“i see,” he says after a moment. “…and this would bring you pleasure?”

“ken.” you crawl toward him, fingers curling over his waitband. “i get wet thinking about your hands. if you held me down properly i think i’d lose consciousness.”

he lets out a breath through his nose. after weighing the odds, his hand closes around your neck and you see something stifle and spark behind his gaze.

“then lie back,” he says coldly, “and don’t speak unless it’s to say thank you.”

what follows is depraved and exquisite. he shoves the hem of your nightdress around your waist, rips down your panties before spitting into the heat between your legs. two thick fingers enter you without gentleness. a broken whimper escapes your throat, and his palm smacks your thigh, sharp and stinging.

“stay still.”

your body locks up. incredibly aroused, your pussy flutters shamelessly around his fingers and he clicks his tongue.

“filthy girl. is this what you wanted? debased?”

“yes,” you gasp. “please, yes—”

his hand slides up, fingers squeezing your cheeks together until your lips pucker. “you are my wife. if you want to be ravaged, i will be the one to do it.”

and ravage you, he does. over the mattress, with your face pressed into the sheets, hair wrapped tightly in his fist, spine arched as he fucks into you, harder than he ever has before, each thrust battering your cervix like he’s trying to carve the shape of his cock into you. when the ache twists into a sob, he stops cold, buried deep, breath sawing through his nose like it’s him who’s in pain.

pulls out. holds your waist. looks down. you’re shaking. not with fear though.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, voice barely functional. “i want the whole thing. i can take it. please, ken.”

his eyes soften. and then he lines back up and slides home with a guttural groan.

“then take it,” he says, and fists your hair. “all of it.”

and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

you wake up the next morning sore and so thoroughly fucked, your legs wobble like a newborn foal when you walk. kento meets you in the doorway with tea, your favourite sweater folded over his arm, and a calm smile like he hadn’t spent the night fucking the sanity out of you. he eases you toward the bath he’s already drawn, bubbles steaming, lavender in the air, and steadies you by the waist. “easy,” he kisses your temple, like it’s a privilege to care for you. and it is. “next time, you’ll use the safe word before you cry. okay? i don’t want to really hurt you.”

you smile and nod. you’ve never felt more loved.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #kento nanami #nanami smut #kento nanami x y/n #kento nanami smut #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n

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ghouljams · 2 days ago

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"i don't think the princess has ever seen a penis" oh god, the way i just bluescreened thinking about her going looking for her knight only to accidentally stumble upon him having a quick, secretive wank and going 'what is THAT thing'

this alone has changed my mind, princess has seen a penis, just not properly.

you've snuck a peak. once. you had one moment of curiosity driven by a selfish, girlish desire to see your knight's bare chest. it wasn't often that ghost slunk off to bathe while you were traveling together, but such times arose where either blood or dirt became too much for him to bare, and with a river or a pond near camp convenience won him over. you're sure he'd chastise you if he knew but you'd followed him after a few moments and truly you'd only wanted to see his arms again and you had- you had-

you had seen far more than just bare arms.

you had dug your nails into the palms of your hands until you could pull your eyes away from where his cock hung heavy between his legs. you were sure they weren't supposed to be that big, and all the ladies you'd heard talking about them had described them as ugly turgid things alongside their size, perhaps they'd been lying? it was strange, you suppose, but not entirely unpleasant. certainly your body must have known something about its appeal that your brain didn't because your stomach had clenched pleasantly as you watched ghost wash, his big hand stroking over his cock before dipping to massage his balls. you'd fled back to camp before any uncouth thoughts could churn up in your mind.

it's unfortunate that your hasty retreat didn't stop your brain from conjuring up all manner of image. even now you find yourself lingering on that old desire for a closer look, imagining yourself on your knees with his cock in front of you, all of ghost's patience allowing you to explore as you wished. you try to imagine the fleshy thing hard and engorged like the ladies had described and find it to be a fine thought, a little silly but adequate. (you imagine it and yet you never get opportunity to see it in the dreams where he fucks you, the feeling so much bigger than your paltry imagination, another thing your body seems to understand before your brain. sometimes you entertain the idea of asking ghost, but the way he looks at you when you mention any sort of intimacy scares you off that desire fast.)

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fireinmoonshot · 2 days ago

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baby fever | johnny storm x reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader Summary: Seeing Johnny Storm playing with his nephew, Franklin, makes you realise just how much you want to have children with him. Warnings: Reader has the ability to fall pregnant and carry a child but I don't think I mention any specific pronouns, references to sex. Word Count: 2.5k A/N: Thank you all so much for the response on my first Johnny fic that I posted last week. I didn't expect it at all and I'm so grateful for that. I've been trying to write another one ever since but I just haven't had the motivation to write anything until I had this idea this afternoon and then somehow just managed to fire it out tonight! I'm so happy with how it turned out so I hope you all enjoy it and I promise there's more Johnny fics coming soon! 😊

The first time you saw your fiancé with his nephew, Franklin, you knew you were in trouble.

You’d seen him with babies before – people in New York had been, in the past, known to give Johnny their babies so he could kiss them. There was a trend at one point, where if your baby was kissed by Johnny Storm, they would grow up strong and well-liked. Johnny just liked it because it meant he got to kiss cute babies.

But seeing him with his nephew is different. You’re standing back stage at The Ted Gilbert Show, which the Fantastic Four are starring on again. Franklin is one year old and mischievous as ever, and clearly taking advantage of his uncle Johnny’s playfulness.

