#anyway. to me this is the message that scene sends | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

swordgrace · 2 months ago

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❝ 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲. ❞

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: by anonymous — “cuffing john to the bed and doing whatever you want with him after nagging him for weeks about it.....”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), pure filth, porn with plot, sub!john and switch!john, use of handcuffs/restraints, headboard breaking, oral sex (m!rec), blowjob, body worship, teasing, begging, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex, cowgirl, creampie, descriptions of cum. cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this fic had me freaked up !!! horny !! I am not ashamed at all! lowkey this is the first blowjob scene I’ve written in a long time so sorry if it’s bad! anyway I hope you all enjoy 🫶

“Have you given it some thought?”

The penultimate question is posed during a mission debriefing while you’re wedged beside John, thigh-to-thigh, attempting to mask the topic at-hand. It’s the worst possible time to be discussing what goes on in the bedroom.

For you, it’s an opportunity, one that you’ve been patiently awaiting, steadfast.

Following a team scenario exercise and training that had gone rather smoothly, it was an early evening stuffed with tactical discussions and talking strategy. It was crucial, the both of you knew that; however, your inquiry had distracted him.

A mere wisp of a hum, your cadence floats beside his ear, low and perplexed, gaze glittering with expectancy. One fist remains snug beneath your chin, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth.

John huffs, as if you’re asking something offensive, jaw twitching as he reclines into the padded leather. He’s wearing his beret, something you’ve both teased and complimented him on, attempting to pay attention.

“You’re asking me this now?” John murmurs, a low husk uttered in response, piercing through you with an incredulous expression.

The conversation at-hand is as hushed as possible, with little desire to draw unwanted attention to yourselves.

With a shrug, you seem to brush his concern aside. “It’s as good a time as any.” Admittedly, it wasn’t the truth, but you enjoyed toying with him, anyway. A flush of crimson blanketed his features, crawling beneath his beard.

“You’ve got awful timing.” He counters, cadence wonderfully low, for only you to hear. You’re both sitting together in the back as if it isn’t blatantly obvious that you’re together.

For weeks, you’ve proposed trying something different; cuffing him up, or something to that nature. Nagging, more like, but he’s put up with it so far, remaining cautiously open-minded about it.

The idea sounded silly at first — however, the more thought he’d given it, the more hot and bothered it made him. A myriad of fantasies swirled within his mind, and none of them were appropriate.

Shoulders brush together, kevlar over body armor, and even that is enough to send a shock of warmth through your bodies. “So you have thought about it.” Little more than a droning buzz, you’re cornering him, a smile crossing your features.

John scoffs, as if it’s preposterous, but he’s gotten significantly worse with masking his feelings around you after you solidified your relationship. “Don’t do this here.” He mumbles, brows pinching together.

He knows it’s payback, payback for all the times he’s tormented you with flirtatious remarks and wandering hands during a meeting. There was an instance of text messages being exchanged at one point in time.

Before you can summon a playful retort, Bucky’s voice interjects, sharp.

“Do you two have anything substantial to add to this debriefing?” Inquisitive, he lifts an eyebrow, hands on his hips like a scornful parent.

“No.” With a simultaneous answer, you and John sound worlds apart with one singular word. The blissful innocence in your tone is a stark contrast to his own frustration, furthered by your poking and prodding.

Poised to pay attention, John doubles his efforts, countenance furrowed as he keeps his gaze glued to the screen. Even then, it’s made exceedingly difficult by the torrent of thoughts crossing his mind, and it’s all you.

It wasn’t often that your demeanor allowed for more of a dominant edge, typically subservient when it came to getting intimate. However, John wanted to hear you out and indulge; you were incessant about it, too.

There’s a hazy image forming at the recesses of his mind, bound against the headboard with you in his lap, doe-eyed, stringing bruising kisses over his abdomen. His throat feels thick, bobbing as he swallows, stifling the twinge of arousal.

He shifts uncomfortably, as if any sliver of movement might relinquish his growing desire. Nothing ceases the lewd thoughts that careen through the forefront of his mind, and he’s left with the rawness of his overactive imagination.

Bucky is droning on about the specifics — the drop-point, compound layout, landing times, down to the most minute detail. It’s information he’ll recant on the quinjet, prompting you to pay little mind to his speech.

Yelena and Ava seem to be the only ones thoroughly invested, arms crossed, bodies canting forward. Alexei gives a theatrical yawn, stretching an arm over the back of his chair, seemingly drowsy, as if he’s being lulled to sleep.

John wants to immerse himself in the strategic aspect of the debriefing, but his mind is rampant with your harmless question — he’s cursing you for even bringing it up.

The picture of innocence, your gaze is fixated on the screen overhead, blissfully oblivious to John’s heated glower. Blue hues narrow, drifting over your jaw, over the exposed flesh of your throat; there’s still a mark he left.

Through a taut exhale, his hand clenched into a fist in an attempt to relieve some tension, muscles all coiled into a knot. Still, his gaze traces your features, absorbing your beauty, softening when you careen into the cushions.

In conclusion, he’d given it too much thought.

John’s too preoccupied, elsewhere, wanting to drag you with him into the corridor and kiss you hoarse. He feels your fingertips brush over his knuckles, the gesture fleeting, subtle enough to go completely unnoticed by the others.

A threadbare smile pulls at his mouth, reserved for you, calloused digits ensnaring the tips of yours. The handholding on the couch is sweet, sure, but he’s thinking of more; he wants more.

In his peripheral, he catches your smitten side-eye, a warm noise stirring within his chest, masking his sentiments for the sake of the debriefing.

It doesn’t seem to carry on for much longer, with Bucky giving a rundown of tomorrow’s expectations. He dismisses you with a ‘get some rest’ and some half-hearted, inspirational jab that Alexei parrots to the rest of the team.

Once the team begins to file out, you’re prepared for an easy evening; it typically fills you with jitters, the night before an operation.

Maintaining cordiality, the both of you have gotten talented at pretending to have some element of indifference when around the rest of the team. Despite John’s reminder that he failed drama class in school, he’s not half-bad at acting.

In the corridor when he’s convinced no one is watching, he pulls you against the wall, mouth pressed to yours, swallowing an enthused groan. Your hands are splayed over his chest, a sweet moan tearing past your throat.

“You’re gonna kill me.” A rumbling timbre snakes around your ears, the noise sending shivers through your spine. He’s strong, inhumanly so, body flush to yours, keeping you pinned.

A teasing laugh slips past your lips, and you do feel a twinge of regret for getting him all flustered. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” Soft and placating, the saccharine ooze of your voice brings him to heel.

John grouses, cerulean hues dropping to the delicate slope of your jaw, over the still-healing marks of teeth slotted into your throat.

It fills him with a wave of need, of possessiveness. Quiet, his lips consume yours again.

The kiss is an unbridled thing, weeping with a mutual repression, more from his end than yours. He kisses you as if you might cease to exist, hands roaming your hips, anchoring your body to his.

“Yours or mine?” John murmurs, gaze hooded, eclipsed by a festering desire that flickers into a fully-blown flame. His restraint is dangerously threadbare, now nonexistent.

“Mine,” Through a flustered beam, you fail to smother your excitable whine when he kisses you again, hot, as if he might melt through you. Hands dig into the swell of your hips, concealed by kevlar and ripstop fabric. “John.”

There’s a blind spot he’s carefully selected to avoid being apprehended in the act, lips molding themselves to yours, slotting a thigh between your legs.

Cool tile bites into your back, sending shivers through your spine. Each kiss evokes a gnawing hunger from within you, unfurling like the petals of a flower, skin crawling with warmth.

It’s become glaringly apparent that your innocuous question had gotten him wound up; there’s a shadow forming within his eyes, one you’re well-acquainted with.

Mouths tether, collide with passion, and repeat the process until you’re left gasping for air, lungs stinging as he withdraws. “Give me twenty?” He murmurs, beard pleasantly scratching against your lips, now pressed together.

With a brief nod, you’re reluctant to untangle yourself from him, heartbeat galloping at an accelerated pace, breath hitching. He presses another chaste kiss to your mouth before breaking away.

A warm flush clings to his features, your own scalding to the touch, heart fluttering beneath your breast. “Twenty.” You concur, patting his chest before skittering in the direction of your room.

John steals a lingering glance as you’re walking away, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s something lighter with you, unburdening; he isn’t trying to prove himself or be the man that he’s expected to be.

He’s himself, closer to the man who wanted to be Captain America to help people, without becoming a government pawn.

Still, the pain he’s caused doesn’t lessen, but you’ve helped him learn to grow, navigate through it without self-deprecation.

Once you’ve slipped past the door to your quarters, you’re clamoring from your suit, draping it over the back of the chair; you’ll need it come morning.

Finding one of John’s shirts that he’d left, you tug it on, fabric kissing your thighs as you wait for the knock. It’s typically after the rest of the team has settled for the night, the both of you sneaking around like two teenagers.

Admittedly, you’re really enjoying yourself with this relationship. It didn’t start off that way, riddled with indifference, but you’d gotten to know him, his heart — you liked John, loved John.

John is still growing accustomed to the fact that someone genuinely likes him; it’s strange, falling in love again after the divorce.

Part of it feels wrong, like he shouldn’t, but it’s effortless with you, something easy.

He doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

In your nightstand, you locate the pair of handcuffs you’ve been itching to use, hoping he’ll be open-minded enough to indulge you. Something tells you that he’s secretly eager about the whole thing.

When he taps the door, you’re scrambling to let him inside, the panel sliding open with a soft hiss.

You’re on him instantaneously.

He’s grabbing your hips with an ironclad hold, hoisting you up until your legs are tangled around his waist. John grunts in surprise, hauling you forward until you’re on your mattress.

Mouths connect with a gnawing hunger, a knot of teeth and tongue, lips clamoring as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. He groans when you bite his bottom lip, teasing him.

“Jesus, what possessed you?” He remarks, feeling you plant a string of hot, needy kisses over his jaw, hands flat over the nape of his neck. A soft exhale left him, one of satisfaction.

“I can stop,” The playful jab of your retort causes him to shake his head, a groan catching in his throat when you kiss his neck. “You’re so handsome.”

Preening beneath your sweetly-spoken compliment, his features turn scarlet, brows pinched together. One hand moves to squeeze your thigh, rough fingertips trailing upward, closer to your hip.

“That’s my shirt,” John huffs against your mouth, tone tinged with mild surprise. It looks good on you — better than it ever did him. “Looks better on you.” He murmurs, pinching at the hem.

“Yeah?” With a bright smile, you welcome his presence between your legs, nails lightly tracing over the back of his neck.

A low grunt tears through his throat, lips hotly sealing themselves to your neck, sucking a bruising hickey into the sensitive flesh. It earns him a pretty moan from your mouth.

“I’ll let you do it,” John mumbles into your skin, beard scraping against you, blue eyes glittering with something indiscernible. “But nobody on the team can know about it.”

A tingle of glee shoots down your spine, lips parting as you make sure he means it. “Are you sure? If you aren’t comfortable, I don’t want you to do it.” You press, tongue raking over your teeth.

“I trust you,” It means something coming from him, something resolute. His mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. “I can break out of them if I hate it.” John shrugs, which you know is true.

There’s a gap of quiet before you answer him, head gesturing toward the rest of your empty mattress. “Take your shirt off and lay down, Mr. Walker.” You know that nickname drives him up the walls.

John’s jaw unclenches, a fire burning within his eyes as he complies with you, for now. He huffed a laugh, as if this is mildly ridiculous, but the ache in his cock says otherwise.

He’s blushing, feeling stupid like this, vulnerable, but he can only stomach it when it’s with you. Standing upright, calloused hands snag the hem of his shirt as he tugs it off in one fluid motion.

Mesmerized, you shamelessly ogle his body, sinewy and taut, thick muscle packed beneath sun-kissed skin. You follow the light dusting of blonde hair as it slips beneath his waistline, and drool pools in your mouth.

“Are you gonna keep staring, or are you gonna handcuff me?” John questions, pulling you from your momentary daze.

“You sound excited.” You counter, and that shuts him up, pride gone with it. He playfully grumbles something before laying down on the bed, watching as you retrieve the handcuffs.

They’re nondescript, a dark, metallic silver fringed with cushioned leather on the inside. John’s breath hitches subtly when you climb on top of him, straddling his ribs as you lean over.

“Last chance to back out.” Your offer is soft-spoken and free of judgment, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything to counteract you.

“I’m not backing out.” He huffs; it’s a pride thing, now. It’s just a pair of handcuffs, John thinks, but the real tragedy will be not being able to touch you at all.

You look devastatingly pretty like this — his shirt, no bra underneath, clad in risqué panties that make his cock twitch, thighs squeezing at his sides. He marvels at you while you’re handcuffing him to the headboard.

Biceps bulge and flex as he adjusts himself, hands comfortably restrained over his head, blue eyes looking wantonly. He’s already trying not to fall apart beneath you.

Wordlessly, you bend at the hips, mouth pressing against his, kissing him softly, at first — your lips part, as if to coax something out of him.

He grunts, reciprocating with an edge of desperation, feeling your hands perch atop his chest. A low groan shakes his chest, fluttering into joined mouths.

He hates this, he hates not being able to touch you; it’s akin to torture. He’s left raw and wanting when you pull away, kissing a trail toward his neck, lower still, lips peppering across his collarbone.

“You’re so handsome,” You croon, and he lets out a guttural groan at the praise you lavish on him. His cock twitches again, straining against the front of his sweatpants, brushing over your core. “Already?”

“Shut up,” John hisses, feeling you smile into his flesh, kissing at his chest as you continue your sluggish descent. You don’t leave any part of him untouched, worshiping his body. “Jesus, you — Shit, keep goin’.”

It’s easy to get him riled up, larger body burly and yours, hands clenched into fists when you feather needy kisses over his abs. Every scar is graced with a kiss, every yellowing bruise falls to your mouth.

Soft fingertips caress circles into his muscle, like kisses of silk, leaving him aching for more. The trail of kisses continues, dangerously lower, and he knows exactly where you’re going.

One hand slithers to tug at his waistband, slipping underneath to palm at his growing bulge. The silence is deafening, marked by labored sighs and excitable exhales.

Gently, you begin to peel his sweatpants aside, gazing at him through half-lidded lashes, incendiary enough to make him squirm.

A dark, thick patch has already formed over the front of his boxers, slathered with damp precum as you wrestle those off, too. He doesn’t go anywhere, just watches like a man starved.

“F—Fu …”

John trails off when your fist finally closes around his cock, beginning to stroke along his length, thick and hot within your palm.

Arousal seeps between your thighs, warm and wanton as you let him writhe against the sheets. His hips jolt into your touch, wanting, and he’s painfully hard in your grasp, oozing heat.

“You’re gonna kill me,” He rasps, a groan tearing through him when your mouth graces the underside of his cock. The headboard groans in protest, buckling beneath his strength. “Fuck — Hey, stop teasing.”

All of that peacocking and bravado is stripped away to reveal the man underneath, and you love it — you love him. He’s so desperate, wound up into a hundred tight knots.

Mouthing at his cock, your tongue traces over the reddened tip, slow and methodical, the rest attended-to by your hand.

A shimmering glob of saliva pools over his cock when you let it trickle from your mouth, slicking over his shaft. He shivers at the sensation, the sight of it obscene when you keep stroking him off.

Your spit made everything easier, coupled by the sheen of precum coating his length. He’s squirming, muscled thighs taut, and he freezes when your nails prick over the skin there.

He wants to combust, wants to explode — John is absolutely desperate for a release.

All of that tension, all of that frustration he carries; it’s unburdening from him when you drag him toward a swift precipice. He jolts into your embrace, jaw slack, brows pinched.

As you begin to fully fist at his cock, your mouth follows, lips pursing around the flushed head before you move downward. The warmth of your lips nearly unravels him then and there, sheer ecstasy.

Blood rushed behind your ears, tendrils of heat curling over your bones, slithering between your thighs. The handcuffs rattle as he strains against them, helpless.

John is noisy, and you know his tells; sharp, guttural grunts and low-pitched groans, the clenching of his jaw. He sucks in a sigh when you begin to develop a softer rhythm.

“Shit, honey — Please don’t stop.” He feels somewhat pathetic, begging you like this, but he can’t help himself. His hips happen to buck up, cock filling your mouth as you sputter.

It nearly touches the back of your throat as you take him fully, momentarily gagging. The sensation of lewd, feeling his cock pulse within your mouth, but you’re eager to continue.

Murmuring a string of apologies, you compose yourself and continue, tongue flicking along the underside of his cock, over the tip.

Ripples of pleasure go coursing through his length, abdomen coiled into knots of bliss, thighs spasming as you pleasure him. Your mouth comes up, a string of saliva pooling from your lips.

“Being so good for me, John,” You croon, caressing along the thick muscle of his thigh. He shivers, daring to look down at the sinful sight between his legs, and the headboard strains again. “So handsome.”

He buckles beneath the praise, lips parted, visage tinged with scarlet — he’s barely hanging on, chest burning with labored pants. The sheen of spit hanging from your chin makes his head spin.

Again, you treat him to another barrage of your tongue until he’s writhing, wanting to break free and ruin you. Part of him doesn’t want to — he wants to stay underneath you.

“Christ,” His hips jerk again, feeling your delicate fingers stroke him off like you own him, and you do — you absolutely do. “Let me — Shit, let me fuck you.” John gruffs.

The husky cadence of his tone is alluring even when he’s begging, and you click your tongue. “Yeah? Are you gonna be good?” It flows so easily off of your tongue.

John shudders, chest constricting with a groan as he nods, blonde tresses disheveled, pupils wide and black with desire. “Yes,” He grits. “Just — C’mon, need you to sit down.” A grunt escapes him afterwards.

Letting your hands gather at the hem of your shirt, you remove it, and he’s razed.

The sight of your breasts bouncing softly, flesh velvety as it catches through the dim light, digits hooking into your panties — he wants to touch you, needs to touch you.

Wiping the tendril of drool from your mouth, you move to straddle his hips, letting his hard cock rest near his stomach. John strains, shifting against the handcuffs with a sliver of self-control.

“Can’t keep this up,” John confesses, looking thoroughly wrecked, red-faced and heated, jaw clenched tight. “Gotta touch you.” He breathes, and you consider letting him go.

You don’t say anything, adjusting your position in order to slide your panties off, and he spots the sheen of arousal on your inner thighs. It’s a small victory for him — you’re getting off on this, too.

Instead, you bend to kiss him, and he’s put into some frenzied state when he kisses the spit from your lips. John growls, a feral noise that sends shockwaves through your belly.

His cock is flush against your navel, painfully hard and aching to be inside of you. The sensation of it prodding into your stomach makes him grunt, mouths clawing for one another.

Every kiss is dizzying, as if you might collapse, but he’s steady, strong — he kisses you back as if you’re the air he breathes.

The sight of him all tied-up and desperate is an image that won’t leave your mind anytime soon. The illusion of control is there, he lets you have it, surrenders for a time — but he’s notoriously impatient.

In a heated clamor, he jerks his bound wrists forward, shattering the handcuffs with inhuman strength.

The headboard goes with it.

A loud CRACK reverberates through your bedroom as he dismantles the headboard from the wall, destroying some of the paint, but he doesn’t care.

He’s free, and his hands are on you like a vice, gripping you lovingly.

“John,” You gasp, but it catches in your throat as he kisses you hard, sitting up enough to manhandle you where he wants you. His hand is firm on your thigh, the other finding your cunt. “Holy shit!”

“Jesus, I couldn’t — Spread your legs,” John gruffs, digits sliding to the wet heat between your thighs. As soon as he parts your folds, you’re moaning, hands firm on his shoulders. “That’s it.”

The sight of him like this, wanton and desperate, is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing at all. A glassy sheen resides within his blue eyes, two fingers working over your slit repeatedly.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand.

“That’s all for me?” He presses, savoring the sensation of your wet pussy, slicking his fingers with your arousal. It’s obscene, it’s lewd, but he’s never wanted anything more.

“Yeah,” With a strained sigh, you let your body roll naturally into his palm, letting him finger-fuck you, first. “It’s yours, I’m yours.” Those words flip some trigger inside of him, something possessive.

Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you. His fingers tease your aching cunt for a little while longer, thumb drawing circles around your clit.

“J—John, please,” You moan into his ear, feeling tendrils of precum slather over your belly, cock rutting into you. “Just fuck me.” It’s filthy, it’s wanton, but you don’t care.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, obedient as he adjusts you enough to lift your hips, cock aligning with your soaked core. The flushed tip slides a time or two, but you’re eager.

The scratch of his beard is everywhere — over your lips, your jaw, your throat. He nips into the sensitive flesh there, biting back a guttural grunt when you sink onto his length.

Your cunt clenched around him even when he’s only an inch or two deep, causing the both of you to shiver together. His hand molds into your hip, the other still toying with your clit.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin.

Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite. It’s a brand, his mark, and you’re content if he does it a hundred times over.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” John exhales, voice deliciously low and husky, strung-out with lust. It’s all heat — bodies flush, sticky, messy. “That’s my girl.” He groans, letting you ride his cock.

The both of you are thoroughly debauched; needy, worked-up, and desperate for one another.

Your position forces you to feel every inch of him, and he’s infuriatingly well-endowed. His cock kisses your walls, cunt clenching pathetically around him the further he goes, bodies now entangled.

Static buzzes through your body, mind blank as he guides your movements, relieving some of the ache in your thighs. You bounce in a rhythm — back and forth, up and down.

John’s head rolls back, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, loosing a primal groan that makes your cunt clench around him.

Each slap of his cock lewdly urges against your slick cunt, arousal thick and honeyed around him, making everything easier.

“F—Fuck, John,” Delirious, you’re drunk on your own desire, brain fuzzy with white-hot bliss, mouth slack to make room for throaty moans. “God, you feel so good, please!”

With each deliberate bounce of your body, his length sheathed itself within you, the warm familiarity of it enough to make your body tremble in ecstasy.

Without warning, his hips buck into you, cock lewdly clashing into your cunt, the force of it enough to make your head spin. A soft sigh plumes through your lips, nails digging crescents into his skin.

The remnants of the headboard make things somewhat awkward, but the both of you are too lost within the ecstasy to care.

The silver glint of one handcuff is still around his left wrist, the hand that’s holding steadfastly to your hip. His thumb traces circles over the silky flesh there, the other still playing with your clit.

“Fuck, I’m close,” John groans, low and heady into the sweetness of your mouth, feeling one of your hands fist at his blonde tresses. “S’perfect, you’re perfect.” A half-growl snares within his throat.

Each downward thrust is deliberate, his cock kissing your walls, nearly bottoming out inside of you. It’s blissful, one of the best sensations you’ve felt, noises becoming increasingly crass.

As his thumb continues to grind into your clit, your breath hitches, and your orgasm is suddenly ripping through your body like fireworks.

It was hot, unexpected — your peak is white-hot as a thrumming buzz snares through your bones, accompanied by a rush of blood to the head. John feels your pussy ripple around him, and he’s nearly gone, too.

His name echoes from your mouth when you find your release, hands digging into the nape of his neck, one fisting at his hair. Your breasts press into his chest, bodies craving one another.

His hand slithers from between your thighs as he cups your chin, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, the same one that had touched you seconds ago.

“You feel so good, so — Mm,” You moan, hot breath pluming over his face, foreheads pressed against one another. You ride him still, taking his cock in full, downward motions. “So perfect, John.”

That praise and validation is delicious — he eats it up gleefully, mouth parted, blue eyes glazed-over with a thick sheen of ecstasy.

“S’good,” He sighs with you, cupping your chin to coax you in for a hot, messy kiss. Your mouth is sweet, tongues briefly brushing together, his hand still kneading at your thigh. “Just like that.”

The words stick low in his throat, emerging as a husky lull that travels over your spine in pleasant waves. Even after you cum, his cock is still hammering away at your pussy.

“Christ, fuck — Gonna …” John’s all bark, voice tapering off in senseless half-sentences when he fucks you deep. The pressure mounts, and when it collides, he’s done for.

Melting beneath you, John lets out another feral growl when he cums, his orgasm a rush of sticky heat, painting your cunt white.

Ropes of his spend come pooling forth, cock throbbing incessantly as he stays rooted inside of you, no sign of going anywhere. You kiss the pad of his thumb, hips beginning to slow to a crawl.

He looks whipped, muscles stinging with exertion, remnants of handcuffs and headboard still scattered around the both of you.

Blonde tresses stick to his temples, body glittering with a thin layer of perspiration. He begins to relax when your hands smooth over his chest, across the coarse hair there, over firm muscle.

Ripples of bliss shoot through your veins even still, seeing stars through closed eyes, thighs quivering like leaves.

John’s chest breaths ragged with each sigh, as if he’s exhaling fire, brows still furrowed together. His cum paints your pussy, leaking out of you still, a crass amalgamation of your arousal and his.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come down from the high, labored breaths tangling with one another.

“Are you okay?” You ask him first, noticing the ruinous mess of rubble that’s collected around the both of you. There’s dust from the wall on your pillows, debris from his accident.

He laughs, a real, genuine chuckle. It floods your insides with butterflies, and he almost looks a little embarrassed.

“Yeah,” He clicks his tongue. “Sorry for ruining your bed.” John muses, giving your thigh a gentle pat before gesturing elsewhere

“No, it’s fine,” You interject, pressing several kisses over the scruff of his jaw, over the crooked bridge of his nose. He’s smiling, savoring your affection. “It was ridiculously hot, if I’m being honest.”

John snorts, mouth lopsided as he pinches his brows together. “You think so?” He gruffs, and the cadence of his voice nearly makes you melt.

“Mm-hm,” Smitten, you decide to get off of him, met with a rush of sticky warmth that oozes lewdly between your legs. You’re rattled as you head to the bathroom to clean up. “How are you going to explain that to Val?”

Biting back a smirk, John grabs what blankets he can, the ones that he hasn’t ruined, and relocates to your floor. The tile is cool, icy — he makes a poor, makeshift bed on top.

“Haven’t figured that part out yet,” He muses, sheets loosely collecting over his hips, one arm arched behind his head. When you come back, you join him on the floor. “Not so bad down here.”

You laugh, curling up against his chest with a wrinkled nose. “Guess I’ll have to handcuff you more often.” He can taste the delight in your tone, and he doesn’t protest.

“Hm,” John grunts, snaking an arm around you, hand drifting over the small of your back. “Think it should be your turn next time.” He suggests, and he can tell that got you flustered.

“I think you’ve got yourself a deal, Walker.”

#mcu #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#john walker x reader #john walker x you #john walker x y/n #john walker smut #john walker fanfic #john walker #us agent x reader #us agent x you #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts x you #thunderbolts smut #wyatt russell

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ghostfacd · 2 years ago

Text

SASSY MEN DO IT BETTER! | TOM BLYTH

PAIRING. tom blyth x fem!actress!reader

SUMMARY. in which yours and tom’s behind the scenes gossip session goes viral and everyone’s dying to know who’s it about

AUTHOR’S NOTE. thank you to whomever requested this, nonnie i love you! this was so much fun to write and instead of Instagram posts, I decided to do tweets this time! enjoy as always and thank you for the overwhelming support on my au, it means so so much

installment of this au (recommend reading for context)

It started off innocent.

Just you and Tom in the background of a Behind The Scenes video where Rachel was currently talking about her character, Lucy Gray Baird.

You and Tom were fairly close in proximity—as you always were anyway—and you two were scrolling through your phones, showing each other funny videos or pictures of beautiful places that showed up on your feed.

That was until a message popped up from your ex, some jerk who had somehow gained a role in a movie and thought he was now some hotshot in the film industry.

“Oh seriously,” Tom mutters, watching as you tapped on the messages your ex had sent you. “He’s got to be kidding.”

Your ex had apparently “missed you greatly” and wanted to hang out so you two could catch up. He said he watched The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and was in awe of how well you acted. If he wasn’t such a toxic asshole when you two were dating, you would take it as a compliment.

“I don’t know where he has the nerve.” Tom says, giving you a disgusted look. “Like girl, please.”

“Girl please?” You say, giggling as your head fell back into his chest. “Baby, I didn’t know you said things like that.”

“There’s plenty of more where that came from,” he says, “Okay, I need to stop. What if someone on set thinks I’m crazy?”

“They already think you’re crazy.”

Tom rolls his eyes, shoving your shoulder back slightly. “You’re lucky you’re my girlfriend.”

“I think you’re more of the girlfriend in the relationship Tom,” you say, shrugging. You fail to hold in your laugh as you watch Tom’s expression turn into shock. “I’m kidding, thank you for being the best boyfriend I can ask for.”

He grumbles a sure whatever under his breath when you engulf him in a tight hug.

“You’re practically crushing my lungs.” He says a minute in, only to be responded with a roll of your eye. “But hey, I’m much better than that newbie actor ex of yours, right?”

“Is that even a question?” You say, pulling away. “He was just nonchalant and mean to me half of the time. Don’t know why I even dated him.”

Your phone goes off, another message coming from your ex. “Oh, he called you knock off Draco Malfoy, which by the way, isn’t even an insult because he doesn’t even come close to you or Draco Malfoy in terms of looks.”

Tom lets out an honest to God laugh at your commentary, shaking his head in amusement. “Yeah, but didn’t you have a huge crush on Malfoy as a kid?”

You pretend to think for a minute before nodding your head teasingly, “yeah, I guess things never change huh?”

“Okay stop, you know I’m a fake blonde.”

And the entire moment between you and Tom is captured on camera, sending your fans into a frenzy as they watched how cute you two were with each other.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow angst #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #tom blyth x reader #tom blyth #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games

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piastrisun · 4 months ago

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love me not.

pairings: lando norris + female reader.

summary: it started with one kiss. it kept happening. now you don’t know what hurts more — the way he holds you at night or the way he leaves you in the morning.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 7.7k. ⠀ warning: mentions of sex.

notes: inspired by ‘love me not’ by ravyn lenae. i feel this could’ve been more angsty but i’m happy with the result. hope you enjoy it a lot!!

you were best friends.

the kind of best friends who could sit in silence for hours and still feel like you were saying everything. you knew the passcode to his phone. he kept a spare hoodie at your place. you made playlists for each other and had a standing friday night tradition: pizza, films, and sharing one blanket on your sofa. it was always that way.

safe. easy. solid.

you’d grown up side by side, gone through break-ups, new jobs, bad days — all of it. you were the first person he called when he did well at a race. he was the one who held your hand when you failed your final exam. you were home to each other.

then it changed.

it was after a party. one of those nights that didn’t feel like it was supposed to matter. you were drunk, barefoot on his sofa in one of his old t-shirts. he was sitting on the floor, head leaning against your knee, telling you about some girl he wasn’t sure about.

“i just wish i liked her,” he’d said. “wish it felt like something.”

you laughed — tired, tipsy, warm — and said, “maybe you’re just waiting for the wrong person to feel like the right one.”

he looked up at you. eyes hazy. tired. quiet. and then he kissed you, not rushed. not hungry. just… gentle. curious, even. and you kissed him back.

the first time wasn’t planned.

you didn’t talk about it afterwards. you fell asleep in his bed, wearing the same t-shirt, pretending everything still felt the same.

and it didn’t.

the next morning, you made pancakes like you always did. he kissed your temple when he left. like it meant nothing. like you hadn’t just crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

you told yourself it was a one-time thing. a weird moment. something that didn’t need a label.

but a week later, it happened again.

and again. and again.

you told yourselves it was casual. just two best friends who slept together sometimes. nothing had to change. nothing would change.

except it did.

he stopped texting you good morning. you stopped telling him about the guy you’d matched with on hinge. the friday night film marathons got shorter. more skin. less talking.

you only saw each other late now. and even then, only when one of you was lonely enough to press send on a “you up?” text.

you used to talk until 4 a.m. now he leaves before sunrise. and now the friendship is gone. no more dumb inside jokes. no more teasing. no more comfort. just late-night sheets and fading laughter.

you still know how he takes his coffee. he still notices when you change your nail colour. but you don’t say those things anymore. you don’t talk unless someone needs a body. not a friend. not a heart.

just a body.

─────⠀ SCENE #1.

“don't loosen your grip, got a hold on me / now, forever, let's get back together.”

it’s sometime after 2 a.m. the city outside your window hums softly, distant and unbothered. the kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night, when even the streetlights seem tired. your flat is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow slipping through the blinds. your phone is in your hand. you’ve typed and deleted the same message three times.

you finally send it.

“you up?”

you don’t expect him to answer. not really. but when there’s a knock at your door ten minutes later, your heart trips over itself anyway. three soft raps, the kind only he does. and before you can even think about changing your mind, you’re opening it.

lando stands there, shirt half on, eyes tired but wide when they meet yours. his curls are messy, like he’d been tossing in bed or maybe hadn’t slept at all. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. you just step back, and he walks in like he always does like this is still his place too.

the flat is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. the silence between you crackles, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. you both know why he’s here. why he always comes back.

soon, you’re lying in bed, backs pressed against the mattress, shoulders just barely touching. the sheets are tangled, the air between you damp with something that isn’t quite love but feels too much like it.

he breathes steady beside you, like he’s already slipping away and something about that makes your chest tighten. you stare up at the ceiling, your fingers absently brushing against your own collarbone, grounding yourself. then your voice breaks the silence, low and soft like it might crack if you’re too loud.

“do you ever miss it?”

lando shifts a little, but he doesn’t turn to look at you. you see his jaw tighten just slightly in the dim light. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling like it’s safer that way.

“miss what?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

a small, bitter laugh escapes, but it isn’t really funny. you turn your head toward him. “us. before this,” your voice cracks a little. “when we could talk about stupid shit for hours and it didn’t end with you zipping up your jeans.”

the silence that follows is different this time, heavier. you swear you can feel it pressing down on your chest.

he exhales, long and slow, and finally turns his head toward you. you don’t look at him. you’re afraid if you do, the ache in your throat might spill out.

“i do,” he says eventually. quiet, but clear. “i miss it more than i say.”

you close your eyes. that should mean something. that should feel like enough. but it’s not. because you also know what comes next, the part where he pulls you close, kisses you like he means it, and then leaves before the sun comes up. the part where he pretends it’s nothing again.

“then why do we keep doing this?” your voice cracks despite you trying not to let it.

he doesn’t answer right away. he swallows hard, and you can see it, the way his throat bobs, the way his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s trying to hold himself still.

“because i don’t know how to not want you,” he says. “but i don’t know how to keep you either.”

your chest burns. that stupid mix of relief and heartbreak, like his honesty is a knife you asked him to twist. and in a way, you did

you finally turn to face him, and for the first time in weeks, your eyes meet in the dark.

“i don’t need you like that,” you whisper. “but i miss you. every time you go.”

he doesn’t say anything. just reaches out and brushes his fingers against your hand like he’s asking for permission to stay a little longer. and even though you know it’s going to hurt, you let him.

because you’re both already in too deep.

because you both lie.

and it’s all starting to crack.

his fingers graze yours, and your heart stutters, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. because he’s touched you a hundred times like this, maybe more. but it never feels casual, no matter how much you both pretend it is.

you don’t pull away. not yet. even though you probably should.

you shift slightly on the bed, turning toward him, your knees brushing under the sheets. the air smells like him, faint cologne and something familiar, something that always clings to your pillow when he leaves.

“do you ever think we ruined it?” you ask, barely more than a whisper.

lando doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah. all the time.”

that hurts. but what hurts more is how easily he says it, like it’s a fact he’s made peace with. like it’s something you’re both supposed to carry now, quiet and heavy and constant.

“i miss knowing you,” you say, and the words feel naked. “not just… this version of you. the one who only shows up when it’s late and no one’s looking.”

lando flinches, just a little. like the truth surprises him even though he knows it’s true.

“you still know me,” he says, soft but urgent. “more than anyone.”

“that doesn’t feel like enough anymore.” you don’t mean to sound bitter. but maybe you are, maybe that’s fair.

─────⠀ SCENE #2.