You watch as Johnny plucks Franklin out of Ben’s arms and swings him high up in the air. Franklin is giggling and you smile at the sight of it. He’s easily one of the cutest babies you’ve ever seen, and the fact that his smile is because of the love of your life makes it even sweeter.

There has been plenty of talk about the future with you and Johnny, when one day you wanted to have children of your own. But saving the world and having children don’t go hand in hand, and you know Johnny is worried about it. He admires Sue and Reed for the way they’re able to handle parenthood alongside their jobs but a part of him wonders if he’ll ever be able to do something like that himself, no matter how much he wants a child of his own with you. He’s also just too afraid to change the dynamic of the team even further.

Sue comes up beside you. You don’t realise she’s there till she speaks. “If Franklin is sick on him after being thrown around like that, I really hope that someone around here is filming,” she hums, nudging your shoulder gently. There’s a smile on her face as she says it. “Though, I’m surprised Reed hasn’t stepped in and stopped this already. He’s been very protective lately.”

“For good reason,” you give Sue a look, as if she’d forgotten about the man last month who had attempted to tunnel underneath the Baxter Building to get inside – just to see the famous Franklin Richards in person. That hadn’t ended well for him. He was currently in a jail cell somewhere in the city, so far away you don’t even know where.

You turn back to look at Johnny as he swings Franklin around again and then pulls him in close to his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of the boys head and your heart melts a little in your chest. You don’t notice that you’re smiling until Sue pulls you up on it.

“What’s that smile for?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

“Hm?” You glance at her, not wanting to look away from Johnny for too long. You want to make sure you remember every moment of the way he’s playing with Franklin and how it makes you feel… warm and happy and… there’s longing, too. Longing to have a memory like this, but featuring your own child rather than Franklin. Longing that also features immense attraction to Johnny that makes you feel a certain type of way that Sue doesn’t need to know.

“The way you’re smiling at my brother and my son…”

Franklin is giggling again as Johnny holds him in the air and starts running around with him, making noises like he’s a plane, zooming through the air.

“It’s just sweet, that’s all,” you shrug, crossing your arms over your chest. This is not the time to tell Sue that right now, what you really want to do is jump her brothers bones and have a child of your own with him.

Sue looks at you for a moment, unconvinced, but then the staff are telling them there’s two minutes to show time and to get into their places and she’s being ushered to the stage by one of the assistants.

You’re meant to be babysitting Franklin for this television appearance. Sue and Reed don’t mind showing him off from time to time, but they also want to keep things private and having Franklin on television with them always raises questions about him. Does he have powers? What are they? Is he going to join and make them change the name to the Fantastic Five, even though he’s barely even a year old? All questions none of them want to have to answer, especially on live television. You never mind when you have to look after Franklin anyway – he’s always an angel for you.

Johnny comes running over to you, still holding Franklin in the air and making plane noises. He comes to a halt in front of you, quite literally screeching to a stop, sound effect and all, and brings Franklin back down, resting him on his hip. Your heart beats a little quicker at the sight of how natural it looks on him, looking after a child.

“It’s time for your aunty to look after you now, kid,” he says to Franklin, who is already pre-occupied trying to pull out a chunk of Johnny’s hair. “Okay, ow. That hurts. Do you have super-human strength? Of course you do, you’re a magic baby. Duh.”

You smile and extend your arms to take Franklin off of him. He doesn’t have long till he needs to get up on stage to be ready for the program to start, but unsurprisingly, Johnny doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush.

He kisses the top of Franklin’s head again as he passes him over to you, and then leans in and kisses your cheek. “Wish me luck?” He asks, lips quirked up into a small smile.

“You don’t need it, but you know you always have it.”

Johnny flashes you a grin as one of the staff starts counting down from 10 and then turns around, running back towards the stage and taking his place next to Reed. He catches your eye just before the countdown finishes and sends you a wink.

You stand side-stage and watch as the Fantastic Four do their interview with Ted Gilbert, answering questions from adoring fans in the audience. You sway side to side with Franklin, comfortably holding him as he rests his head on your shoulder and naps.

Then, you hear an audience member direct a question to Johnny that makes your heart skip a beat. There are always questions from fans that they never expect, and personal questions are never unexpected, but this one takes you by surprise.

“Johnny, we need to know. Have you started planning your wedding? Everyone is looking forward to seeing what sort of event it’ll be, and have you started thinking about another little member of the Fantastic Four joining the family?”

If you’d been drinking, you’re sure you would have choked on it, having heard someone mention the very thing you’d been thinking of only minutes earlier. It’s only natural that the public was going to start thinking about such a thing now that you were engaged and had been for a few months, but that didn’t mean that such a question was appropriate to ask.

You listen in carefully to hear Johnny’s answer.

“No, no wedding planning yet,” he admits. “Honestly, we’re just trying to soak in the feeling of being engaged for a little bit. There’s no rush. Of course, we’d love a little one of our own, but we’re really just taking each day as it comes.”

The answer is so perfect it almost sounds rehearsed, but you know it’s not. For a man that you know is hesitant when it comes to both children and discussing his personal life with the public, you think he handled it rather well. Even though you could hear the strain in his voice that told you that it was the last question he wanted to be asked.

Once the interview is over and they all exit the stage, Sue immediately comes over to you and carefully removes the sleeping Franklin from your shoulder. She thanks you for taking care of him as she and Reed head back stage to change out of their suits and get back into their clothes to head home.

Johnny walks up to you, arms open wide and a grin on his face. “So, how’d I do?”

“Hm, your public speaking could do with some work,” you shrug, trying to keep the smile off your face as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.

He rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re full of it, gorgeous.”

“Only full of love for you.”

Johnny laughs at that as you start to walk alongside him, one of his arms still wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on your hip as you all head back to the dressing room.

“Did you watch the whole thing?” He asks, glancing over at you as you turn a corner.

“I did,” you confirm. “Franklin fell asleep on me though, so I’m afraid to say he didn’t see his heart-throb uncle answering all those questions from his die-hard fans. But there’ll still be time for you to teach him how to respond in a similar situation.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “So, you heard all the questions?”

You stop, turning to face him. His hand remains on your hip. “Yes, Johnny. I heard the question that lady asked about if we’ve been planning the wedding and if we’re going to have a baby.” You figure it’s better to just rip off the bandaid and confront the question that Johnny is so clearly trying to ask you without saying it.

Johnny sighs and rests his other hand on your hip, tugging you a little closer to him. It makes the moment feel more private, as if you’re not in the middle of a crowded hallway of one of the biggest television shows in the country.

“Did I say the right thing?” He asks, voice soft. “It felt so wrong to answer a question like that without you up there with me. I mean, it’s easy enough for me to say ‘Yeah, we’d love to have a kid’ when I’m not the one that has to carry and give birth to it. When it comes to conceiving a baby, my job is pretty easy. I’m not the one that has to grow it.”

You sigh and tug Johnny out of the main hallway and into a small, empty hall just off to the side. “Honey, I could hear in your voice how much you hated answering that question,” you admit. “But you said the right thing. You told them what they want to hear. They don’t need to know the ins and outs of our wedding planning or if we’re pregnant or not. But for future reference, I am more than happy to carry and give birth to our child.”

Johnny tightens his grip on your hips and swipes one of his thumbs back and forth, a comforting mechanism for both you and him. “Is this you telling me you’re ready?” He asks, eyebrows raised as he meets your eyes. You can see the apprehension in them.

“I know how you feel about having children, Johnny,” you start, “but I saw the way you were with Franklin earlier. You’re a great uncle to him, and I know you’d be a great father one day too. Even if it’s terrifying to try and be a father and a superhero at the same time.”

“Thank you, baby,” he hums, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. The words mean more to him than you realise, but he can’t help but focus on the second thing you said. “You were watching me and Franklin? I thought I saw you talking to my sister.”

You nod. “I was, but I was watching you at the same time.” You scrunch up your nose as you think of the way Johnny had looked, playing with his nephew, and the way it’d made you feel. “I always find you attractive, Johnny Storm, but seeing you playing with Franklin… honestly, it’s one of the times I’ve found you most attractive.”

The cocky smile that appears on his face almost makes you regret your words, until he re-adjusts his grip on your hips and tugs you closer to him so your chest is pressed up against his and your lips are only inches away from his.

“You think me playing with my nephew is attractive, huh?” He smirks.

“Oh, get that look off your face, Johnny,” you huff out a laugh, trying to play it cool even though you’re pretty sure your heart-rate has skyrocketed and it’s taking every ounce of self control to not throw yourself at your fiancé right now in this deserted hallway.

He leans in and brushes his lips over yours for only a second before he mutters a few words that make you feel weak at the knees. “Maybe we should head home and get to work on creating a little one of our own, then.”

You’re fighting to hold onto the last bits of restraint when his lips meet yours. His arms wrap around your back, holding you close to him as he kisses you, your breathing heavy already. It’s when one of his hands starts to drift a little too low that you remember where you are and, regretfully, pull away from the kiss.

You press your hands against Johnny’s chest to push yourself away from him and give the two of you some distance. Laughing, you shake your head. “Johnny Storm, what the hell was that?”

He leans back against the wall behind him and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s me saying that I’m ready if you are, babe.” He says it casually, as if they’re not words that set your heart on fire and make you feel like you’re on cloud 9.

You open your mouth and then close it again. “You can’t– you can’t just say that!”

“And why not?” Johnny tilts his head to the side, that stupid smile still on his lips.

“Well… we’re in public!”

“Baby,” he says, standing up off the wall and walking over to you. “I just told the entire country that one day, we wanna have sex and make babies together and you think that someone overhearing us in the back corridors of The Ted Gilbert Show is a big deal?”

You gasp, trying not to laugh, and lunge towards him, putting a hand over his mouth to shut him up. The man doesn’t have an inside voice most of the time and even though he’s right and he had essentially just told everyone that on live television, you don’t want someone to overhear you and make things awkward the next time the Fantastic Four is asked back.

You can feel him smiling underneath your hand as he reaches up and takes your wrist gently, removing your hand from his mouth.

“Shall we go home?” He asks, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his face.

“Yes,” you murmur, “but no funny business.”

Johnny chuckles, manoeuvring his hold on your wrist so he can take your hand instead. “Of course not,” he agrees. “Not until we’re safely back in our bedroom with the door locked.”