“it's hard to see you, but i wish you were right here / it's hard to leave you when i get you everywhere / all this time i'm thinkin' we could never be a pair.”

it starts in his car.

the windows are fogged from the inside, soft with condensation and blurred city lights that bleed through like bruises — purples and reds smudging across the glass. rain taps steadily against the roof, rhythmic and gentle, like a heartbeat. not yours, though. yours is lodged somewhere in your throat, pounding too hard, too fast. the air is thick with the scent of leather, the chill of the night air slipping through the cracks, and him, always him.

you hadn’t planned this. of course you hadn’t. you were supposed to just talk. to sit here, say a few things, maybe pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it does. maybe say goodbye, if either of you were brave enough to say the word out loud.

but then his hand brushed yours across the centre console — just a soft touch, nothing dramatic — and neither of you moved away.

you’re sat in the passenger seat, knees pulled up to your chest like they can protect you. your eyes are fixed on the streetlamp outside the car, watching the way the light flickers in the rain. like if you stare long enough, it’ll anchor you. keep you steady. because looking at him would ruin you. because looking at him means remembering everything you’re trying not to feel.

and then he says your name, quietly. like it’s fragile. like it might break if he says it too loud. “you okay?”

you nod. your throat is tight, but you lie anyway. “i’m fine.”

you’re not fine. not even close. because he’s sitting right there, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that you could just reach out and… touch him. and all you can think about is how much you miss him. how even when he’s this close, it still feels like he’s slipping away.

you finally turn to look at him, and your lips part, maybe to tell him to go. maybe to ask him to stay. maybe to scream. maybe to confess. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you don’t get the chance. because he leans in first, and, as usual, you let him.

it’s soft at first. barely even a kiss. like he’s asking a question. like he’s giving you a chance to stop this before it begins. but you don’t. you lean in too.

your fingers slide into his hair before you can think better of it, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. like you’ve done this before. like your body remembers him better than your heart does. the kiss deepens quickly, too quickly. all tongue and teeth and aching desperation. you move across the console like your bones were made for this, like you’ve always known how to get to him, how to reach him. like there’s never been any space between you at all.

his hands find their way under your shirt before you can catch your breath, and yours are tugging at his belt like it’s the only way you know how to speak now, through skin, through touch, through the kind of silence that says too much.

you end up in the backseat.

clothes half-on, half-off. limbs tangled. your breathing messy, mouths greedy, movements clumsy but real. it’s not perfect, it’s rushed, uneven, aching. but it’s honest. it’s desperate. you breathe him in like air, like you’ve been holding your breath for days, waiting for this exact moment to come undone.

you never tell him to stop.

not when the cold window presses against your back. not when his breath hits your ear, hot and shaky, and your name leaves his lips like a vow he doesn’t know he’s breaking.

because you don’t need him.

but oh god, you want him.

and in this moment, that feels like the same thing.

somehow, later, you end up back at your place.

he drives like nothing happened. his grip on the steering wheel steady, eyes forward, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. like your lipstick isn’t smeared down his throat. like your hand on his thigh isn’t enough to make him hard again. like neither of you are pretending that this is normal.

the door clicks shut behind you, and you’re on him again. it’s instant, automatic, like the moment you crossed the threshold, everything else disappeared. your backs hit walls. his mouth finds your neck. your blouse comes off, buttons lost somewhere on the floor. his shirt doesn’t even get a chance to drop, it stays crumpled in your fists like you’re afraid letting go of the fabric means letting go of him.

you don’t speak. you don’t have to.

this time, he takes you in the hallway. then the kitchen table. then finally, the bed, the one place you’ve never let him this far in, or at least you try to avoid.

he moans into your neck, murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, like it means something. and for a second — just one second — you let yourself believe it. you let yourself pretend this is love. pretend it’s real. pretend it isn’t just another night of pretending.

because loves you not, he loves you.

he holds you tight, then let you go.

he holds your waist like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

and you ride that lie all the way through. every kiss. every sigh. every time you whimper “don’t stop” when what you should’ve said was “don’t come back.”

later, you lie on your side, facing the window. his arm is draped around your hip. your bodies still pressed together, skin still burning. the room is quiet, but your mind is anything but.

your thoughts scream, you don’t need him like that. you’re better off without him. you’ll be fine in the morning. but right now?

you reach back. find his hand in the dark. your fingers wrap around his without thinking. you hold on. just for tonight.

because sometimes, want wins.

even when it will hurt like hell.

─────⠀ SCENE #3.

“soon as you leave me, we always lose connection / it's gettin' messy, i favor your affection.”

you weren’t planning to go out that friday.

but your friends insisted, and you didn’t feel like being alone with your thoughts. so you let them drag you to that bar in the city centre — the one with the overpriced drinks and the red lighting that makes everything feel a little too intimate, like even glancing across the room could mean something.

you’re halfway through your second drink when you see him.

lando.

same half-tucked shirt. same slouched posture, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching — and yet, somehow, he’s always the one everyone watches. not because he’s trying. because he never has to.

he’s not alone.

beside him — her. the girl. she’s pretty. effortlessly so. the kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, but gets it anyway, just like he does. she leans in when she laughs, head tilting just right, mouth parted like she’s rehearsed it. you see her fingers graze his arm. see the way he doesn’t flinch or step back.

she’s close. too close. laughing at something he said. her fingers brush his sleeve again like she’s done it before. like she belongs there.

and worst of all — he smiles. soft. familiar. not that smug grin he uses with strangers. no, this one’s different. it’s the real one. your one.

and it twists in your stomach like something sour.

you try to swallow it down. pretend it doesn’t bother you. pretend you’re better than this. but it does bother you. and you’re not better.

you stay long enough to let it sting. then you leave. like it doesn’t matter. like it didn’t crack something open in you. you make it home. sit on the edge of your bed. try to forget.

and fail.

later that night, your phone lights up.

“can i come over?”

you stare at the message, screen glowing in the dark. thumb hovering over the keyboard for a full minute. you could ignore it. should ignore it.

but you don’t.

“door’s open.”

you hate how fast you type it. hate that your heart jumps. hate that you’re already pulling on the sweater he left at yours three weeks ago — the one you swore you were going to wash and return. you hate that you glance in the mirror, just once, even though you tell yourself you don’t care.

it’s past midnight when he shows.

you don’t watch him enter, but you know the sounds of him — the soft click of the door, the quiet rustle of his jacket landing on the arm of the sofa like muscle memory. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he has. because you’ve let him.

you stay where you are, perched on the kitchen counter. legs bare, sweater slipping off one shoulder like it always does. the glass of water next to you has gone warm and untouched. your heart, though — wide awake. pulsing in your chest like it’s been waiting.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

your voice is steady. cold. detached — at least on the surface. “she looked nice.”

a direct hit. you don’t give him the grace of subtlety tonight.

he exhales hard. like he was expecting it. like he deserves it. “it wasn’t like that,” he says, stepping toward you. you see the way his hands twitch, fingers flexing like they want to reach for you. but he doesn’t.

you finally turn to face him. your expression gives nothing away, but your chest aches. every beat hurts. “neither is this,” you reply. “but here you are.”

and that’s the truth. the raw, ugly kind. the kind that scrapes at your throat on the way out.

he looks at you, eyes darker than usual, jaw tight. like he’s searching for something he already knows is there. and hates that it is. there’s guilt in him. you can see it.

but it doesn’t change a thing. guilt never stopped him before.

you slide off the counter slowly, deliberately. your bare feet hit the cold tile. you walk past him without a word. like he’s just another ghost in your hallway. like the heat between you hasn’t already begun to suffocate.

he follows. of course he does.

when the door clicks shut behind him, everything changes. like someone flipped a switch. emotion blurs into impulse. silence into heat.

your mouth is on his before he can speak. and he kisses you back like he’s been starving. like she didn’t exist. like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known. but you aren’t sure if that comforts you anymore. it just makes you want to break something.

your hands clutch at his shirt like you’re trying to rip her off him. erase the memory of her skin. take her name off his lips. you don’t care if it hurts him.

you hope it does. and he lets you. he always does.

clothes fall like lies — fast, careless. his shirt hits the floor in the hallway. your underwear ends up somewhere by the front door. you don’t even make it to the bedroom straight away. it starts in the kitchen, your breath fogging against the fridge. then the hallway wall. then, finally, the bed.

it isn’t tender. it’s desperate. messy. wordless.

you give him everything. let him take everything. because if this is all he wants from you, fine. let it be this.

he kisses you like he’s trying to forget. and you let him. even when your heart begs for something more.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling harder than you should. he groans into your neck, the sound raw, like pain and want all tangled up. his name falls from your lips like it’s a habit you can’t shake. and you hate that it still feels holy.

when it’s over, you’re twisted in the sheets. your back pressed to his chest. his arm draped around your waist like it means something. like he still belongs here.

like he’s not going to disappear before the sun comes up.

the silence is heavy. thick with everything you didn’t say. you should ask him why. why he keeps doing this. why he picks you at night but forgets you in the daylight. why it hurts more every time he leaves. but you don’t ask. because you already know the answer. and maybe hearing it out loud would hurt more than this.

so you just lie there. pretending the ache is enough. pretending the weight of his arm is more than just routine. pretending you’re not just a placeholder for something he hasn’t figured out he’s looking for.

because this is what it is now. not love. not friendship.

just him.

just you.

and all the ways you don’t belong to each other but still can’t seem to walk away.

─────⠀ SCENE #4.

“you gotta say that you're sorry at the end of the night / wake up in the mornin', everything's alright.”

the sun leaks through half-closed blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the tangled sheets. it’s the kind of light that should feel warm — gentle, even — the kind that belongs to slow mornings and shared breakfasts. but all it does is highlight the distance between you. it stretches across the bed like a quiet, golden reminder of how far apart you really are now. the dust in the air glows like ghosts, dancing in the silence, haunting the space you once called safe. there’s a stillness to the room now, like the aftermath of a storm, when everything has been said or broken or swallowed. and in a way, that’s exactly what this is. the quiet that comes after something violent. something real.

you sit on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, arms wrapped tight around your own body like it’s the only thing holding you together. your hoodie’s still on, sleeves tugged down over your hands, like maybe the fabric can shield you from the ache in your chest. it can’t. your hair’s stuck to the back of your neck, tangled and damp with sweat you didn’t bother to wash away. your skin smells like him. it always does after nights like this. nights where desire drowns out sense, where you let him in even though he never really stays.

and that scent, that ache, it clings. it always lingers longer than he ever does.

behind you, he’s getting dressed. you don’t need to look. you know the sound by now. the soft shuffle of denim, the faint metal hiss of a zip, the familiar clink of his belt. then that quiet sigh, the one you could recognise with your eyes closed. it’s the sound he makes when he’s trying not to feel. like he’s gently, deliberately peeling himself away from you, slipping back into the person he is when he’s not here. when he’s not yours.

and somehow, that hurts more than it should. more than you ever let on.

the silence between you thickens, stretching long and heavy, not just awkward — no, this is denser. fuller. it carries everything you haven’t said, everything you’re both too afraid to touch. but it pulses under your skin, louder than his heartbeat had been against your back only hours ago.

you break the silence first. you always do.

but this time, your voice isn’t soft. you don’t cushion the fall. you don’t offer him an easy out. “say something.”

your words drop into the room like stones. heavy. deliberate.

he pauses. long enough for your stomach to twist. long enough to make it feel like maybe he won’t respond at all. you know this version of him, the one that shuts down when things get too close, too real. the one that dodges truth with silence, always hoping it’ll be enough.

then he speaks, barely above a whisper, like he wants to say it without it counting.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

your jaw tightens. of course he doesn’t. of course he hides behind that. because to say the truth would mean facing it — facing you. it would mean admitting that this, whatever this is, matters. that you matter.

you turn to him slowly, carefully. your eyes sting, but you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed now too, his back turned, bare shoulders hunched slightly, the curve of his spine rising and falling with every breath. and god, you hate how much you love the way he looks. you hate how familiar he still feels. how much of you still wants him.

your voice is thin, shaking at the edges. but you say it anyway.

“say you miss me.”

he doesn’t move.

“say this fucks you up too.”

still nothing.

“say i’m not the only one who can’t sleep after you leave.”

your voice cracks on that last line, and it feels like failure. it feels like breaking in front of the very person who made you feel like you had to be unbreakable in the first place. you didn’t mean to fall apart, not again. but you’re so tired. tired of pretending. tired of swallowing your feelings. tired of being something soft when he needs it, and nothing when he doesn’t.

the silence that follows is different this time.

you hear the way he swallows. you notice the tiny hitch in his breath. and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. raw.

“you think i sleep at all?”

and just like that, it steals the air from your lungs.

because it’s the first thing that’s felt honest in weeks. and no, it’s not enough. not nearly. but it’s something. something real in a mess of half-truths, vague touches, and midnight lies.

you look down at your hands. they’re trembling now, gripping the hem of your hoodie like you can physically stop yourself from falling apart if you just hold on tight enough.

“then why do you keep leaving?” your voice barely makes it out. “if it hurts so much, why do you always walk away?”

you don’t turn to face him when you say it. you can’t. not when the answer might ruin you. and again, he doesn’t respond.

you think maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t know. or maybe he does. maybe the truth is too heavy. maybe it’s that he’s scared. scared of what it means to love you more than just friends. scared of what he becomes when he does. scared of staying — and scared of what might happen if he doesn’t. but what if it’s not like that?

for neither of you and the desire is the one talking. the ego trying to make sense of why he doesn’t want you like that.

you blink hard, trying to stop the tears from coming, but one escapes. a single drop, hot and slow, sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. you wipe it away quickly, almost angrily.

he stands. quietly. pulls his shirt on like it’s just another morning. like this is just another ending. you feel the shift in the room as he moves, and even though you don’t look, you know he’s watching you. maybe he wants to say something. maybe he almost does.

but he doesn’t. he walks to the door, it clicks shut behind him. and just like that, it’s over. again.

until the next time.

until you miss him too much to fight it.

until he needs something he doesn’t know how to name.

until one of you breaks and sends that same old message.

“you up?” “can i come over?” “door’s open.”

but for now, it’s just you.

in a bed that still smells like him. in a room that feels hollow. in silence that sounds more like goodbye every single time. and all the words he didn’t say are louder than the ones he did.

you lie back down, pulling the sheets over your chest even though they offer no warmth, no comfort.

and you try. god, you try, to breathe through the part of you that still hopes he’ll turn back. but he doesn’t. and deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.

─────⠀ SCENE #5.

“lord, take it so far away / i pray that, god, we don't break / i want you to take me up and down / and 'round and 'round again.”

it’s been a week.

seven whole days without a single word from you. not a text, not a late-night call, not even one of those dumb memes you always used to send when you were bored or trying to dodge something heavier. his last message? left on read. the one after that? you didn’t even open it.

because if silence is the only weapon you’ve got left, then you’re going to learn how to wield it properly. it’s your armour now. your boundary. your final stand. but now it’s 11:37 p.m., and there’s a knock at your door. and you already know who it is, you knew from the second your phone didn’t light up but your heartbeat did.

you don’t move at first. you just stare at the door like maybe, if you’re still enough, if you wish hard enough, he’ll vanish. maybe the knocking will stop. maybe he’ll get the hint. but it doesn’t. and your chest is tight, the kind of tight that makes it hard to breathe, and the air feels like it’s been holding its breath with you. so you open the door.

lando’s standing there, like he always does when it’s too late and he’s run out of places to go. his hair’s a mess, his jacket’s half-zipped, and his eyes—god, his eyes look like they haven’t seen sleep in days. he speaks, low and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “hey.”

you don’t say a word. just step aside. he walks in like he’s done it a thousand times before, because he has. like your home is still his home, like he still belongs here. “was starting to think you’d really shut me out this time,” he says, trying to keep it light, but it lands heavy.

you shut the door behind him, leaning against it like it might keep you upright. arms crossed. walls up. “i did too,” you reply, and there’s no softness in it. no invitation.

he exhales, and it’s almost a wince. like the truth winded him. like he expected a door slammed in his face, not honesty dropped at his feet.

then your voice breaks. just slightly. “i can’t do this.” the words fall out like they’ve been sitting on your tongue for days. like they’ve been aching to be heard. you say them like you mean them. like this is the line you’ve drawn. the point of no return. you want him to hear it and feel it and finally, finally understand. you want it to be closure.

but you don’t move. your feet stay planted. your arms don’t push him away. you don’t walk him to the door. you don’t ask him to go.

you never really do.

because every time he comes back, your mouth says leave but your body says stay, please stay. every time his hand finds yours, your resolve melts. not because you’re weak. not because you don’t have boundaries. but because they never stood a chance with him. because you never knew where to draw them. maybe it should’ve started the first time he kissed you like you were everything. maybe it should’ve started the first time he left without saying goodbye. maybe somewhere in the middle of all the things you never said about what this was… and what it never became.

you should tell him to go. you should mean it. but instead, you just stand there. breathing him in. and he steps closer — slow, tentative, eyes locked on yours, like he’s waiting. waiting for you to flinch, to speak, to push him away. but you don’t. you let him get close enough for the air between you to go warm, thick with history.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, like a dare. but he already knows you won’t. because you never have.

and you hate yourself for it. for the way your skin still hums for him. for how your body still reaches for something that’s always broken you. for the way he fits into you like he’s lived there. like he was made for it. and it’s you who leans in first. or maybe he does. maybe it’s both of you, meeting halfway like always. like inevitability.

your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. his hands are already under your shirt, like this is muscle memory. like you’ve both been here a thousand times and still haven’t learned. the sofa’s too far. the bedroom feels like a decision. so it happens right there. on the floor. on the same old carpet where you used to laugh until your ribs hurt. where you used to fall asleep in the middle of a film, limbs tangled, hearts calm.

now you’re tangled for different reasons. desperate. breathless. hungry for something neither of you dares name.

and when it’s done — when the world quiets — your head is on his chest, your legs still looped with his, and you let yourself pretend. just for a second. pretend that it’s safe here. that maybe, this time, he’ll stay.

but you already know how this goes. you’ve lived this story on repeat. because you never made the rules. because he never asked for them. and because you never thought you’d need them.

and maybe that’s the worst part, not that he crossed a line. but that you never drew one. not really. not where it counted. because you didn’t want to lose him. because wanting him always roared louder than protecting yourself from him.

and now he’s lying beside you on the floor, shirtless and soft, warm in all the places that still ache from him. your skin’s buzzing. your heart’s already breaking. because it’s never just physical. not with him. it never has been. and you knew that. and you let it happen anyway.

because at 2 a.m., when he’s right there, saying he’s worried you didn’t texted back with his hands instead of his mouth, it’s too easy to forget that he always leaves. and too hard to remember how to tell him not to come back.

then, out of nowhere, you laugh. quiet. unexpected. because you’re tired. because he’s still him. and for one second, it’s like it used to be.

he grins. soft and barely there. you both collapse back onto the carpet, side by side. legs tangled without thought, like instinct.

he nudges your knee with his. “remember when we slept on this floor after too much tequila and you made me rank every spice girls song?”

you smile, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “you said sporty carried the group.”