#johnny storm #johnny storm x reader #the fantastic four #fantastic four #fantastic four first steps #fantastic four x reader #johnny storm x you #human torch #marvel #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader

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jordiemeow · 2 days ago

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warnings: 18+ mdni, m!receiving oral, slight face-fucking, sub!bob more than anything, switchy if you squint

thinking about giving bob reynolds head. he's already half-hard by the time you're sinking to your knees, body taut with tension. restraint, maybe, because he's always on his best behaviour with you. doesn't want to ruin his chances before you’ve even started. you barely have to brush your fingers over his thigh before his breath his catching in his throat, chest rising too quickly for someone just sitting still in a chair.

you like to draw it out. start slow at first, teasing the waistband of his sweatpants down, nuzzling the skin of his hip with your nose and peppering a few light kisses there. it's nice to take a moment to just breathe in his scent at first. all that musk and arousal. his cock is big. of course it is. more lengthy than girthy, but pretty all the same—flushed and veined, resting heavy against his stomach as it stiffens more with each pass of your lips against his hip, each breath ghosted against his skin, prickling with goosebumps.

then you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock, all slow and deliberate, tongue swirling, lips plush and slick. he just breaks instantly. his head tips back, hands clenching into the arms of the chair in an attempt to pace himself. for you. you take more of him—inch by inch, jaw aching, saliva trailing down your chin. not that you care. you want to feel ruined by him. you want to ruin him back. it’s a mutual thing: you both come out of this wrecked.

"fuck, baby—" he groans. it's full-body, helpless, the sound vibrating right through to his toes as he quivers with each bob of your head and swirl of your skilled tongue.

he's trying his hardest not to move. it shows in the way his muscles are locked, thighs trembling, whole body shivering like it's taking everything he has not to thrust forward. not to fuck your throat the way you both know he could. sometimes, when it's like this, he's tempted to just let it out. sentry. void. whatever. the parts of him that are brave enough to do it. but even now, with your mouth warm around his cock and your fingers digging into his muscles thighs to keep steady, he's trying to be gentle. trying to deserve this. you hum around him and his hips jerk involuntarily. his whole face twists in this exquisite, pained expression. you're already soaked in your own underwear from the sight of him like this.

"c’mon," you pull off him to encourage. and whatever leash he had on him just snaps.

he doesn't say a word—probably isn't capable of uttering anything but breathy pleas right now—and cups the back of your head with a hand so careful it makes your heart ache. you aren't made of glass, he knows that, but boy does he treat you that way sometimes. and with that touch, just the barest pressure, he starts to move. gently at first, then less so. just these slow, shallow thrusts, hips rolling, cock gliding deeper over your tongue to hit the back of your throat. you let him, eyes wet, spit pooling, moaning around him like you’re the one receiving head.

he looks ruined, too. flushed and sweating, gasping and moaning around breaths he can't quite catch. the pleasure is too much to hold, pouring out of him in curses and broken groans he’ll be embarrassed he let slip when he’s recovered.

"i’m sorry," he pants suddenly, voice strangled with the barest edge of panic. "i can’t—oh, fuck, m'gonna cum—"

you don't stop. the squeeze to his thigh is permission enough for him. and when he does let go, it's blinding. he shudders, every muscle in his body seizing in ecstasy. the sound he lets out can only be described as a whimper, your name rolling off his tongue, breathless and stunned. thick ropes of white spill across your tongue endlessly, and you sit there patiently on your knees until he’s finished. his knees are buckling, hands fisting in your hair. he looks like he doesn't know whether to cry or thank you.

you swallow and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. he's there to wipe the dampness collected at the corner of your eyes, still trying to catch his breath.

"good?" you tease, voice hoarse.

he laughs. sort of. it's more like a broken exhale. "i mean, i think i just saw god, but yeah."

as far as the rest of the world is concerned, he is god. not the one you know, though—jaw slack and body lax in a chair, cock still twitching with the aftershocks of a mind-blowing orgasm. your pretty, ruined god of a boyfriend.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds smut #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds drabble #robert reynolds #robert reynolds smut #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds drabble #marvel #marvel smut #jo blurbs ⋆˚࿔

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anon-188 · 3 days ago

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space talk

pairing: johnny storm x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.6k

summary: johnny storm loves to talk—that’s no secret. but when he talks about space, something changes. it’s softer. quieter. and that shift? that's exactly what pulls you in even more.

warnings: established relationship, soft!johnny, kissing, emotional intimacy.

a/n: i tried to refrain from adding another character to the roster. i did. but i love him 😭 (saw the movie friday morning. so what, i made it all of 4 days? lmao.) i hope you enjoy ♡

Johnny’s passionate about a lot of things—fast cars, bad decisions, even worse jokes, and, surprisingly, Lucky Charms. (That one caught you off guard at first, but you’ve learned to accept it.)

It doesn’t matter what he’s talking about. He brings all of himself to it—hands moving, voice rising with excitement, laughter breaking through like sparks.

He’s loud, expressive, impossible not to watch.

Space, however, is the exception.

When it comes up, something in him shifts. His words come softer, lower. Like they’re too heavy to throw around the way he usually does. There’s still fire behind them, burning with that same intensity… just quieter.

You never interrupt. You just watch him. The way his fingers twitch like he’s tracing constellations midair. There’s a look in his eyes—part wonder, part ache—and it hits you in the chest every time.

You’ve always loved the way he talks.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

It’s become a quiet kind of routine: your body stretched across his, cheek resting on his shoulder, one hand tucked beneath your chin, the other pressed gently against his side. Just close enough to feel the steady heat of him.

And he keeps talking.

Not like he’s performing—just thinking out loud, letting his mind wander from launch mechanics to how weightlessness felt, then to the way sound works differently in space. His voice never falters. It’s smooth, measured, a gentle sort of reverence threaded through every word.

You lose track of the actual facts after a while. Something about pressure suits and magnetic boots. But you don’t stop listening. Not really.

You’re too caught up in the way his mouth moves, the way his lips curve around words like “orbital decay” and “solar flare.” Most of all, it’s the way his eyes soften when he talks about stars like he’s still floating among them.

The way he strings it all together shouldn’t work—a burned glove, solar winds, the way Earth looked from orbit. But with him it does. It always does.

And he notices. The way your gaze lingers. The quiet focus. The subtle tilt of your head, like you’re trying to memorize every part of him in this exact moment.

Normally, he lets you be. Just soaks it in.

But not this time.

Johnny's voice dips, low and teasing as his eyes flick to yours. “What?”

You blink slowly, lips curling as you play it off. “Nothing.”

His grin curves up, cocky as hell. “You’ve got that look again.”

You arch a brow. “What look?”

“Like I’m saying something brilliant.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping even lower. “Or like you’re about to kiss me.”

You hum, fingertips brushing his ribs. “I just like hearing you talk.”

“Yeah?” he asks, lips already edging toward a smirk.

Your mouth finds that warm spot just below his jaw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

Then you shift, just slightly lifting from where you’d been resting on his shoulder. It’s subtle, easy, but enough for your face to tilt up toward his. Enough to kiss him properly.

You start soft, your lips grazing the smile he hasn’t bothered to hide.

He kisses you back like he means it—slow burn, no rush—then murmurs against your mouth.

“Oh, I get it. You like it like it.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Shut up.”

And he does—but only because you kiss him again. And again.

This time, he deepens it, no warning, no hesitation. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him. Whatever comeback he had dies on his tongue, lost in the way you kiss him—deep and certain, like you already know he’ll chase it.

He exhales through his nose, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. And then he kisses you even harder.

Turns out, that’s something Johnny’s passionate about too—

You.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: open!

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

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goodluckeddie · 1 day ago

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what i think would be really fun is if buck starts dating again and eddie, as always, is outwardly bitchy to this new partner. but buck’s partner actually brings it up to him like “hey can we stop hanging out with eddie so much, i feel like he kinda hates me.” which is weird because none of buck’s other partners have complained about that… unless you count tommy, but buck figures that doesn’t count because the competition conversation happened after they broke up.

but it’s still weird. so he goes to maddie and starts baking in her kitchen saying “can you believe that? they think eddie doesn’t like them. why would eddie not like them? i haven’t noticed him acting weird.”

and maddie just kinda shrugs like “is this really so new? has he ever really got on with the people you’ve dated?”

and buck’s like “he got on with tommy… to start with.”

“until you started dating him.”

“okay, well, taylor. they were… able to be in the same room together.”

maddie just looks at him unconvinced. then she’s like “buck, he didn’t even like abby. and he only met her during that train derailment.”

anyway, she hints again towards buck having feelings for eddie, and eddie having feelings for buck, and buck - again - is like nuh uh! if there’s one thing i’m NOT doing, it’s hopelessly pining over my straight best friend!

and buck basically says to his partner “just give eddie a chance, he really cares about me so sometimes he’s a little prickly towards people i date, he’ll warm up to you” blah blah blah. but when they continue to hang out with him, buck actually does notice all the petty jealous behaviour now. and it’s kind of pissing him off because why should eddie get to do that? it’s not like HE’S in a relationship with buck. it’s not like buck’s partner is stepping on his toes or trying to take his place. the only way that could be true is if maddie was right, and buck doesn’t even want to think about that possibility because it makes him feel all weird inside.

anyway. buddie divorce era pt.4 when buck has enough and confronts eddie for being so weird and bitchy. eddie claims it’s not different to buck repeatedly sabotaging the house viewings. buck gets snarky and says like “why does it matter if you don’t like the people i date? it’s not like i’m cheating on you!”

and eddie points because he loves pointing when he’s angry and says “it’s EXACTLY like you’re cheating on me.”

and they both kinda just have to sit with that because what the everloving fuck does eddie mean by that. yay.

#911 abc #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley

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stayycalm · 2 days ago

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“Too Much”

𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ Hyung Line x Female!reader ˒˓ established relationship. 𝓰enre/ angst, hurt-no comfort, they lose their cool and say your presence is too much, so you give them what they asked for, space. (a.k.a the classic they call you clingy trope).

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — here’s my next installment of hurt for y’all! Let me know what u think! <3

Maknae line

Bang Chan

You’d always admired how hard Chan worked. It was part of what made you fall in love with him. the unwavering focus, the fire in his eyes, the way he poured his soul into every lyric, every beat. He cared deeply about what he created, about the people around him. About you.

At least, he used to.

Lately, it felt like you were the last thing on his mind.

The comeback was fast approaching. A new concept, new choreography, endless hours in the studio. He was more exhausted than usual, coming home late, answering in clipped tones, sometimes not answering at all.

You tried to be understanding. You didn’t push. You reminded yourself that this happened every comeback season.

But this time... something felt different.

He was distant. Irritable. On edge in a way he hadn't been before. You thought maybe if you showed up for him more,reminded him that he wasn’t alone, it would help.

So, for the third time that week, you brought him his favorite drink. It was a small gesture, but you hoped it would let him breathe for just a moment.

When you stepped into the practice room, the tension hit you before anyone said a word.

Felix smiled nervously. Seungmin gave a subtle shake of his head, eyes flicking toward Chan. The rest of the boys barely looked up from their spots on the floor, drenched in sweat and fatigue.

You approached him cautiously. “Hey, babe,” you said, voice light, smile warm. “Thought you could use a break.”

Chan didn’t look up. His laptop was open in front of him, a mess of scribbled notes beside it. His cap was pulled low over his face.

“Not now,” he muttered.

Your smile faltered. “I won’t stay long. I just—”

“Seriously, can you not?”