“she did,” he replies, mock offended.

a beat. you both laugh. and for a second… it’s easy. it always is, just before it hurts.

then he turns his head to look at you. his voice cracks a little now, like the joke chipped away something deeper. “i—i miss you.”

it’s quiet. honest. like something unraveling between you. like thread slipping loose.

you don’t look at him. just keep your eyes on the ceiling. “no,” you whisper. “you miss the part of me that lets you in at 2 a.m. and pretends it doesn’t hurt.”

he sits up suddenly. brows pulled in, hands through his hair — that move you know too well. “that’s not fair.”

and before you can stop yourself, your body follows his. now you’re both sat across from each other, legs crossed like kids. but your expression is sharp now. and your voice? even sharper.

“no,” you snap. “what’s not fair is holding me like i’m everything, just to let me go like i’m nothing. what’s not fair is the way you kiss me like you mean it, then disappear like you never did.”

his mouth opens. then shuts. his jaw tightens.

“that’s not how it is,” he says, quiet.

“then tell me what it is, lando. tell me what this is.”

silence.

he doesn’t answer. because he doesn’t know. because he’s scared. because giving it a name means risking it all.

“you always show up when you’re lonely,” you say, voice breaking now. “not when you miss me. not when you want me. just when being alone feels worse.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly, defensive. “i come because i—i don’t know where else to go.”

you laugh again. but it’s empty now. “wow. that’s so romantic.”

he winces. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you stand, grabbing the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around yourself like it might protect you from this ache. “you never do. and that’s the problem.”

he watches you. like he’s waiting for the shift. for you to fold. for you to leave the door open, like always.

but this time… you don’t.

lando stands slowly. his jeans are only half-zipped. his t-shirt’s bunched in his hand — the same one you’d pulled off earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is still pink. and he looks like every version of the boy you’ve ever loved.

but he doesn’t say anything.

not please, not don’t, not i love you. just silence. then he turns, walks to the door, opens it. you don’t stop him. he leaves.

and this time, you don’t cry. not until the door clicks shut. not until it’s real.

─────⠀ SCENE #6.

“oh no, i don't need you, but i miss you, come here / and oh, it’s so hard to see you, but i wish you were here.”

it’s been months. long enough that the sting of him has mostly faded, or at least, you’ve gotten good at pretending it has. you’ve stopped waiting for those texts at 2 a.m., the ones that always came too late and said too little. you’ve stopped pretending they didn’t break you. stopped staring at your phone like it might suddenly light up with his name and a miracle, some kind of answer to the mess you two made.

you’ve found a rhythm now. a way of living that doesn’t ache quite as much. a way of laughing that doesn’t feel like a betrayal. smiling no longer costs you something. you’ve learned how to lift your chin again without feeling like the weight of his ghost is pulling your shoulders down.

and for the most part, it’s fine. manageable. survivable.

the party is loud — too loud — with too many people, too many voices blurring into one constant hum against the bass of the music. you’re standing with friends, drink in hand, half-listening, half-smiling. trying. but then your eyes catch on someone across the room, and it’s him.

lando.

and just like that, the rest of the room fades. the noise quiets. his presence pulls you in like gravity, like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

his eyes meet yours. there’s no smile, no wave. just that look. the one that used to undo you. and even now, months later, it still finds its way into your chest, that familiar ache, sharp and bittersweet. you can almost hear his voice in your head, low and close, like it used to be when he leaned in just to say your name.

his lips twitch, like he’s about to smile. that same crooked grin that used to make you feel like you were the only one in the world.

but you don’t smile back. not this time.

instead, you turn your attention to the conversation around you. you laugh at your friend’s joke — louder than you need to — and take a sip of your drink you don’t really want. your fingers wrap tighter around the glass. you stand a little taller, a little stronger, trying to create distance between yourself and the ghost of him still lingering in your bones.

you won’t let him slip back in. not again. not now. not when it’s taken everything just to feel like you can breathe without him.

and then — your phone buzzes. you don’t have to check to know who it is, you already know, but you do anyway.

“come here.”

it’s just two words. harmless, almost. but they knock the air out of you.

you read it once. then again. and again. staring at his name like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once.

your chest tightens. your throat burns. because you can hear it: his voice, soft and quiet, like he’s standing right beside you. like he’s saying it not just through text, but through the silence between you, the memories, the weight of everything that still hasn’t been said.

you want to reply. god, you want to. but you don’t.

you slide your phone back into your bag. your hands shake slightly, but you steady yourself. because this time, you’re not doing it. not going to be the girl who folds for a late-night message again.

and somehow, that decision — that silence — feels like the bravest thing you’ve done in months.

you turn back to your friends. the music is too loud, and someone is laughing too hard, and it all feels like a blur. but you lean into it. you let it drown out the noise in your head.

you don’t look back.

the night carries on in flashes, lights, drinks, words that drift in and out. you smile and nod and dance and breathe. and when you finally get home, your heels kicked off, makeup smudged and hair still carrying the scent of smoke and too many people. the silence wraps around you like a blanket.

except it’s not comforting. it presses in on you, heavy and unforgiving.

you sit on the edge of your bed, the message still unopened on your screen, glowing faintly like it’s waiting for you to break.

come here.

you still get him everywhere. in the spaces between dreams. in the lyrics of songs you weren’t expecting. in the way your hand reaches for your phone just before sleep, even though you already know exactly what’s there. but this time, you won’t open the door.

because you’ve learned what his love feels like, all shadows and silence. he only comes when the night is quiet and the world is still, when the loneliness creeps in and he remembers you were once warm and easy to find. but you need more than that.

and he’s never been that person.

you can’t keep being the girl who waits for someone to mean it. who takes scraps and calls them love. and that realisation, it hurts more than you’ll ever admit aloud. it tears through your chest in the dead of night when no one is looking.

you press your fingers to the side of your phone, wishing it could erase the part of you that still aches for him. that still wants to believe the words he sends when he’s lonely. but you can’t stay there. not anymore.

and across the room at that same party, lando stands near the door, phone still in hand, the message sent and left on read.

he stares at the screen. rereads it. wonders if maybe you just didn’t see it. but he knows.

he knows that silence.

it isn’t distance — it’s a choice.

he’s done this too many times. come crawling back when it’s dark and empty and he can’t pretend anymore. he’s always shown up when it’s too late. when you’ve already put the pieces of yourself back together.

and now, watching you from afar, he feels it. the weight of what he’s broken. what he never gave you.

you don’t look back. you don’t seek him out. and god, he deserves it. but it still cuts.

you were the one thing that felt like home, and now you’re just a stranger in the same room.

he sends another message — i miss you — but even as he types it, he knows it’s not enough.

he’s sorry. he is. but he also knows that sorry isn’t love. sorry isn’t showing up when it matters. sorry doesn’t fix the way he only ever came to you when he was empty.

and maybe that’s why you finally stopped waiting.

he looks down at his phone, your silence louder than any answer you could’ve given.

because now he knows what it really means. you won’t come back — not unless he learns to want you in the light. not unless he learns how to stay.

and the worst part is… he’s not sure he ever will.

the space between you is wide and echoing. and he’s left standing there with nothing but a quiet screen and the realisation that he let you go.

one of you was falling harder every time, the other pretended they weren’t feeling a thing. who was who?

and the truth: you were both lying. and now it’s over.

there’s only ache and the strings are attached forever. either you are want it or not.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

#piastrisun: work #piastrisun: requests #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x you #piastrisun: one shot #lando norris x you #lando norris angst #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic

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mulloey · 29 days ago

Text

chapter two.

in full bloom.

dominant ateez x submissive reader

series warnings: heavy bdsm dynamics, subspace, rules and punishments, kink exploration, eventual romance, heavy/extreme kinks in later chapters. the characters engage in consensual controlling behaviour under the agreement of a 24/7 bdsm dynamic. this story does not represent ateez in any way; i merely use them as muses for my own characters. specific warnings will be in each chapter.

chapter warnings: discussion of rules and punishments, bdsm scene, use of ‘sir’, praise & degradation, pet play, impact play, light breath play, anal & vaginal fingering, overstimulation, denial etc.

words: 8.5k

disclaimer: this is an expanded rewrite of an old work of mine, ‘the new girl.’ if you feel like you’ve seen this fic before, you probably have. not all bdsm relationships involve sexual contact, however, this one does. please be safe.

The next few weeks seem to stretch impossibly. Like darkness in the dead of winter; long, never-ending, only anticipation to pull you through it. You didn’t get to see them again, after your first meeting; the guys left the country a few days afterwards, off on tour somewhere, leaving you here alone and waiting for them with a desperation you would never admit.

It’s a good test, though, Maya says; space and time away from them so you can sort through your thoughts and feelings without any undue influence. And you do—more than you should, perhaps.

In fact, you do nothing but think about them.

Any time you’re not replaying your meeting with them in your head, or thinking about them with a hand between your legs, or curled up in a ball stressing and worrying about every conceivable way this could all go horribly wrong—you’re watching them. You’re searching their names on social media, watching their music videos and staring at their pictures until your eyes hurt.

You can’t help it, really. Can’t even try to. They’re so hot—and you’re so eager.

That night at the bar, in fact, you’d barely managed to make it all the way home before sending the first text to Hongjoong, but if you came across as too keen, he didn’t mention it. Just a short I take it you’re home now, puppy?, and some small, infuriatingly procedural questions about how you felt the night had gone.

He’d even asked for permission to call you puppy. The care and caution in everything he does is equal parts maddening and delightful.

You text them a lot; every day, when there’s time. Surprisingly, to you at least, most of your conversations have nothing to do with your impending arrangement; just normal, casual things; irrelevant things that somehow, with them, feel invigorating.

It’s the way they speak to you, you think; controlled, commanding, nurturing. Oozing with authority and completely and entirely confident in it. It makes you want to kneel from five thousand miles away.

You don’t even think they do it on purpose; not all the time, anyway. It’s just who they are; how they are. They fall into it as naturally as you do into the inverse—into submission.

Your need for it has always been integral; as natural as breathing. It’s the achievement of it, or at least, the achievement of it in the vast and all-encompassing form you crave, that comes a little less easily. With them, though, you have some hope.

Your chat with Seonghwa sits at the top of your messages when you wake up; the little bunny emoji you’ve put next to his contact makes it just a little less intimidating to open, but your breath still hitches as it always does.

It’s a question you’re afraid to ask, let alone answer—why they already have such a hold over you. Why you’re already so affected by the mere idea of them.

good morning, puppy. call me when you’re up, if you can.

It takes you a little by surprise; you haven’t called any of them yet, whether because they’re too busy or for another reason you’re not sure. It makes you nervous, too, to be honest, the idea of phoning him.

But he asked you to do something and you’re eager to impress, so you bite the bullet and press call.

He picks up after a couple of rings. “Hi, baby.” You hear the smile in his voice; it makes you smile a little too, nerves cooling off some.

“Hi, Seonghwa.”

“Have you been thinking everything over like we asked?”

“Yeah,” you answer. He doesn’t reply, and you know what he’s waiting to hear. You swallow the lump that tries to form in your throat. “I really…I want to try this with you guys.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Is there anything you want to ask me about it?”

You hesitate, and though he says nothing you imagine he notices. He doesn’t rush you, though; just waits for you to find the words and make sense of them.

“The rules,” you say finally. “You said you guys are strict, so I wondered what some of the rules would be.”

“It depends on the submissive,” he replies after a moment. “Her needs, things she might want to improve on. But aside from obvious things like safety, we also have some core ones that stand for everyone we play with. Respect, permission, obedience.”

Respect, permission, obedience. You like those words; they make your head feel a little lighter and your stomach twist with want—want to fulfil them, and want to face the consequences when you don’t.

You’re good at those things, you know that. Good at submitting.

Usually. Sometimes, of course, you like to play.

“And if I break the rules?”

“Oh?” He laughs a little. “Are you planning on it?”

You hesitate, again, unsure how to answer; the truth, you know, is your only option, but suddenly it feels inadequate, your fear of annoying or disappointing them and being kicked to the curb now overarching.

This time, Seonghwa notices. “Hey,” he says. His voice has softened, but it’s still just as firm, just as resolute. “It’s important that you’re honest with us. You don’t need to hide anything from us, you know. Even the bratty side of you.”

You bite your lip, easing tension. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “We love brats. They’re a lot of fun. But you’re not one, really, I think, not often. You just like to push back a little sometimes.”

“You think so?”

“I think sometimes you need a reminder of who’s in control. Sometimes you need to get rid of guilt, to feel like you’re being held accountable for your mistakes. Sometimes, maybe, you just want to be punished. You want to feel like a bad little girl and be put back in your place.”

God, you do want that. You want all of it. And you want to let go of your fear of disappointing them so you can enjoy it in its entirety.

Maybe with them, you’ll learn to.

“You’re right,” you mumble. “And…it wouldn’t bother you? If I acted out?”

He sounds genuinely surprised at the question. “Bother me?” He repeats. “Of course not. Misbehaving is a normal part of these relationships; testing the limits and so on. I’d be honoured if you felt safe and secure with us enough to do that with us. And I’d be just as honoured to put you back in your place, too.”

Your breath hitches a little; at the image in your head and the safety that surrounds it. “Really?”

“Really,” he echos. “We want you. We knew it just from talking to you that day in the bar; knew you’d be perfect for us too. We want to train you up and make you the perfect little pet for us, so long as that’s what you want too. And if you need a spanking every day to keep you that way, then that’s what you’ll get. It would be our privilege to give it to you. You don’t need to worry about disappointing or bothering us or any of that.”

“Oh.” The relief you feel is physical; like a load on your chest finally lifting. You breathe out a reply that sounds a little more emotional than you’d like to admit.

It’s a warm, cosy feeling, knowing you won’t have to hide from them. A safety you’ve been searching for for longer than you’d realised.

You find yourself blinking back tears before you can process it.

You missed this more than you were conscious of.

Seonghwa’s voice sounds almost impossibly gentle. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you sniff. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Don’t apologise for getting emotional,” he says, and his voice is suddenly sharper than you’ve heard it. “It’s good, actually, that you do. That’s what we want.”

“It is?”

“Yes. We’ve found a lot of people just view this stuff as a way to get off, but it’s about a lot more than that for us.”

“Like what?” You ask.

“Trust,” he replies. “Connection. Surrender. Caring and being cared for. Release, too. But the more we get to know each other, the better answer I’ll have. Every submissive is different.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s the same to me. The importance. It’s reassuring, to know this is as important to you as it is to me.”

“It’s essential to my being,” Seonghwa responds. “Without it it feels like something’s missing.”

“Yeah.” It’s silent for a moment, like he’s silently gauging your response, as much as he can over the phone at least. “Would you like to try out a rule now?“

You inhale, sharp and sudden. You hear him laugh a little. “Please.”

“Good girl,” he hums. “Okay, here’s one. Every day, you’re going to send me a picture of you. It doesn't matter what you’re doing, or if you think you think you look good. You send one every day.”

“Oh.”

“What do you think?”

“I like that,” you breathe. “A lot.”

“Good. Do it now.”

You pause. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Okay,” you mutter. You pull the phone back, opening the camera to snap a pic and sending it before you can pick it apart like you usually do. The lighting is low, though, curtains still drawn and only the bedside lamp shining dimly from the other side of your bed, so there’s not much to pick apart anyway.

The message is read instantly. His voice comes low and affected through the phone.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “You look so tiny, baby. So fucking cute.”

“You think so?”

“You’re going to drive me fucking crazy,” he says. “All of us. I can’t wait for this tour to end. I need to get my hands on you.”

You can’t wait either.

“I have a question for you too, if that’s alright.”

You raise your eyebrows, curious. “What is it?”

“About our first scene together,” he says. “How do you imagine it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything you like, really. For example, do you want sexual contact? Do you want to get off? Or do you want it to be pure, high-protocol play?”

“I want to get off,” you say, maybe a little too quickly. “I just… it’s been so long since I did this, I’ve been waiting so long. So yeah, I want sexual contact, but I want the S/M stuff too. I want to see how it is you all are, when you’re doing a scene. What it’s like to submit to you.”

“Okay,” he breathes. He sounds affected. “We can do that. We can do all of that. Definitely.”

“Really?”

“Of course we can. We want our first scene together to be as you like. We didn’t want to be all whips and chains and bruises and psych you out straight away.”

“I mean,” you mumble. “I like whips and chains and bruises.”

“So do we,” he responds. “But it’s not appropriate for a first scene. It would be irresponsible of us to do that to you straight away, before you even know how we are as dominants and how you feel about it.”

“That makes sense,” you say. “Okay. So we’ll ease into everything, right?”

“Exactly. You’ll definitely get the whips and chains and bruises, I can promise you that. But you’ll get them when you’re ready. We’ll start you off with a shorter, more gentle scene; just a taster, okay?”

“Okay.”

You talk for a few more minutes, about random things; your work, their tour, and everything in between until he hangs up, suddenly called on by his manager, with a promise to text you later. You toss your phone to the side and curl back up inside your sheets. You’re alone in your room, barely any light, but the echo of his voice and the promise of their impending return makes you feel enveloped. Embraced.

By the time they’re back in the country you’re getting yourself off at least once a day just to quell the urges for them. You haven’t told them about it; not explicitly, at least, but there’s a small lilt in their voices when they talk to you sometimes that makes you think they already know. A little teasing, a little turned on.

“Been entertaining yourself?” Wooyoung asks you one day. “I’ll bet you have.”

Jongho manages to time a call just minutes after you finish; your face is still flushed and breathing still heavy when you pick up. “You look pretty,” he says. “I can make you even prettier soon.”

And Mingi—Mingi keeps it short. Your daily photos to Seonghwa have ended up extending to all of them. Feeling bold, you test the waters by sending one just after you finish; face red and sweaty, lips plush and glistening like you’ve been drooling. Mingi’s reply comes a few moments later.

You’d better have been thinking of us.

It’s a Thursday night a few days after their return, and you’re tucked up on the couch and just starting to doze off when your phone lights up with a call from a a familiar contact.

“Hi, honey,” Hongjoong greets. “Are you ready to start?”

The cafe you meet them in on Saturday is small and private; a little darker and more ambient than you’d expected, but it suits the purpose. They’re huddled into a booth in the far corner, waving you over when you spot you hovering nervously in the entrance.

Only four of them, you notice; not the eight you’d met the first time. They’re dressed down, clearly trying not to be recognised but they stand up and greet you with warm smiles that set your nerves a little more at ease.

Hongjoong is the first to speak; he often is, you’ve noticed. As much as they’re all equals, they seem to defer to him almost as a default, as much off camera as on. “Where would you like to sit?”