The room went silent. Even the music paused.

Your heart dropped.

“I’m in the middle of something important,” he snapped, standing up suddenly. “You keep showing up unannounced, texting nonstop, needing to talk or check in or whatever else—and it’s just... it’s too much.”

You blinked, frozen in place. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just thought—”

“I know what you thought,” he cut in, voice sharp, frustrated. “You always think you’re helping. But honestly? It feels like I can’t breathe. I have this comeback hanging over me, I’m producing all of the tracks, rehearsing choreography every damn day, and then I’ve got you, smothering me like I’m some project that needs saving.”

The words sliced through you. You felt the eyes of the other members on your back, but none of that mattered as much as his, or rather, the way he wouldn’t even look at you.

“Chan... I didn’t realize—”

“I can’t do this right now,” he said, coldly final. “I can’t be your boyfriend and your emotional crutch and your entire support system while also doing everything else. So just—go. Leave me alone.”

You stood there for a long second. It felt like your lungs had stopped working. Like you were underwater.

He didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften. He just turned away.

You set the drink down gently on the table beside him.

“Okay,” you whispered, and left.

That night, you didn’t cry. Not right away.

You sat on your couch, staring at the wall, trying to make sense of it. You replayed his voice again and again in your head, trying to find the moment it had all gone wrong. Had you been too much? Had you made him feel trapped?

You didn’t mean to smother him. You just loved him. You missed him. You thought maybe your love could carry the weight of both your silences.

But maybe he was right. Maybe you were too much.

So you did what he asked.

You left him alone.

You didn’t text him the next morning. Or the one after. You didn’t drop by rehearsals. You stopped liking his teaser posts. You muted the group chat so you wouldn’t see when the boys sent updates from the studio.

It hurt. Everything did. But you weren’t going to chase someone who made it clear your presence wasn’t wanted.

You’d Let him breathe. Trying not to smother him.

Four days later, a text.

“Hey, you okay?”

You stared at your screen for a long moment before locking it.

Three more hours passed.

“Guess you’re busy too now haha”

That stung in a different way. Like he was trying to brush it off. Make it normal again.

But it wasn’t normal. Not anymore.

“Want to come over later?”

You didn’t reply.

Two days later, another text.

“I haven’t heard from you. Everything alright?” “I miss you.”

You read the messages. Then read them again. It would be so easy to reply. To give in. To pretend nothing had happened. But you remembered his tone. His words. The way he made you feel like loving him was a problem.

So you stayed quiet.

By the last message, he showed up at your door. It was nearly 10 PM, and the knock was soft, hesitant.

You opened it slowly.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tense, hair unstyled under a hoodie. He smelled like laundry detergent and rain.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

You didn’t speak.

“I—I’ve been trying to reach you.”

You nodded once. Still no words.

He shifted awkwardly. “Can we talk?”

“I don’t think there’s much to say.”

Chan flinched. “Come on,You’ve been ghosting me for a week.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been giving you what you wanted.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You said I was smothering you. That I was too much. So I gave you space. I disappeared.”

He opened his mouth to respond but hesitated.

You continued, arms crossed over your chest. “You don’t get to act like everything’s fine now. Like you didn’t tear me apart in front of your members. Like I didn’t spend the last week wondering if the person I loved stopped loving me back.”

“I didn’t stop loving you,” he said instantly.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I didn’t mean what I said—at least, not like that,” he rushed. “I was stressed. I was overwhelmed. I just needed a second to breathe, and I snapped, and I... I’m sorry.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Your heart ached. God, you wanted to believe him.

But part of you still felt like that girl standing in the middle of a practice room with everyone watching as her boyfriend told her she was too much.

He reached for your hand, but you took a step back.

And then, calmly, quietly, you said, “Sorry. I wouldn’t want to smother you.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You saw the way his shoulders dropped, his eyes widened. Like he’d finally felt what you’d been feeling all week.

“I—”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “Good luck with the comeback.”

Then you shut the door.

And this time, when the tears came, you let them.

Lee Know

You knew Minho wasn’t himself lately.

The long tour had worn him down in ways even he didn’t acknowledge. The jet lag, the irregular meals, the lack of privacy. The cameras, the sound checks, the pressure to perform perfectly every night in a different city.

He was running on fumes, and now, barely home, they were already preparing for the next comeback.

You missed him. Not just being around him, but him. The soft version of Minho, the one who held your hand during horror movies just because he liked the way you held him close.

The one who danced in the kitchen with you at midnight. The one who kissed your forehead when you started to overthink things.

Lately, it felt like all you got were quick nods, tired sighs, and “I’ll call you later”s that never came.

You weren’t mad at him. You just wanted to help.

So you cooked for him, brought him coffee, sent sweet good morning texts, and offered to stop by when he had gaps in his schedule. You thought maybe you were being supportive.

But apparently, he didn’t agree.

It started with the flowers.

You dropped by the company building with a bouquet, nothing huge or flashy, just simple tulips and a tiny card that said, “I’m proud of you. My Love.”

He wasn’t at the front, so you left it with one of the staff and texted him a heads-up.

“Dropped something for you at the desk. Just a little encouragement. ♡ Don’t work too hard.”

No reply.

You figured he was busy. No big deal.

But when he did get back to you later that night, it was... off.

“Why do you keep showing up?”

You stared at the message.

“What do you mean?”

“The flowers. The texts. The calls. I just... I need space. I’m already dealing with too much right now.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Your stomach turned.

“I didn’t realize I was bothering you. I just wanted to make things easier.”