“Here is fine.” You gesture towards the empty space on the edge of the booth, next to Yeosang; you’re not scared of them or worried about today, far from it actually, but you know it’ll help you feel more at-ease, knowing there’s an easy out even if you never take it.

Jongho is next to him; opposite, Hongjoong and Seonghwa. Their gazes are fixed on you and just as heavy and intense as you remember them.

“Uh…” you start. “Where are the others?”

Hongjoong’s eyes flicker to the man next to him, then back. “We thought it’d be better if less of us came this time. To make it less overwhelming for you.”

“It’s something we should have considered last time,” Seonghwa adds. “We apologise that we didn’t.”

You smile, shaking your head. “No, it’s fine,” you say. You're glad to have met them all that first day; you won’t lie, though, and say you’re not a little relieved to not be facing down quite so many people today.

“It’s not,” Jongho says. “We should have asked about what you’d be comfortable with, at least. We won’t make that mistake again. Did you bring everything we asked you to?”

Oh, right. The list.

Hongjoong had asked you, on Thursday night on the phone, how you wanted to do this; if you wanted to take it slow, with more meetings and more time to think before doing anything, or if you wanted to “dive in,” as he put it. You’d chosen the latter with a lot more confidence than you’d anticipated.

You really have been needing this.

The list you pull from your pocket was texted to you by Hongjoong later; everything you’d need to bring today for the first few days of your new arrangement. “I think so,” you nod. Your eyes move down the list, checking off each item in your head. “Yes, I think I remembered it all.”

“We’ll see later,” Seonghwa smiles. “It’s not a problem if you didn’t, though. You tried your best and you’re new to this.”

The others hum in agreement and you smile, a little nervously. This was your first big ‘task’ from them, after all. You wanted to do it right. Show them you’re capable and worthy of their efforts. God, you hope you are—

Jongho’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts right on time; as if he somehow knew you were about to plunge in too deep. “You even wrote it all out, didn’t you?” He smiles, gesturing to the list in your hands. “Good girl.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Would you like me to explain the plan for this week?” Hongjoong asks gently.

You nod, suddenly anxious, and your gaze falls downwards to your lap where your hands are fiddling with the hem of your dress. A larger hand comes to rest atop them, holding them still and you look up to meet Yeosang’s firm gaze on you. His voice is gentle, calm, but the authority is unmistakable. “Look at him and answer him properly, sweetheart.”

Hongjoong is staring expectantly at you, when you finally meet his eyes. It’s the first time you’ve seen anything from him that felt like sternness. “Yes please,” you say.

He eases up, smiling again and you feel like a weight’s been lifted. God, you’re so receptive to them. So sensitive and eager to please.

“Good girl,” he says.

You bow your head again, embarrassed and Yeosang clicks his tongue, wordlessly chastising. You mutter an apology and force your eyes upwards again. “There we go,” Hongjoong praises. “Think of it as a trial run, yeah? We want you, we know that, but we need to see how it will work. What kind of arrangement will suit you best.”

“Okay,” you say. Yeosang releases your hands from his grip but you grab his arm as he starts to move away, needing someone to hold onto while you digest it all. He smiles, taking your hand back in his and squeezing it gently. “Good girl,” he murmurs.

“Are you with us so far?” Seonghwa asks.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he nods. “So for this week, we’ll all be getting to know each other better and getting used to our new dynamic. We’ll start figuring out the kind of submissive you are and the kind of training you’ll need. That make sense to you?”

You barely manage to get a response out this time, already feeling dazed. None of these words are new to you, exactly, not even in this context, but they’ve never felt so real before. So dark and forbidden and thrilling—to be spoken about like a pet, a submissive in need of training.

It’s a lot. It might even be everything.

Silence stretches, not uncomfortably, until you break it meekly, nervously. Yeosang squeezes your hand again, encouraging. “And the end of the week?” You ask. “What happens then?”

They share a look that you can’t quite decipher. They seem to have those a lot; the small, silent conversations that lie just out of your reach, but where you thought you’d feel excluded or out of the loop, you instead feel…secure. Cared for. Like everything, including yourself, is out of your hands and off of your shoulders.

Hongjoong looks like he knows exactly what’s going through your mind. “It’ll be up to you,” he tells you. “If you’re happy and you want to commit, you can stay with us. We’ll get you moved in and your room set up how you like. You’ll keep your own place, of course, but we’ll make our house your main residence.”

“But if you want to take it slower,” Jongho continues, “which is always an option, I might add, then we’ll take you home and continue getting to know you more casually, just like how you would in a normal relationship.”

“And of course, ending our arrangement entirely is an option too,” Yeosang adds. “At any time.”

The others voice their agreement and you smile gratefully. “Thank you,” you say. “I’ll remember that.”

“Any more questions?” Jongho asks.

Your answer comes blurted before you can really think on it. “I get my own room?”

“Of course,” Seonghwa chuckles. “You need your own space. We all do.”

“Right,” you nod.

He hums. “Well, if you’re ready, love,” he says, “there are four people at home who are waiting very patiently for your arrival.”

Their house is large, in a quieter area of the city but still central. Nothing to disturb you here, you think—and nothing to be disturbed by you.

Jongho takes your bag from the trunk without much effort; you try to help him, reaching to take it from his hands but he fixes you with a look so stern it almost sends a shiver down your spine. You back away, apologising, and he eases up again. “Good girl,” he says. “Go inside, I’ve got it.”

Seonghwa calls your name and holds his hand out for you to take. You’re halfway towards the door when it swings open suddenly; San is grinning at you, and it feels a little like a wolf baring its teeth.

“Hi, baby,” he beams.

“Were you watching from the window?” Seonghwa asks. San nods, unashamed, and the elder mumbles something under his breath that goes unacknowledged.

San is far too hungry to care—you see it on his face. Burning behind his eyes and practically emanating from his entire body. “I’ll take her in,” he tells Seonghwa. “Alright?”

“It’s her choice,” Seonghwa replies coolly. He smiles down at you. “She can make her own decisions for now.”

For now. The words, the implication, feel like fire on your skin. The way San’s eyes darken a little is impossible to ignore. The younger stretches his hand out, an offering, and you take it. “Are you coming too?” You ask Seonghwa.

“No,” he smiles. “You go on, we’re gonna get your room set up for you first. San’ll take care of you.”

You don’t doubt it; you nod, sure but still a little apprehensive and allow San to lead you inside and into the living room.

The set-up is…interesting, you think. A massive TV, large dark couches and armchairs set up in a crescent shape, and the coffee table shoved to the side. Like they were making room for something—something to be displayed.

You have little doubt as to what—who—that something will be. And you’ve never felt more like prey than you do at the mere sight of it.

The way Wooyoung’s smile widens when he spots you makes you even more certain as he stands up to greet you from where he’d been stretched out on the couch, intentions written on his face.

The dynamic of this house is clear just from the way he looks at you; the tension, thick, air getting hotter by the second, cementing what you already knew.

You’re theirs now. Theirs to do as they like with.

And that’s exactly how you want it.

Wooyoung’s voice comes deep, a little hoarse—affected. “There she is,” he grins. “Hi, doll.”

You wave shyly, throat suddenly too dry to do anything else, and his eyes flash. “Cute,” he mutters. “Bring her over here, Sannie.”

A strong arm snakes around your waist, pulling you over to the couch with just a little force; you go willingly, of course, but between the nerves and everything going on in your head right now, it’s taking a moment for your mind to catch up.

You’re in the middle of the two, now, pressed between them with nowhere to go. Close enough to see the tiny details of their skin. “Can I touch you?” Wooyoung asks.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He starts small, gentle; a hand pressed against your cheek. Explorative, tender; strength restrained. You keen into it, without realising, almost instinctual and he coos, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. “Good girl,” he purrs. “Sensitive puppy, aren’t you?”

Maybe, if you’d found the confidence to meet his gaze, you’d have seen the dark, predatory look in his eyes. Like he’s about to sink his teeth into you and is simply waiting for an opening. You whine his name, embarrassed, turning your face towards him to hide in his hand. They just laugh, shifting closer.

“She’s going under already,” San murmurs. “Such a natural, aren’t you baby?”

Another voice—cooler, distant—cuts in. “Already toying with her, are we?”

Yunho is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, faintly amused but otherwise expressionless. “I thought we agreed to wait.”

“I can’t help it,” Wooyoung replies. “She’s so pliant.”

Yunho’s eyebrow lifts, interested, and he takes a few steps towards you that feel a little like a predator closing in. “Is she?”

“Just so easy,” San affirms. “So small and sweet for it.”

“Control yourselves,” Yunho says, but the sternness in his voice is half-hearted. The sensations of the men beside you make you moan; the soft, hungry touches on your skin. God, San’s right. You go under so fast…

“Do you think she’s ready?”

You blink, Yunho’s words pulling you from the haze you’d started to slip away into. “Ready for what?”

They don’t answer; just smile gently at you then look back at each other. “I think so,” Wooyoung says. “Where’s Hongjoong?”

“Here.” Hongjoong emerges from another doorway, eyes finding you instantly. “Hi, bunny.”

You like that name; you feel your face heat up a little, enough to make the corners of his lips quirk in amusement. “Hi,” you squeak.

“What did you want me for?” He asks the others.

“We wondered if you think she’s ready yet,” Wooyoung replies.

Hongjoong is silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression before he speaks. “If Seonghwa thinks so,” he says, “then so do I.”

“I still don’t get it,” you mutter to no one in particular. Wooyoung pinches your cheek.

“Not very patient, are you?” He teases. “We’ll have to work on that.”

You flush in embarrassment, feeling a little chided and they look at you like they’ve never seen something so cute—or delectable.

When Yunho speaks again, his voice is rough and hoarse and almost shaking with desire. “Let’s get the others,” he says. “We’ve waited long enough.”

Wooyoung’s grip tightens around you like he’s holding you in place. You watch as Hongjoong disappears through the door again, off to find the others to do…whatever they’re planning, and this is the realest it’s ever felt. You’ve been waiting for weeks and now you’re finally on the cusp of it.

Your nerves are standing on their ends, silence stretching outwards. It’s tense and terrifying and everything you’ve been needing.

The sound of the others approaching sends you hurtling back down to the ground.

This is real. You have no idea what to expect—or what they expect.

What if you don’t measure up?

You must make a noise or some sign of distress; something to alert them of it, because suddenly there’s a hand in your hair, holding it gently then pulling hard enough to sting. It wakes you up from yourself and you grunt, meeting San’s eyes. They’re gentle; no hunger, no desire. Just care and concern and a softness you could get used to. “Hey,” he whispers. “No more thinking, puppy.”

“I…”

Wooyoung shushes you lowly, gently but with a firmness that’s unmistakable. “Pets don’t worry, baby. Everything will be fine. No expectations. You just follow our lead, we’re in control now.”

You say nothing, but the tension fades; fear subsiding enough to breathe. “That’s it,” San coos. “Good baby. Don’t think. Just obey.”

Then you’re on your feet, pulled up by the two men without a word. You notice, now, that everyone’s here. The living room is spacious enough that you don’t feel too crowded—but damn if you don’t feel surrounded. Like a prey among predators.

Hongjoong beckons you towards him with two fingers. He’s smiling, as he was before, but there’s something different to it now, something that wasn’t there before; an intention, a desire. A hunger that chills you to the core.

It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

And you’ve willingly put yourself in his hands, all their hands, and you’re desperate to see what they do with it.

You approach him with small, hesitant steps. He doesn’t rush you; just waits for you to come then points to the floor in front of him. “Here,” he says firmly. “On your knees.”

You obey, eager for his approval but he doesn’t speak even once you’re in position. He just watches you—they all do. The silence rests heavy on you. Hongjoong breaks it softly, quietly, like pebbles in water.

“When did we meet you?” He asks. “For the first time. How long ago was it?”

The question takes you aback; it feels random, without reason and…obvious? You don’t know. “Um.” You frown. “Maybe three weeks.”

You’re not sure why he’s asking that so suddenly, but you decide to just go with it. They have a plan, clearly; perhaps you don’t need to know it.

“Three weeks,” Hongjoong repeats. “Yes, that sounds about right. And we’ve talked to you, during that time. Talked a lot about this dynamic we’re building together. What it would look like. Correct?”

You nod. He taps your cheek just hard enough to make you wince. “Words.”

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Yes, we talked about it a lot.”

“Which means you’re familiar with our expectations,” he says. “You’ve no excuse tonight, then, do you?”

Oh. Your stomach twists at the thought; at the finality and warning in his tone. At the haze of submission approaching on the horizon.

“No,” you reply.

“Then we’re clear.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His hand grips your jaw without pressure or force, but the control and authority in his touch is such that you doubt you could break free of it if you wanted to. He doesn’t move or speak; just watches you for a moment, like he’s admiring his prize. “Perfect,” he gruffs. “Perfect, pretty thing.”

“Joong,” you whimper.

His grip tightens a little. “Sir,” he corrects. “Watch your manners.”

“Sorry, sir.”

He hums; it’s silent for a moment, his eyes flicking across your face and body like a silent inspection. He tilts your chin upwards a little more.

“You know well by now what we like,” he says. He thumbs at your bottom lip, not quite pushing into your mouth. “We like obedience. Control. Submission. You’ll learn to please us properly, learn the choices that make us happy. You’ll learn to surrender.”

You say nothing, not making a sound even as his thumb presses past your lips. He raises an eyebrow, like he’s waiting to see what you do, but you do nothing. Just let his thumb press in further, and let it sit.

The right choice, apparently. “Good girl,” he mutters.

“Look at that.” Yeosang’s voice is low, distant, a little awed. “So obedient already. Fingers in her mouth but she’s still not sucking them without permission.”

Hongjoong hums, appreciative and taps your cheek with his other hand. “You’re naturally good, aren’t you?” He smiles. “Just untrained. You’ll be a lot of fun.”

“I hope so, sir.”

He nods. His voice dips slightly. “The rules for tonight,” he says. “Verbal answers, unless we tell you not to speak. You obey without hesitation. You call us sir. You ask for permission. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” you whisper.

He tugs at your chin, harsh enough to make you hiss in pain. “Louder, girl.”

“Yes sir,” you repeat. He nods, satisfied, and pats your hair.

“On your feet,” he says. Your legs wobble a little as you stand up, already unsteady from the short time you’d spent on your knees; he’s quick to take hold of you, steadying you until he’s certain you’re stable then letting go. “Good.” He points to the middle of the room, where the coffee table would have been. “Over there.”

Seonghwa is next to speak; his voice is softer and gentler than Hongjoong’s but the air of authority is just as firm. “We’d like to give you a little test,” he says. “It’s not a test you can fail, and it’s not to see if we want you—for this week, at least, you’re already ours. It’s to see how much you can take, what kind of training you‘ll need. Yeah?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good,” he says. “Undress and put your clothes on the chair over there, then come back. You can leave your panties on. Do it now.”

Your response is shuddered, quiet, but you do as he commands. Your hands shake a little as you reach to unbutton your shirt, but you manage to get it done; your skirt is next, then your bra until all that’s left are your tiny white panties clinging to your hips.

You feel their eyes on you as you take your clothes over to the table; following you like stalked prey. You feel—you are—exposed and vulnerable like this, practically nude and surrounded by eight fully clothed men, but you don’t mind it.

You like it, actually. There’s something thrilling to it; something forbidden. It makes your body pulse in delightful submission.

“Very good,” Hongjoong says, tone approving. His gaze finds your chest, running across the bare skin without hint of subtlety. Instinctively your hands reach to cover yourself, but you think better of it—in the nick of time, it seems, if the anger that flares briefly in their eyes is anything to go by.

“Smart girl,” Seonghwa chuckles. “You’ll learn not to hide yourself. Not from us. You don’t have the right to anymore.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Right then.” Seonghwa claps his hands, sound cutting through the silence and making you jump in surprise. You hear laughter, soft; if your eyes weren’t cast downwards still you’d see their eyes flash, too, at the small flicker of fright evident in your posture. “We’ll start with some commands, alright? We’ll see which ones you know already, and we’ll teach you the ones you don’t.”

“Yes sir.”

“Look at me.”

You obey, lifting your gaze into his and he nods, satisfied. He clicks his fingers. “Down.”

It takes a second to register, your head a little floaty and by the time it does it’s clearly too late; Seonghwa sighs, seeming disappointed and nods to a man behind you. Then there’s a looming presence and five painful slaps against the practically bare skin of your ass. You yelp, trying to escape but the man snakes his other arm around your waist, pulling you backwards to hold your body taut against his.

“Disobeying already,” he breathes. You recognise Wooyoung’s voice, but the playfulness, even the teasing it normally has is gone. You whimper involuntarily and he slaps you again; this time it lands on the front of your thigh, heavy and stinging. “Don’t whine,” he orders.

“Sorry sir,” you breathe. He hums, rubbing the blooming pink mark on your thigh with a momentary tenderness. “No more talking, I think,” he says. “I’m in the mood for a nice, quiet puppy now.”

Jongho comes to stand in front of you; he tilts your jaw upwards with one hand, peering down at you expressionlessly. Wooyoung keeps his firm grip on your waist, holding you in place and stopping you from squirming away from their attention as you’re sometimes wont to do.

“This is your first lesson,” Jongho says. “When we say down, you get on your knees. Instantly and without question. If you don’t, you’ll be punished. So let’s try that again. Down.”

The second Wooyoung lets go, you fall to your knees, desperate to please now—to show them that you can and want to obey them. Jongho smiles, pressing a hand to your cheek and letting you nuzzle briefly against it. ”Good dog,” he praises. “Up.”

You’ve sprung to your feet before your mind has caught up; the pleased looks on their faces is as satisfying as any reward. “Clever girl,” San praises.

Jongho steps away, back towards the others surrounding you; you do your best to stay still, quiet—you figure that’s the best way to avoid Wooyoung’s heavy hand for now.

“Come,” Yeosang calls. He stops you with a raised hand before you can take the first step. “I don’t think so. Crawl.”

Oh. His voice drops deliciously on the final word and it hits you in the deepest parts of your body. You try to keep a semblance of grace as you lower yourself to your knees but you feel your entire body shaking with excitement; with the thrill of being spoken to and treated like this after so long.

It’s only a few feet on carpeted floor, but the weight of their stares on you makes it feel like miles, knees rubbed raw. Yeosang watches you approach like you’re a tiny mouse he’s lured into a trap.

“Sit,” he orders. You shuffle back up onto your knees and he rests a gentle hand on your hair. “She’s learning fast.”

The others hum in agreement. “She’s clever,” Mingi says, sounding proud.

“She is,” Yeosang says. “Alright, pet. The next ones are easy. Eyes up.”

This time they give you a second to figure it out; you don’t need it, really, feeling in the swing of it by now, but you’ll take what little leeway you can get. You meet Yeosang’s gaze with hopeful eyes and he nods. “Eyes down.” That one’s easier; you drop your gaze back down, contrite and obedient and perfect, if you say so yourself.

“Good girl,” he coos. “Isn’t she good, guys?”

“The best,” Yunho purrs. You’re so wrapped up in Yeosang’s attention that you hardly register the large, looming presence behind you until two big hands come to rest on your throat. There’s no pressure in his touch, no force—just surety. Surety that you’re his, theirs, because you want to be. That you’ll accept their touches and attentions and take everything they give you because you want it.

“I reckon she’s earned a reward,” Yunho says. “Being such a good puppy for us.”

You hear low, approving voices, chiming their agreement; Hongjoong’s voice comes like honey in your ears. “You’re right,” he agrees. “Come here, pup.”

You crawl a little faster now, more confident; he crouches down to your level and holds his arms out for you to crawl into. He lets you snuggle into his chest for a moment, a brief reward, then pulls back. He cradles your face in his hands, keeping your eyes on him.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmurs. “How do you want to be rewarded?”

“Fuck me.” It comes out before you can think on it, your body speaking for itself without your mind’s assent; at his raised eyebrows you tack on a whined “please, sir.”

His thumb presses against your lip again and pushes in. “Suck,” he says. You do; he looks enamoured by the sight. “You’re not ready for dick, precious,” he says. “Just a puppy still.”

“No, I’m ready,” you insist, nodding fervently.

Wrong move.

You see his gaze harden into iron from inches away, grip tightening on your face. Silence stretches. His hand collides with your cheek before you even see him raise it.

The hit is quick, wordless; casual, like this is a normal way for him to express his displeasure. Maybe it is. You whine, wincing away from him and he snarls, hitting you again. “Don’t you run from us,” he grunts. “And don’t ever challenge our authority. What you think doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not ready.”

“Sorry, sir,” you gasp. Your head is spinning a little, cheek throbbing from the force of his slap. “I’m not ready.”

“That’s right,” he purrs. “See. You can obey.”

“Yes sir.”

He hums. “You’ll learn to turn that brain off for us. Soon enough you won’t even remember how to talk back. Turn around and show me your ass.”

Fear pulses briefly and pleasantly as you turn, facing down the others who are watching you with what feels like something between fascination and scrutiny. Following your every move and ready to strike if it’s the wrong one. You’re ready for the slap, anticipating it; you’ve spoken out of turn, after all—you’ve displeased him. His hands aren’t the largest but you know they’re plenty large and strong enough to leave a mark. You felt it in the slaps he’d delivered to your face—the restraint held firm but fraying at the edges.

Hongjoong can make it hurt. They all can.

But right now, he doesn’t.

He runs a slender finger down your back like he’s savouring the skin, down across your ass and grazing over your pussy. It makes you squirm; a jolt of electricity down your spine at the sensation. He hums, not sounding affected but rather interested; clinical, almost. Like he’s inspecting you.

Two fingers slide under your panties and push them to the side then press slowly into your heat. It’s a stretch, only just noticeable above the haze, and he shushes your soft whimper with a tenderness you can hardly rectify with that dark, predatory look in his eyes; in their eyes.

You’re realising now just how much sharpness and softness go hand in hand with them.

Seonghwa’s voice comes distantly, faintly; like you’re floating in a bubble and he’s peering in from outside of it. “How does she feel, Joong?”

“She’s perfect,” Hongjoong says from behind you. “Tight and warm like we thought she’d be.”

God, the way they talk about you… it’s degrading and objectifying in the best way—everything about this is hotter than you imagined, their touches like fire on your skin and they know it.

He curls his finger, just a little but it sends a shockwave through you; you jolt forwards, unable to control yourself and he wraps a strong arm around your neck to pull you backwards into him. “Easy, girl,” he whispers. “Easy.”

“So squirmy,” Mingi coos. “She’ll need a firm hand.”

“She’ll learn to stay still.” You hear the grin in Hongjoong’s voice as he pushes in deeper, slipping a third finger past your folds and making you squeal. “Won’t you, pretty?”

“Ye-ah, yes sir,” you gasp.

They’re inching towards you now, closing in on you until you’re completely trapped. Their expressions differ slightly, some enamoured, some hungry, some clouded with pure lust—but they’re all completely, entirely focused on you. On the way Hongjoong pulls you apart like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The arm on your throat moves away and you fall back onto all fours; Seonghwa crouches down to catch your face in his hands, rubbing your flushed, wet cheeks.

Fuck, when did you start crying? How out of it are you?

Mingi and San disappear in your peripherals, then there’s more hands on your ass, running over the soft skin with heavy, lingering touches.

Hongjoong spreads his fingers, opening your hole up for them to see and you feel the shift in energy behind you as they take you in. “Fuck,” Mingi grunts. “The prettiest little pussy.”

“So cute and puffy,” San croons. He runs a finger—you think it’s his, anyway—through your wet folds then eases one past Hongjoong’s and into your hole.

San’s fingers are thicker than Hongjoong’s; a little longer, and when he puts in a second and the older man pulls his hand away you feel just as full as before. Mingi’s just watching; on his feet again and towering over you. If you tilted your head back just a little bit you’d see it; the look on his face that says he’s about to demolish you.

The others are watching—just watching—as San works you open and Seonghwa slips two long fingers into your mouth. “Suckle, baby,” he murmurs. “Show me how you use your mouth.”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance, in reality; his movements are fast, fingers pushing in and out at his own pace. It’s hard to take, it’s been a while since you’ve had your mouth used like this after all, but you do your best; he rewards your efforts with whispered praises barely audible above the sounds of wet, of the men playing with your holes and your body’s response to it.

“Gonna have to train your throat,” Seonghwa says. “Learn to take us all the way.”

Your eyes are watery again, brimming with fresh tears every time he forces his fingers to the back and chokes you on them. It clouds your head and blurs your vision until you can scarcely make out the scene in front of you; can scarcely tell the men apart as they watch you come undone.

Yeosang’s voice, though, is unmistakable; smooth velvet above the haze. “Harder, Seonghwa,” he says. “I wanna see her drooling.”

“Hear that?” Seonghwa chuckles. “You gonna drool for us, puppy? Get your slobber all over the carpet like a good little girl?”

Your response, muffled by his fingers, seems to be good enough; he presses a kiss to your forehead that’s so tender you barely notice his hand closing around your neck. He pulls away, resting his forehead against yours and his voice comes low. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Stop breathing for me. Let sir do it for a while.”

The pressure is pleasant, building slowly; you feel the precision and care in the way he holds you, the way he pulls you over the line in just the right way. Strength on the sides of your neck and tenderness atop your throat; careful not to push too far in the wrong direction. At this point you’re not sure which feeling, which hole to focus on.

The feeling of a finger circling your rim makes it an easier decision; this, you can’t ignore. You’ve never done this before; never explored that side of things. But one of them, apparently, has decided you will.

Mingi’s other hand comes to rest on your hip as he speaks. “Good girl. Ease up for me, let me in. You’ll get used to it.”

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Yunho adds. “Jongho’s favourite hole, isn’t it?”

You don’t know where Jongho is, can’t quite figure out where any of them are at this point; but the sound of his breath hitching tells you he’s dangerously close. “Yeah,” he gruffs. “It is.”

Mingi’s finger slips in slowly, teasingly; careful and steady enough to almost feel pleasant. You look up with pleading eyes—though for what exactly you’re not so sure—and find Yunho looming above the eldest member with an iron gaze. You whine around Seonghwa’s fingers, gagging a little and you feel the drool running down your chin and to the floor. Yunho’s jaw ticks. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns. “I’ll ruin you.”

You just whine again, almost petulant this time. Yunho’s eyebrow lifts. “Jongho,” he grits. “Put a finger in.”

Jongho doesn’t hesitate; doesn’t even pretend to. He pushes his finger in next to Mingi and matches his pace in a way that’s dizzying. Your whimpers have turned to sobs to full on cries, but Yunho seems unmoved. Satisfied, even.

“Naughty puppies get stretched,” he says simply. “Without prep, without pleasure. Remember that.”

You’re not certain how, even in a million years, you could ever be supposed to forget now.

It’s a punishment, you know that; a direct consequence for and lesson against getting too bold with them. But the pain and stretch you know is meant to teach you, to humiliate you, burns deliciously in your gut and you don’t want it to stop.

Maybe it’s the newness of it all, physically and mentally; the resistance your tight hole puts up against them. Or maybe it is the humiliation; the degradation of knowing every one of your holes is open for and owned by these men—and that you, sick little thing that you are, enjoy it.

You’ve never felt this before, though; you know that. You know it in every single way it’s possible to know something.

You’ve never felt this before. You’ve never even dreamed of it.

Seonghwa’s voice cuts suddenly through the fog. “Think you can come soon?” He asks.

You nod, desperate, and he makes a noise of satisfaction. You realise at some point that the others have retreated; only Seonghwa, Jongho and Mingi remain, the others back on the couches but still watching you just as intently. And the layout of the room means that they’re still surrounding you, still caging you in against the wall like perfect prey.

You feel…displayed.

You feel like a toy.

“San,” Seonghwa calls. “Come here and work on her pussy. She hasn’t learned to come from her ass yet.”

Yet. Seonghwa must catch the way your eyes widen some, pupils dilating; his focused expression twists into a small, knowing smile. His voice is crooning, patronising, like he knows exactly what’s happening in your head and loves it.

“That’s right,” he says. “We’re gonna train you to come just from having your ass full. You’re gonna learn to come every time we tell you to.”

Your body burns with need; with the waves and fires of climax approaching in the distance. Another hand comes to rest on your hips and you hear San’s low, calm voice as he pushes his fingers into you again.

You can’t quite make out the words but oh, the way he says them; so tender and so sadistic at the same time. Minimising your suffering as much as possible but enjoying the pieces of it that remain.

You feel the pressure mounting in your belly; your walls clenching around him, each movement felt more deeply and completely than the last. You know what this means; the mounting sensitivity, body reacting to every small movement—you’re close. But you won’t cross the line without their permission.

You want to be good for them. You’re going to be perfect.

“She’s breaking,” San says. His voice is distant, like you’re underwater. You gurgle around Seonghwa’s fingers when he forces them to the back of your throat again. “I can feel it. Tightening around me.”

The fingers in your ass are pulled out and you cry out in shock; your awareness of them had slipped as San worked you apart, but the emptiness without them is profound. Mingi coos and runs a finger across your flushed skin. “Shh,” he soothes. “Greedy baby. Let San break you, honey. Gonna feel so good.”

A strong arm tucks under your thighs and forces them together, tugging them towards him; with your legs clenched and immobilised everything is heightened, everything is too much but at the same time it’s not enough, it could never be enough, you’re going to—

“Come,” Seonghwa orders.

And you do. Your entire body convulses as your climax rips through you like a blast of hot air. You scream, still gagged by Seonghwa’s fingers as he coaxes you through it; your legs tense as you spill out all over San and then collapse forwards, caught in Seonghwa’s arms before you can hit the floor. He pulls his fingers out and wipes them off on your tear-stained cheeks. He’s speaking to you, they both are, but you can’t pull the words apart into something coherent.

You can’t really do anything right now. You feel like…like…

Like you. You feel like you in a way that you haven’t in years.

And you know, in that moment, that you’re going to stay with them. You’re going to sign that contract—you’d sign seven hundred thousand of them if it meant you could feel like this again.

The last thing you’re conscious of is the feeling of your soaked panties being pulled back into place before your eyes close and you drift away, fucked out and exhausted in their arms.

Seonghwa lifts you up and into San’s lap, manoeuvring your limbs like a fragile doll. “Careful,” he mutters. “Gentle with her now.”

“Of course,” San mumbles. He presses a kiss to your sweat-soaked forehead as he settles your sleeping body in his hold. “She did so well,” he says. “I’ll take her to bed now. She earned it.”

“She did,” Seonghwa smiles. “This is going to be so much fun.”

chapter two!!! because this was a short, introductory session for her, i wasn’t able to keep focus on all the members, however they will all be playing main roles in this work and so will all have at least one scene focused on them each. i plan on writing various scenes with different pairings, smaller groups and individuals. you’re welcome to let me know anything/anyone you’d like to see in particular!

taglist (comment on the masterpost to be tagged!): @pixie0627 @pinuspot @sitycc @m00njinnie @tunafishyfishylike @0mrrp @calilovesdilfs @happymochiland @nijisanjigenshin @diekleinesuesse @honghwalvr @paramedicnerd004 @luvlyfandoms @heeheehahahoohoo @herpoetryprincess @d3kstar

reblogs, comments and feedback are very appreciated. love🖤🖤🖤

#ateez smut #ateez hard hours #ateez x reader #ateez hard thoughts #hongjoong smut #seonghwa smut #yunho smut #yeosang smut #choi san smut #san smut #mingi smut #wooyoung smut #jongho smut #mulloey writes #series: in full bloom

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writesvani · 4 months ago

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dear me | 08

lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: death of a loved one, grief, childhood trauma, emotional vulnerability, mentions of smoking, mentions of hospitals, funeral themes, themes of loss, nostalgia, emotional dependency, performance anxiety, fear of failure, complicated parent-child relationship

comment here for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 6,3k // date: 28th of April

CHAPTER EIGHT — Fifteen Years and a Pinky; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hi gummies, how are you? here’s the ch 08. now, i know i told you this chapter is supposed to be 9k long and you may be surprised that it’s only 6.3k, but—listen. this chapter was originally supposed to include the night at the house too, but when i reread it i realized that three (3!!!) separate scenes would be like throwing your feelings into a blender and then stepping on it. and because the scene before the house night is raw (like steak tartare levels of raw) i didn’t want to ruin the flow. so here we are. soft. emotional. holding pinkies and sobbing.

this chapter is a bit heavy and personal for me, so if you’re thinking about sending hate asks or comments... respectfully, go touch grass. and maybe hug your grandma too while you're at it.

anyways, note goal for this chapter is 420 notes. if we hit it, you get chapter 9 which is lowkey spicey but not really but like... i sprinkled some ✨specs✨ of something in there okay. patience is a virtue, babes. see you soon.

The music at The House is doing exactly what it’s supposed to — vibing in the background like a low, steady heartbeat, not blasting your eardrums into oblivion like most places would. It's early, but a few brave locals are already perched at the bar, clutching their coffees like lifelines and pretending to be scandalized by Alex’s latest story. Honestly, half the chaos is in the fact that it’s barely 9 a.m. and he’s already causing a scene.

You can’t help but love mornings like this. Especially when the playlist is this good — Jezebel by Sade melts through the speakers, smooth and rich, and you bob your head to the beat as you sip your espresso like you’re in some cheap movie.

You and Jungkook had smartly claimed a booth instead of the bar. The bar is for nights when you need bad decisions and worse tequila. The booth? That’s strictly reserved for existential crises over coffee. Classy.

It’s almost funny how most people don’t even realize The House runs in the mornings too — it’s like an unspoken VIP pass to a secret world. Mornings here feel untouched, sacred, like you’re living inside a memory.

The place hasn’t changed.

The boy next to you — sprawled out, looking entirely too comfortable for someone with a cappuccino in hand — hasn’t either.

But you? Him? You’re not the same kids who used to think the world owed you something.

And maybe that’s the magic of it.

Or maybe it’s just the espresso talking.

“Vicky literally wanted to murder me yesterday,” Jungkook sighs, taking a small sip of his coffee.

“I think she did,” you agree, leaning back in your seat like the weight of the whole performance exhausted you. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you made it out alive.”

“She gave me a death glare that could’ve set the entire room on fire,” he says, laughing under his breath. “I think my soul left my body for a second.”

“She’s just... passionate,” you say, trying not to snicker.

“Passionate about hating me?”

You shrug, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Well, maybe don’t exist so loudly next time.”

Jungkook presses a hand to his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Brutal. Betrayed by my own favorite.”

You smile into your coffee cup, trying to hide the way your heart trips over itself at his words.

Jungkook tilts his head to the side, and you hear a loud crack echo from his neck. He winces, rubbing the spot.

"Jesus," he mutters, "I don’t know if I’m just getting old or what, but my neck’s been killing me lately. Like, constantly."

You snort into your coffee. "Join the club. For me, it’s the shoulders. Doesn’t even matter how I sleep—on my side, my back, curled up like a shrimp—bam, wake up feeling like someone beat me up in my dreams."

He chuckles under his breath, nudging your foot under the table. "We’re literally falling apart and it’s not even noon."

"Speak for yourself. I’m thriving. Pain is my lifestyle choice now," you say, dramatically stretching your arms and instantly regretting it when a sharp pinch runs through your shoulder.

"Yeah," Jungkook smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like you're thriving real hard over there.”

"So, Mr. Neck Pain," you tease, swirling your coffee, "what’s next now that you’re all settled back in town?"

Jungkook groans, slouching deeper into the booth. "Ugh, don’t even ask. Nina’s on this mission to redecorate my mom’s house. I can barely keep up with everything anymore."

"Redecorate?" you blink.

"Yeah, why?" he asks, eyeing you curiously.

You shrug, playing it off. "Nothing. I just always thought you loved that house the way it was."

"I do," he says, running a hand through his hair, "but we want it to be, you know, a good place if we ever start a family."

Your brows knit together, something tugging at your chest. "But we—I mean, you—grew up there. It's already a good place."

He smiles a little sadly. "True. But you know how Nina is—she loves the latest trends, new aesthetics, all that HGTV bullshit."

You force a chuckle, but your heart isn't in it. "Yeah... I know." You pause, tracing the rim of your cup. "I just thought… there were too many good memories there for you to change it."

Jungkook’s expression softens, and he leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "We're not tearing it down, just giving it a facelift. Besides..." he trails off for a second, choosing his words carefully, "there were a lot of bad memories there too, you know."

You gulp, regret washing over you in waves.

As much as you loved that house, the memories, the time you spent there with Jungkook, you know better now. When you left, he stayed. They all stayed behind. In there.

"Shit, Kook, I’m sorry," you mumble, your voice quieter than you intend. "I wasn’t thinking."