“It’s not easier. It’s more. I don’t have the energy to deal with everything and be glued to you 24/7.”

You read and re-read the text, letting his words settle like a weight on your chest.

The next day, you tried to apologize.

He agreed to meet at his apartment, and for a second, when you saw him standing in the doorway, you thought maybe things would be okay. He looked tired, deeply, achingly tired, but he let you in.

You sat on the couch. He didn’t sit next to you.

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” you started gently. “I just thought... maybe if I showed you I was thinking of you, it’d help. You’ve been so quiet lately, I wasn’t sure how else to connect.”

Minho didn’t respond right away. He crossed his arms, jaw tight.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he finally said.

“I know,” you said quickly. “I just—I was trying to be there for you.”

“Being there for me doesn’t mean hovering over me all the time.”

The words came out too sharp. You flinched.

“I wasn’t trying to hover,” you said quietly. “I missed you.”

He scoffed under his breath. “You always miss me. Every second I’m gone, you need to call, or text, or show up with something. You can’t ever just leave things alone.”

Your chest tightened. “Minho—”

“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’m exhausted. We’ve been on the road for months. I haven’t slept a full night in a week. We’re jumping into a comeback with barely time to breathe, and you’re constantly in my ear or at my door like—like I’m your entire world or something.”

He laughed bitterly. “It’s clingy. It’s annoying. I need room to think.”

You sat in stunned silence, each word echoing like a slap to the face.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” you said, voice breaking despite your best efforts.

He sighed, like even that was too much.

“I can’t keep doing this. Not like this. I just... I need a break from all of it.”

You nodded slowly. You didn’t trust your voice anymore.

He didn’t ask you to leave, but you stood anyway, moving quietly to the door. He didn’t stop you.

“Hope you get some rest,” you whispered, and left.

You didn’t text him after that.

Not even when the teaser dropped. Not even when the fans started piecing together the concept and the boys trended for hours.

You muted the notifications. You stayed off social media.

Your friends noticed the shift. You weren’t smiling the same. You weren’t checking your phone every few minutes.

You just... existed.

A week later, he messaged you.

“Did you see the teaser?” “You always get excited for this stuff…”

You didn’t reply.

Two more days passed.

“I know you’re upset.” “Can we talk?”

Still nothing.

“You don’t have to ignore me like this. I didn’t mean everything I said.”

But he did, didn’t he? That was the worst part. The cruelty wasn’t some accident, it was chosen. Sharp words with full intent behind them.

The next message was a simple:

“Please.”

And that was when you opened the chat.

You stared at his name for a while, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Eventually, you typed:

“Sorry. I didn’t want to be clingy.”

You saw the “typing…” bubble appear immediately.

Then it stopped.

A minute passed. Then two.

But nothing came through.

Just silence.

Changbin

It wasn’t like you hadn’t been there before.

The 3RACHA studio was practically sacred ground, that’s where their music was made, late-night inspiration sparked, and countless breakthroughs happened.

You’d brought meals there before, sat quietly while they fine-tuned demos, even helped brainstorm lyrics once or twice when the guys were stuck on a concept.

You never overstayed. You never interrupted.

You just loved seeing him in his element. The way his fingers danced across the keyboard. The way his face lit up when a melody came together. You wanted to remind him, especially now with the comeback pressure closing in, that you were rooting for him, even on his worst days.

So when he told you that he and the guys were working late again, you figured a quick visit wouldn’t hurt. You brought him his favorite drinks, warm snacks, and a quiet smile.

You knocked once, gently, then cracked the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly, peeking inside.

Changbin looked up from the monitor. Chan was seated beside him, headphones around his neck, and Jisung was half-sprawled on the couch scribbling something in his notebook.

Your boyfriend didn’t smile. He blinked like he hadn’t fully registered your presence, then frowned.

“What are you doing here?”

You lifted the bag slightly, trying to hide how his tone made your chest tighten. “Thought you could use some caffeine. And food.”

Chan gave you a polite smile. “Thank you, That’s thoughtful.”

Jisung raised a hand in greeting. “You’re a lifesaver.”

But Changbin didn’t soften. He stood up, jaw tight, and took the bag from your hands. He didn’t say thank you. Instead, he motioned toward the hallway.

“Can I talk to you outside?”

You followed him into the corridor, nerves already stirring in your stomach. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned toward you, exhaling sharply.

“Why are you here?”

“I just—wanted to stop by. I figured maybe you were hungry or—”

“We’re in the middle of something important,” he interrupted. “We’ve been working on this track all day. You showing up like this, it throws everything off.”

Your brows furrowed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I wasn’t going to stay long, I just thought—”

“That’s the problem,” he snapped. “You never think. You just act like showing up is always okay. Like I don’t have deadlines or pressure or an entire group relying on me to pull this together.”

You recoiled slightly. “I wasn’t trying to get in the way. I just missed you.”

He laughed once, short and bitter. “You always miss me. Every time I blink, there’s another text, another call, another pop-in. I can’t even breathe without you checking in.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I love you,” you said softly. “I’m just trying to support you.”

“Well, it’s not support—it’s clingy,” he said, words like knives. “And right now? I don’t have the patience for it.”

Your throat tightened, tears already threatening to rise.

He ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath, “God, it’s just too much sometimes.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to apologize, or to defend yourself, but he didn’t wait. He turned and walked back into the studio without another glance, the door closing with a finality that felt louder than any shout.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, blinking hard, trying to will yourself not to cry in the hallway of JYP.

You didn’t text him after that.