Jungkook glances at you, his expression neutral, but you can see the tiredness in his eyes. "It’s okay," he says, but it doesn’t sound as reassuring as it should. "Really. You didn’t say anything wrong."

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. "Still... I always run my mouth before thinking."

"It’s fine," he repeats, more firmly this time, though it doesn't quite ease the tension between you. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply like he’s been holding his breath for too long. He seems like he wants to move on, but you can tell the weight of the conversation hasn’t shifted for him.

There’s a pause as he stares down at his coffee cup, swirling the contents absentmindedly. "Speaking of the devil… He called me last night."

Your stomach sinks, a tight knot forming in your chest. "How does he even know you’re back in town?"

Jungkook shrugs, looking like he’s trying to make light of it, but the slight crease in his brow gives him away. "Maybe a neighbor mentioned something. You know how it is. Small town, everyone talks."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. "He said he misses me. Wants to see me."

You take a breath, your heart pounding a little faster than usual. "Kook..." Your voice softens, and you try to hold his gaze, willing him to understand. "You don’t have to go see him. You don’t owe him anything."

His eyes dart to yours, but they don’t hold the same certainty you’re used to. There’s a flicker of something there—maybe guilt, maybe doubt. "I know," he says, the words thick with hesitation. "But he’s still my dad."

You lean forward, putting your hands on the table as if grounding yourself, trying to find the right words. "Jungkook, I get that. I do. But look at what he did to you. To your family. You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not after everything he’s done."

A flash of pain crosses his face, but he quickly masks it with a forced shrug. "Maybe he’s changed." His voice is small now, as if he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

You feel a pang in your chest as you watch him. His words sound like a plea, a hope that hasn’t faded, despite everything. "Maybe," you say, your voice quieter than before. "But... Kook, you’ve given him so many chances. How many more does he need to mess up before you stop waiting for him to change?"

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at the table, his jaw clenched. His hands are folded together, knuckles white from the pressure. The silence stretches between you like a tension-filled rope, and you hate how long it lingers.

Finally, he lets out a long, slow breath, his voice almost inaudible. "I just... I don’t know. Part of me keeps thinking that maybe one day, he’ll realize what he lost. That he’ll finally see everything I’ve done for myself. But I’m still his son, you know? I still want him to be proud of me."

Your heart aches for him, and you find yourself reaching across the table without thinking, your hand brushing against his. "Kook..." You pause, unsure how to say what you want. "You don’t need his approval. You never have. You’ve made your own path, your own life. You don’t need him to recognize that."

He meets your eyes then, and for a moment, the world outside fades into the background. He’s so tired, and it’s not just the physical exhaustion. It’s the emotional weight he carries, the years of longing for something from his father that he may never get. "I don’t know if I can just let it go," he admits quietly.

You squeeze his hand, offering him a small but sincere smile. "I know it is. But you’ve been carrying this for so long. You deserve peace, Kook. You deserve to stop wondering if he’s going to come around."

He nods slowly, but the doubt still lingers in his eyes. "I’m just... not ready to give up on him yet. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to let go. But not now."

You nod in understanding, even though you wish he didn’t feel this way. You’re not sure if he’ll ever let go of the hope that his father might change, but you’ll be here for him—whether he wants to see his dad or not.

Because even if he can’t yet walk away from that, you’ll be the one to catch him if he falls.

"So..." Jungkook leans back, stretching like he’s trying to shake off the whole conversation. "You want another coffee or what?"

You huff out a laugh, sensing the way he’s desperate to change the subject. You’ll let him. For now.

"Sure. Let’s drown our trauma in caffeine," you say, clapping your hands once.

"Aki!" you yell across the room like a drunk girl at a party.

Alex's head snaps up from behind the bar, his expression pure chaos. "I KNOW you are not hollering at me from across the damn room at 9 AM!"

You press your palms together in mock prayer, batting your lashes at him.

He points a threatening finger your way, but he's already stomping toward the coffee machine. "You better be glad you're cute. And that you called me Aki. Otherwise? I'd be filing a noise complaint on your ass."

Jungkook cackles next to you, throwing his arm over the back of the booth lazily. "Don’t blame her. She’s been a menace since birth."

"And YOU!" Alex spins dramatically toward Jungkook. "Mr. Ex-Drummer-Wannabe over there—you even THINK about ordering like that and I’m dragging you out by your sad little hair bun."

"I cut my hair," Jungkook defends, laughing so hard he almost spills his cappuccino.

"Good. One less handle for me to grab when I throw hands," Alex fires back without missing a beat.

You’re crying with laughter now, doubled over in the booth as Alex aggressively slams the espresso shots into the machine like he’s personally offended by your existence.

"Two coffees! Extra espresso! And a prayer for your broken souls!" he yells over the sound of the steamer.

You wipe a tear from your eye. Jungkook’s cheeks are flushed pink from laughing.

The tension between you? Gone. Completely obliterated by the unholy spirit of Alex at 9 in the morning.

When Alex brings over your coffees, he doesn’t just drop them off and head back to the bar like a normal person. No, of course not. Alex being Alex means he slams the mugs down with a dramatic flourish, making a few drops slosh over the rims—and then, without so much as a warning, slides right into the booth beside you like he owns the damn place.

You blink at him. "Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, working?" you deadpan, scooting over an inch, not that it does anything to deter him.

"Babe, I am working," Alex says, fake-fanning himself like he’s starring in some bad soap opera. "Quality customer service. Mingling with the clientele. Boosting morale." He flashes you a smile so wide it’s practically criminal.

"You call this customer service?" you snort, narrowing your eyes.

"I call this excellence," he corrects, snapping his fingers in the air.

Jungkook leans back, grinning. "Remind me again why George hasn't kicked your ass to the curb yet?"

"Because," Alex says, stretching out his arms along the back of the booth like a king surveying his kingdom, "nobody else is stupid enough to work as a barista, bartender, waiter, and unofficial therapist at the same time."

"Unofficial therapist," you cough, laughing into your cup.

"I’ve seen things, alright?" Alex says gravely, glancing around the café like someone might overhear. "The shit people cry about at two in the morning over whiskey shots would make your hair fall out."

"You mean like that one girl who thought her cat was psychic and warning her about her cheating boyfriend?" Jungkook grins.

Alex gasps. "That girl was a treasure. And honestly, her cat probably was psychic. Men ain’t shit."

You and Jungkook crack up, nearly spilling your coffees.

"But seriously, why are you still here, Alex? You could probably have an actual desk job by now."

Alex sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "Because I love this place. And because I love the poor lost souls who stumble through that door looking like they need either a double shot of espresso or an exorcism."

"You saying you love us?" Jungkook teases, winking.

Alex points straight at you without missing a beat. "Yeah. But I love her more."

He leans his full weight against you, feigning a swoon.

You shove him half-heartedly, laughing. "Jesus Christ, get off me."

"Can’t," Alex hums. "We’re bonded for life now. Future spouses. Bar booth besties. Trauma buddies."

You shake your head, hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. No matter how loud or outrageous Alex could be, moments like this reminded you why you kept coming back to The House. Why it still felt like home, even when everything else around you had changed.

Jungkook watches the two of you with amusement flickering in his eyes. For a second, the weight on his shoulders seems lighter. His smile less forced. You catch the way he lingers, looking around at the chipped wood tables, the battered jukebox, the dusty light pouring through the windows—and you realize it’s not just you clinging to the past.

“So,” you start, drumming your nails against the scratched surface of the table, “anyone interesting playing tonight?”

Alex perks up immediately, a sly smile curling his lips. “Why, you guys thinking about stopping by?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question,” you groan, tossing your head back dramatically against the seat, earning a low chuckle from both Alex and Jungkook.

“Still so easy to rile you up,” Alex teases, nudging your arm with his elbow. "But fine. Yes, there’s someone playing tonight. Some high school senior band. New kids. Pretty decent."

He glances toward Jungkook, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his blue eyes. “You’d love them if you came to watch. Especially the drummer.”

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow, his mug pausing halfway to his mouth. “Yeah? They any good?” He phrases it like a question but there's a lightness there—something almost hopeful.

Alex leans back against the booth, arms crossed, grinning. “Real good. Their drummer reminds me a lot of you, actually. It’s crazy."

For a moment, something shifts in the air between them—some old memory or unspoken thing passing by. You catch it, the way Alex's voice softens at the edges, the way his posture straightens just slightly when he says it.

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. He just hums, a quiet sound, before taking a slow sip of his cappuccino. When he sets the cup down again, there’s a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You were amazing, you know," Alex says suddenly, voice lower, more serious now as he turns his head, eyes drifting toward the small stage at the front of the café. "Everyone loved seeing you up there."

"I was nothing special," Jungkook mutters, shrugging like he's trying to make himself smaller. He rolls his shoulders, like the memory sits a little too heavy on them.

"You were," Alex insists, almost stubbornly.

You stay quiet, just watching Jungkook carefully, feeling your chest tighten a little.

He was special. He is special. But you know he struggles to see it sometimes.

“Well," Jungkook says after a beat, laughing under his breath, "thank God we have new generations now. I’m way too rusty these days anyway."

"Rusty?" Alex scoffs like it's the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. "You could still kill it. I bet you could pick up a pair of sticks right now and blow everyone’s mind."

Jungkook laughs again, but this time it’s softer, almost bashful, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup. "Nah, man. Really. I can’t even remember the last time I touched a drum kit."

"Doesn’t matter," Alex shrugs. "Some things you don’t forget. It’s in you, y’know? Like breathing."

You smile a little into your coffee, feeling something warm bloom in your chest as you watch them.

Because you see it—that flicker of pride, of something almost childlike—lighting up behind Jungkook’s eyes.

No matter how much he tries to brush it off, no matter how much he plays it down…

There’s a part of him that still holds onto that love.

That part hasn’t rusted at all.

“Wanna bet?” Alex leans forward, elbows on the table, a wild grin spreading across his face. “If you come by tonight, get on that stage, and play like you used to, you owe me the fattest tip The House has ever seen. I’m talking, like, a thousand bucks.”

“A thousand?” you splutter, nearly choking on your coffee. Your eyes whip between Jungkook and Alex like you’re watching a live tennis match. “Are you insane?”

Alex just shrugs, looking completely unbothered, like he didn’t just casually ask for a month’s rent.

Jungkook’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, the way it always does when he's considering something reckless.

You can practically see it happening—the slow spark, the glint of mischief flickering to life behind his eyes.

“Yeah?” Jungkook says, voice low, teasing, almost daring. “And what if I suck? What if I’m absolutely terrible?”

Alex grins wider, if that’s even possible. “Then I’ll cover all your drinks. You, anyone you drag in here with you, free tabs for the next three months. No questions asked.”

Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “What if I’m bad on purpose?”

“You can’t be bad on purpose, Jungkook,” Alex says, voice almost affectionate, like he’s stating a universal truth. “You don’t know how. It’s not in your DNA.”

You laugh under your breath because, honestly, Alex isn’t wrong. Jungkook could try his absolute hardest to mess up and somehow still end up being stupidly good at it.

And now you see it happening, right there in front of you—the battle playing out in Jungkook’s head.

Because no matter how calm or grown-up he pretends to be these days, underneath it all, Jeon Jungkook has never met a challenge he didn’t want to destroy.

His fingers tap restlessly against the mug, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He’s thinking about it. Seriously thinking about it.

For a second, you think he might laugh it off.

For a second, you think he might shake his head and say, “Nah, not tonight.”

But there’s a part of you—quiet, selfish—that hopes he doesn’t.

Because seeing Jungkook now, here, with the stage in the background and the hum of The House around you, feels so strange it almost aches.

Like a part of your life that belonged to someone else entirely.

And yet, it did happen.

Right here, between these old walls and scratched tables and buzzing neon lights—Jungkook was alive once.

So alive, it made your chest hurt just watching him.

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, forcing a smile onto your lips.

You want to see that Jungkook again.

Just for one night.

Just for a song.

Maybe, just maybe… you’re not the only one who wants that too.

“Okay,” Jungkook says, crossing his arms lazily behind his head, his body slumping back into the booth like he couldn't care less.

You and Alex whip your heads toward him at the same time.

“Okay?” you both blurt out, voices overlapping in pure disbelief.

Alex’s jaw actually drops a little. His whole face lights up like someone just handed him front row tickets to his favorite band.

You swear you see sparkles in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says with a casual shrug, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just agree to revisit an entire part of himself he’s been quietly avoiding for years. “Game’s on. Don’t get too excited about it.”

You can’t help it.

You squeal.

Loud.

Like a literal teenager seeing her One Direction live.

“Oh my god, you’re really playing tonight?” you practically shout, bouncing in your seat.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow at you over the rim of his mug, hiding a small grin.

“Yeah. Only for the free drinks though. Because I know I’ll be terrible.”

Alex shoots you a look across the table—the look that screams I'm so winning this bet and you better remember this moment forever.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, pretty boy,” Alex sing-songs, leaning back with a smirk. “I’m getting that one grand tip tonight. You’re gonna play like an angel and you know it.”

Jungkook snorts, setting his coffee down with a loud clink. “Dream about it, Alex. I’m washed up. I’m bad.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night,” Alex says, waving him off. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m bathing in bills later.”

You shake your head, heart thudding against your ribs, still trying to wrap your mind around it.

Jungkook is playing tonight.

In this place.

On that stage.

The same one where he used to tear the house down with nothing but drumsticks and a grin.

You steal a glance at him—at the way he tries to act unfazed, too cool to care.

But you see it.

The way his fingers twitch slightly on the table.

The way his knee starts bouncing under it.

He’s excited.

Terrified maybe.

But excited.

And somehow, you feel like you're about to see a version of Jungkook tonight that’s been hiding for a long, long time.

You smile into your coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into your chest.

Tonight’s gonna be special.

You can feel it.

"Alright," Jungkook says, pulling out his wallet and flipping it open with a lazy flick of his wrist.

"You don’t have to pay me yet, you know," Alex grins, lounging back in his seat like he’s the king of the damn world. "Everyone knows I’m winning this anyway, but still—appreciate the enthusiasm."

"Bold of you to assume that," Jungkook mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes with a small smirk. He peels a few bills from his wallet and hands them over. "This is for the coffees. Nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up."

Alex whistles low under his breath, dramatically tucking the money into the pocket of his apron like it’s sacred treasure. "Coffees are on me, but I'm keeping this. Just so you know, when you lose tonight, this is going straight into my ‘Victory Drinks’ fund."

"Dream on," Jungkook says, already pushing his chair back.

You laugh, grabbing your jacket and slinging it over your shoulders. "We’re heading out before you two start slapping each other with money."

"Already?!" Alex pouts dramatically, sticking out his bottom lip like a child about to throw a tantrum. "But this was just starting to get fun!"

"We’ll see you tonight, babe," you tease, leaning in slightly as you adjust your jacket. "Try not to miss us too much."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Alex calls after you, tossing a mock salute your way as he saunters back behind the bar, already chatting up a new group of customers like the social butterfly he is.

You glance over your shoulder once before stepping outside, the cold air nipping at your cheeks.

The door swings shut behind you, cutting off the warm hum of The House.

And as you and Jungkook walk down the sidewalk, shoulders brushing every few steps, you can’t help but smile to yourself.

"I can’t believe I’ll see you on the stage tonight," you say, your voice soft, almost quiet.

The city moves around you — the low chatter of couples at outdoor tables, the distant barking of a dog, the steady thrum of cars in the background — but right now, it feels like it's just you and Jungkook, walking side by side.

He kicks a small pebble along the sidewalk with the toe of his boot, the rhythm of his steps syncing perfectly with yours.

"Me either," he says, chuckling under his breath. "I’m gonna suck."

He tries to brush it off with a joke, but you catch it — that slight dip in his voice, the way his shoulders curl inward, the way his teeth sink into his lower lip like he’s trying to keep the doubt from slipping out louder.

"Kook," you whisper, reaching out without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his elbow, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. "There’s no way in hell you’re gonna suck."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s searching for something — maybe faith, maybe reassurance, maybe just a familiar face who remembers who he used to be.

"I literally bet against myself," he mutters, half-laughing, half-defeated. "I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming."

You shake your head, smiling so much it almost hurts. "I’m with Alex on this one. You’ll be great. You’ll be better than great."

Jungkook scoffs, looking away as a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks. "I’ll embarrass myself," he says, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket.

"You could trip and fall flat on your face and people would still cheer for you," you say, bumping your shoulder against his lightly. "You have that thing, you know? That... energy. People just wanna root for you."

He laughs — a real one this time, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep, somewhere maybe he thought he buried a long time ago.

"You’re dangerous," he says, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips now, one he can’t quite hide. "You’re making me think I can actually do this."

"You can actually do this," you say simply.

For a moment, he just stares ahead, the sunlight catching in his hair, painting gold into the brown strands.

And you realize — he’s not scared of being bad.

He’s scared of remembering how much he loved it.

And maybe, deep down, he's scared of wanting it again.

"C'mon, let's go eat something," you say, grabbing a fistful of Jungkook’s jacket like a child dragging their favorite toy behind them.

Your steps turn rushed, half-skipping across the street, and you hear him laugh behind you — that soft, warm laugh that makes your chest bloom.

"Okay, okay, you don’t have to pull me," he chuckles, letting himself be tugged along, the heels of his boots scraping the sidewalk.

"You’re too slow and I’m too hungry," you shoot back, ignoring the string of playful complaints he tosses about you destroying his ‘new, very expensive, limited edition jacket.’

He doesn't actually try to break free though. He just follows, like he always does when it’s you.

You pull him into a small, tucked-away restaurant, the kind where the air smells like fresh bread and melted cheese, where the noise is low and comfortable.

Without even asking, Jungkook lets you choose the table — a cozy little booth by the window.

And somehow, as you both sit down, flipping open the greasy menus, it feels like nothing ever changed.

Not the years that passed. Not the hard things you both carried inside your chests.

Sitting across from him now feels exactly like it did when you were both younger, less guarded, less afraid.

The food comes quickly — baskets of fries and sandwiches stacked high — and you both agree without saying it that tonight's performance is off-limits, at least for now.

It’s a silent pact sealed with the clink of your water glasses.

"So you’re working tomorrow, and what after that?" Jungkook asks, stuffing a fistful of fries into his mouth, looking so casual you almost forget how his nerves had been rattling earlier.

"I think I’m gonna go to the cemetery after," you say lightly, twirling a fry between your fingers.

You don’t say it like it’s heavy.

Because it isn’t anymore.