He didn’t text you either. Not that night, not the next morning. Not even when the demo version of the album went up and fans went wild over the 3RACHA snippet.

You listened to it once, heart heavy.

It was a good track.

You still didn’t reply to his post.

Three days later, the first text came.

“You okay?”

You didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry if I was harsh. I was in a bad place mentally. Still kind of am.”

You stared at the screen. The words felt... hollow. Like he knew he should say them, but didn’t really feel them.

You remembered the way his face looked when he called you clingy.

Two more days.

“Can we talk?” “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Still nothing.

“You always said you wanted to be there for me. So where are you now?”

That one hurt. Like he forgot he pushed you away. Like your absence was suddenly your fault.

On the latest attempt, he called. You let it ring. Then you sent one message:

“Didn’t want to show up uninvited again.”

The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back. Then stopped. But no message came through.

You locked your phone and set it on your nightstand. For once, the silence was yours.

Hyunjin

You hadn’t seen Hyunjin in nearly a week.

The last time you talked, like really talked, he was curled up in bed next to you, whispering about how tired he was, how heavy everything felt. You brushed his hair back, kissed his temple, and told him to rest. You promised to be patient. Understanding. There for him, even if he wasn’t all the way there with you right now.

But seven days later, with only three texts and one missed call between you, that patience started to ache. You didn’t want to pressure him. Still, the distance hurt more than you expected.

When you found out from Chan’s Instagram story that Hyunjin had a full-day photoshoot near your side of the city, you decided to surprise him. Not with fanfare. Just a visit. A familiar face. Something soft in the middle of his rigid schedule.

You’d done it before, he always lit up when he saw you walk in with his favorite iced Americano and a smile.

So you brought one. You even grabbed an extra muffin for him and a second one to offer any of the stylists or staff, because you knew how those long shoots went.

What you didn’t expect was how different it felt as soon as you arrived.

The set was bright and cold. Too clinical.

You spotted Hyunjin on the backdrop across the room, mid-pose, intense expression, hair swept back, body language poised. The stylists were adjusting lights. The creative director was giving cues through a mic.

You didn’t want to interrupt, so you waited by the refreshment table. Quiet. Watching him from afar.

He looked tired. Really tired. The kind of tired that made your heart twist.

You turned to walk back down the hall to find an assistant you could leave the drink with when you heard a familiar voice from behind you.

Hyunjin.

And another voice, maybe one of the creative team or his manager. You didn’t mean to listen, but you froze when you heard your name.

“She’s probably going to show up again. She’s everywhere lately.”

His voice wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t teasing.

It was exasperated.

“I can’t go a day without her needing something, checking in, asking if I’m okay, trying to drop by. She means well, I guess, but I just...I can’t deal with it right now.”

“Honestly, it’s too much.”

You stood completely still. Coffee cup in your hand trembling slightly.

The staffer laughed nervously. “You should tell her to back off for a bit.”

“I tried. But she just keeps showing up.”

He sounded embarrassed.

Like loving you in front of others was something to apologize for.

“I feel like I can’t breathe without her being there.”

That one cut the deepest.

You waited. Hoped he’d take it back. Say something like, “I don’t mean it like that.”

But nothing came.

You didn’t even realize you’d stepped back until you bumped into someone behind you, the coffee cup slipping from your fingers.

It hit the floor with a sharp clatter.

Heads turned.

Including Hyunjin’s.

His eyes met yours down the hall, shock widening them. Regret creeping in too late.

You turned and left without a word.

You didn’t go far. Just to the stairwell.

You needed air. Your hands were shaking.

You sat on the cold concrete steps for a few minutes, gathering yourself. Then the door pushed open behind you.

“Hey—”

You didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

He took a step forward. “Let me explain.”

“You already did,” you said, voice flat. “You just didn’t think I’d hear it.”

Hyunjin let out a breath. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Didn’t you?” you cut him off. “Because it sounded pretty clear. I’m everywhere. I don’t give you space. I’m too much. That’s what you think of me?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I came here because I missed you. Because I care,” you continued, voice rising. “Not to ruin your day. Not to be clingy or whatever you’ve built me up to be in your head.”

“I didn’t say you ruined anything,” he muttered.

“You didn’t have to!” you snapped. “You already said I’m too much to handle. That being loved by me is inconvenient. That I’m some obsessive girl who can’t leave you alone.”

“Don’t twist my words,” he said tightly.

“I didn’t twist anything,” you said. “I just repeated them.”

A beat of silence.

He took a step closer. “You don’t understand what it’s been like lately, everything’s piling up. The comeback, rehearsals, brand meetings, promotions, image work. I can’t even sleep without dreaming of camera flashes. And you showing up today, here—it just made things worse.”

You blinked.

He saw the shift in your expression, but he didn’t stop.

“I can’t be your whole world right now,” he said, harsher now. “I’m barely surviving my own.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it.

“Okay.”

You stepped past him, toward the door.

He didn’t follow.

You didn’t text him that night.

But he texted you.

“Made it through the shoot. It was brutal.”

You didn’t reply.

“I didn’t mean to say all that the way I did. I was stressed.”

Two more days passed.

“I hate that you’re mad at me.”

“Can we talk?”

You stared at his messages for a long time. They didn’t sound like apologies. They sounded like attempts to go back to normal. Like nothing had happened.

Then finally.

“Please don’t shut me out.”

So you typed one thing back:

“Sorry. I didn’t know being in your life was making it worse.”

You hit send. And blocked him.

Just for now. Just so you both could finally breathe.

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