It’s a routine. Like brushing your teeth. Like calling your mom.

It’s just something you do.

His chewing slows a little. "Nana?" he asks gently, voice dipping lower like he’s trying not to make the air around you heavier.

"Yeah," you smile a little, taking a sip of your drink. "Tomorrow’s the 15-year anniversary. Gotta go and visit her."

You joke about it, the same way you always do when you talk about it out loud. Not because it’s funny.

But because if you don’t laugh about it, it might feel too real. Too much.

Jungkook doesn’t prod.

Doesn’t tilt his head and give you the pity look.

Doesn’t say I’m sorry like everyone else does.

He just nods, tearing off a piece of his sandwich.

Because he knows.

He knows you visit her grave every month like clockwork. Knows you sit by the little marble headstone and tell her everything you can’t tell anyone else.

Knows that, as weird as it sounds, it’s almost comforting now.

Like a monthly check-in with someone who’s still somehow listening.

"It’s weird," you say suddenly, voice quieter, like you’re not sure why you’re even saying it. "Fifteen years sounds like forever. But it still feels like she’s... close. Sometimes."

Jungkook’s eyes lift to meet yours, soft and full of understanding.

"That’s because she is," he says simply.

You just smile, a real one this time. One that makes your nose crinkle.

And Jungkook smiles back, pushing the basket of fries toward you like he’s offering something bigger than food — like he’s offering comfort without making a big deal out of it.

And in that small, simple moment, you’re grateful.

Grateful that some people in your life — no matter how much time passes, no matter how much hurt sneaks in around the edges — always just get it.

"You know," you say, a small smirk playing on your lips, "I think I’m gonna bring her a pack of ciggies tomorrow. She’d be happy."

Jungkook laughs under his breath. "She’d be thrilled. I can already picture her up there in the sky, chanting, 'Smoke one for me!'"

"Literally," you snort, "that’s so her."

"Bring her some coffee too," he adds, nudging your foot gently under the table. "She only ever smoked when she had coffee."

"Maybe you can bring her the coffee," you tease.

His face softens, the teasing moment slipping into something gentler.

"You’d want me to come with you?"

You glance down, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

"Yeah... Only if you want to. No pressure."

"Of course I would," he says instantly. Then his smile fades just a little. "I just didn’t think you’d be comfortable with that. We haven’t gone there together in... ages."

"Yeah..." you trail off, the memory of old visits brushing against your mind like a ghost. Then you pause, the realization creeping up your spine. You lift your head slowly.

"Wait," you say, squinting at him, "are you saying you’ve gone to visit my Nana’s grave... alone?"

The air between you shifts — heavier, thicker.

He gulps. His shoulders tense slightly, but he doesn't back down.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, voice smaller than before. "Whenever I came back here to visit... I’d stop by and see her too."

You blink at him, stunned.

Your heartbeat violently pulses in your ribcage — not from anger, not even from sadness, but from a fierce, overwhelming surprise.

"You..." you start, then falter. "Why?"

He fiddles with a paper napkin, his fingers slow, deliberate.

His voice is rough when he answers.

"Because you loved her so much. And because she’s the only one I ever trusted to keep an eye on you when..."

There’s a crack in his voice that he doesn’t bother hiding.

It splinters something deep inside you.

"And because..." he clears his throat, like the words are caught there, too heavy to say. "Because I miss her too, you know."

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs and a tear slides down your cheek.

You wipe it away quickly, embarrassed, but Jungkook just gives you the softest look — patient and understanding — like he knew you would.

"I think," you say, voice shaking despite yourself, "I think she'd be really happy you still visit her."

Jungkook lifts his eyes to meet yours — and for a moment, the busy restaurant, the cold food between you, the people outside — all of it disappears.

"I think she'd be happy about a lot of things," he says quietly.

You don't ask what he means.

You don’t have to.

Instead, you reach across the table and brush your pinky against his — tentative, testing.

He smiles and hooks his pinky around yours without hesitation.

It’s small.

It’s quiet.

But it feels like something sacred.

"Then let’s make her happy tomorrow," you whisper.

"Deal," Jungkook smiles, and you feel a rush of emotions flooding you all at once — a tidal wave you don't even try to fight.

"You know..." you start, gently smiling at him, "I never got to thank you."

His smile falters just a little, confusion slipping onto his face. His eyes lock onto yours — steady, unwavering — and you feel yourself shrink a little under the weight of his gaze.

"For what?" he asks, voice low.

"For being there for me," you say, heart pounding, "when she died."

He shakes his head immediately, brows knitting together.

"Nonsense. You don't thank me for that. Ever."

"I have to, Kook," you whisper, feeling the lump build in your throat.

"No," he insists, voice firm but gentle. "You don't."

But you remember that day like it was yesterday.

You were still in middle school. Barely thirteen.

It was lunchtime, and you sat with your friends, Jungkook included — laughing, pretending everything was normal.

You'd told them how your Nana was sick. How you’d overheard your parents whispering late at night that the doctor said she didn’t have much time left. That it was only a matter of days.

You remembered the way everyone had reassured you.

How they promised she’d pull through.

How they smiled too big and said she was strong. That she would be fine.

You remembered coming home from school that day.

The house had felt... too quiet.

Only Leah and Vicky were there, small and scared, faces pale with something they didn’t fully understand.

Your youngest brother was at the neighbor’s house.

You remembered asking them — what's going on?

You remembered how tiny Vicky’s voice was when she said it.

"Mom said... Nana died."

You remembered standing there, rooted to the floor, unable to breathe.

You remembered the way the world cracked open under your feet.

And you remembered calling Jungkook.

Hands shaking. Voice breaking.

The only person you could think of to call.

He had answered before the first ring even finished.

And he had come over immediately, sneakers barely tied, hair a mess, face open with worry.

No questions. No hesitations.

Just him.

Just Jungkook.

Sitting with you on the cold kitchen floor.

Letting you cry into his chest until your sobs turned into hiccups.

Until your whole body hurt from it.

Until it hurt a little less.

You remember Jungkook holding you, Leah, and Vicky — small arms trying to wrap around all three of you at once.

He was just a kid too.

He loved Nana just as much.

You remember him hiding his own tears, trying so hard to be strong for you.

You remember him picking up your little brother from the neighbor’s house, walking all of you to the corner store, and buying you ice cream — like it could somehow patch up the hole inside your chest.

You remember falling asleep that night with your face buried in his shirt, your sobs wrecking your body until you were too exhausted to cry anymore — and him just holding you through it.

You remember the funeral, too.

How your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

How the world felt too big and too loud and too empty without her.

And how, without saying a single word, Jungkook hooked his pinky around yours — small and trembling — and didn’t let go the entire time.

Back then, it felt like a promise.

Like even when everything else disappeared, he wouldn't.

Now, sitting here with him years later, pinkies still finding each other without thinking, it feels like the same thing.

Maybe it was always the same thing.

"As I said," Jungkook’s voice cuts through your memories, pulling you gently back to him, "nonsense."

His tone is soft but steady, his eyes kind.

"We’re family. I’d always do that."

And without thinking, without meaning to, you tighten your pinky just a little around his.

Just to make sure he’s still there.

"I remember everything, Kook," you whisper, voice shaking.

"And you don’t even realize how much that meant to me."

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you, the softness in his eyes enough to pull the air from your lungs.

"I’m glad I was there," he finally says, voice thick. "I’m glad you called me."

You smile, watery but real.

"Me too.”

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hamilton-here · 3 months ago

Note

The recent pap video got me thinking

What if he's out with his girl, but it's still relatively new, just theirs, and when they get caught he panicks like he did in the video and rushes back inside

I'd be mortified loool

How would he go about it, to make amends? It was clear he was taken by surprise and his reaction was almost involuntary but it would legit break my heart cause it can look like he's hiding her, or embarrassment. Or like he has other girls in rotation

𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒪𝓊𝓇𝓈

Authors Note: Girl, when I say my heart broke watching that video. It’s none of our business. Anyway, enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: After a public misstep sparks online scrutiny, Lewis Hamilton soft-launches his relationship with you

Warnings: angst, swearing

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You don’t even realise what’s happening until Lewis’s fingers slip out of yours.

One second, you’re laughing.

Something he whispered in your ear just as you stepped through the restaurant doors, warm breath brushing your skin, the kind of joke meant just for you. Your cheeks still carry the ghost of your smile, your body still soft with the weight of good food, good wine, and the unmistakable feeling of his hand holding yours easy, comfortable, like it belonged there.

Then he stops.

Mid-step. Dead still.

And you feel it before you even understand it his hand loosening, fingers slipping free like sand through a sieve. A subtle shift. But sharp. Enough to send a jolt up your spine.

You blink, confused.

Then watch helpless as his arm drops to his side.

Just like that, the warmth is gone.

Your heart stumbles a beat behind the rest of you.

You turn your head, instinct leading you, and catch his gaze locked on something ahead.

Your eyes follow curious and slow.

And then you see it.

A man. A few feet away. Still as a statue. Phone raised. Not flashing. Not loud. Just quietly recording.

No crowd. No paparazzi buzz. Just a single lens trained on the two of you like a sniper scope.

And in that moment, Lewis turns.

No word. No tug on your hand. No look.

He just leaves.

Retreats through the same doors you both just walked out of, like rewinding a scene that was never meant to happen.

You're left standing there.

Alone.

In a dress you picked just for tonight. With your makeup carefully done, your hair pinned exactly the way he likes it. On a date you didn’t think you’d have to hide.

And suddenly, you’re exposed.

Not by the camera. Not even by the man holding it.

But by the space where he was supposed to be.

You’re frozen, half-turned, one arm still awkwardly outstretched like your body didn’t get the message fast enough. It takes everything in you to slowly let it drop.

Your cheeks burn. Not from shame yet, but from confusion. From the sheer whiplash of how fast it all shifted.

One moment you were his. Now you’re no one’s.

You look around, desperate for context for anything to explain why he walked away like your presence might ruin him. Why he couldn’t just hold your hand and keep walking.

The person with the phone is still filming. Their silence makes it worse. Like they’re waiting for something embarrassing to happen.

And maybe, you think bitterly, it already did.

You feel your throat tighten. Feel the sting behind your eyes.

You thought naively, maybe that you were past this stage with him. That whatever you were building together was private, sure, but not shameful.

But tonight? Tonight, he showed you otherwise.

Your legs feel unsteady. Every nerve is buzzing in a way that makes your skin crawl. You want to disappear. Or rewind. Or scream.

But instead, you stand there in the echo of your own humiliation.

And just when the lump in your throat becomes too much to swallow, the restaurant door opens again.

You snap your head toward it, hope flaring like a desperate match.

Lewis.

His chest is rising fast, breath shallow, eyes scanning until they find you.

And when they do, his shoulders drop not with relief, exactly, but with recognition. Like he just remembered what he left behind.

He walks toward you.

Says nothing.

But he reaches for your hand again.

And this time, he grips it hard. Tight. Like he’s trying to say, I’m still here. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t let go.

But you feel the difference.

It’s not comfort. It’s not intimacy. It’s damage control.

You let him take your hand, but you don’t take a step.

Not yet.

You just stare at him, eyes narrowed, your breath shaky.

And even though he’s right in front of you, he feels miles away.

The weight of what just happened sits heavy between you, unsaid but screaming.

Finally, you move. One foot. Then the other.

You walk together. But it doesn’t feel like together anymore.

The car pulls up without fanfare.

Lewis opens the door like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t abandon you.

You slide in, jaw clenched tight and stare out the window as the door clicks shut behind you.

The silence is unbearable.

His presence next to you is suffocating now like sitting beside someone wearing your favourite face but with none of the warmth behind it.

You try to breathe.

But it catches.

You turn to him, eyes burning.

And when you speak, your voice is so soft he almost misses it.

“Did you mean to drop my hand?”

He exhales, a shaky breath, like he knows what’s coming.

“No.”

You blink at him. “But you did.”

He looks at you now really looks and his expression falters.

“I know.”

You lean away, heart tight. “You walked away from me, Lewis. Like I was a problem you didn’t want to deal with.”

“That’s not what it was—”

“Then tell me,” You snap, voice rising despite yourself. “Tell me what it was. Because all I saw was the man I’m supposed to trust running from me the second a phone appeared.”

His lip's part, then close again. You watch his jaw clench.

He doesn’t have an answer. Not one you want to hear.

“I felt like an idiot,” you whisper, and this time your voice cracks, your throat raw with it. “Standing there like I didn’t belong. Like I was something to be erased.”

His face folds into something like regret. Pain.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your hands shake in your lap. “It’s true. That’s how you made me feel.”

His voice is low. “I panicked.”

You scoff. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t think, just reacted.”

You shake your head. “No. You chose.”

He leans forward, more urgent now. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you ask, voice thick with disbelief. “From being seen? From being connected to you?”

He goes silent.

And that silence is everything.

“I thought we were something real,” you say quietly. “But you didn’t even look back.”

He reaches for your hand again.

You pull it away.

The rejection lands hard between you.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You meet his eyes one last time. “You did, though.”

And that’s the truth neither of you can outrun.

The rest of the drive is silent.

Not cold. Not angry. Just heavy.

Like grief. Like something precious has been bent so far out of shape, you’re not sure if it will ever fit right again.

You sit rigid in your seat; your arms crossed tightly over your chest like armour. The city lights smear across the tinted glass beside you, and every now and then, you catch a flicker of your own reflection blurry, tired, undone. A warped version of yourself. Just like this night.

Lewis doesn’t say a word. Not since the last apology that landed between you like a stone in water, sinking fast and pulling everything with it.

You feel him glance your way once. Then again. But his mouth stays shut.

When the car pulls into the private garage beneath the hotel, the engine cuts out with a soft purr. The silence after it is deafening.

Neither of you moves.

For a moment, you think maybe this is it that the weight of it all will keep you both suspended in this stillness, unable to climb out of what’s broken.

Then the driver opens the door, and reality floods in.

Lewis steps out first, slow and hesitant. He doesn’t look back to offer his hand this time.

Maybe he knows better now.

Maybe he’s just as unsure as you are.

You slide out of the car and walk beside him not behind, not quite with. Just close enough that people wouldn’t question it. But far enough that you feel every inch of space between you.

A security guard nods silently as you pass, and you wonder what they saw. If they noticed the tension. If they can feel it radiating off the both of you like static.

The elevator ride up is the longest minute of your life.

The polished chrome walls feel suffocating, and even the soft ding of each floor is too loud, too sharp. Lewis stands with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, staring straight ahead like he’s bracing for impact.

And you - you don’t know where to look.

Because if you look at him, you might cry. And if you look away, you might miss the moment he decides this isn’t worth it anymore.

When the suite door clicks open, you step inside first.

You head straight for the window.

You need space.

You need something solid to keep you from falling apart.

The city stretches out below you - alive, glittering, indifferent. You wrap your arms around yourself and breathe in shallow, afraid that if you go too deep, the ache will crack wide open again.

Behind you, the door shuts softly. Like he’s afraid of startling you.

Like you’re something breakable now.

“I know sorry’s not enough,” Lewis says, voice low and rough. “But I am. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You don’t turn. You don’t know if you can.

Not yet. Not with the image of him letting go of your hand still burned into your memory like a bruise you can’t stop touching.

“I just needed you not to let go,” you whisper, voice catching. “Just…hold on. That’s all. Even if you were scared.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding that breath for hours. “I was scared. But not of you. Never of you. I was scared of them - of what they’ll turn you into the second they realise you’re mine. Of how they’ll twist you into something to dissect. Of what I’ll lose the moment the world gets to you.”

You close your eyes, a bitter taste rising in your throat. “So, you thought it was better to hurt me first. To make me feel like I wasn’t real.”

“No—” he starts, stepping forward, then falters. “No. I just…I didn’t think. I reacted like I always do. I pulled back like it would protect you, protect us, but all it did was rip us apart.”

You finally turn; arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“You humiliated me, Lewis.”

He flinches, visibly. His shoulders fall, and he nods like he deserves every syllable. “I know. And I hate that I did that to you.”

“I felt like I wasn’t enough to be seen,” you continue, voice raw. “Like I was a secret. Like I was convenient in private but too inconvenient to claim in public. Do you know how small that made me feel?”

His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but knows better.

And then it bursts out of you, louder than you mean it, all that pain turned to heat in your throat.

“Do you know what people probably think?!” you snap, eyes wide and wet. “That I was some random girl. Some fucking fling. That you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”

Lewis’s face crumples like he’s been hit. “No - don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s what they’ll assume, right? You let my hand go like I didn’t matter, like I was someone you didn’t want attached to your name. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Standing there, alone, while the cameras went off and you walked ahead like I wasn’t even there?”

“I didn’t mean for it to look like that,” he says, voice shaking now. “I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about how to keep you safe.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say, bitter. “You kept me safe by making me feel invisible.”

He steps toward you again, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“I’m not embarrassed by you. I’m proud. I’m fucking proud that you’re with me. But I didn’t show it. I know that. And I’m so, so sorry.”

“You didn’t just hurt me,” you say, your voice quieter now. “You made me question everything. Like maybe I’ve been imagining this whole thing. Like I was falling alone.”

He takes a shaky breath. “You weren’t. You’re not.”

You let that hang there. Just for a second. Then:

“Do you love me?” you ask suddenly, the words out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen. He looks like you just slammed the air out of his lungs. “Yes,” he says, instantly, no hesitation. “Yes. I love you.”

You look down, not because you don’t believe him but because you do, and it still hurts.

“I’m scared that even if you love me, you’ll always choose fear over me in public.”

He steps forward slowly, and this time, when he reaches for your hand, you let him.

His fingers close around yours warm, steady, shaking just a little.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” he says. “You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be held onto. Not just in quiet rooms or behind closed doors, but out there where it matters.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “You let go of me once. What happens next time it gets hard? What happens when there are headlines, or people start saying things about me, or about us?”

He doesn’t look away. “Then I’ll hold your hand tighter. I’ll stand next to you and weather it. Because what’s the point of loving someone if you don’t choose them when it’s hard?”

You exhale shakily. “I just don’t want to be disposable. I’ve been there before. I know what it’s like to be left behind.”

He moves closer now, wrapping his arms around you slowly, carefully.

“You’re not disposable. You’re everything. I was a coward tonight, and I can’t take that moment back. But I can promise you, with everything I have - I’ll never let you stand alone again.”

You don’t collapse into him right away.

You linger in the space between apology and forgiveness, waiting to see if the weight of what he’s saying feels real.

And it does.

It does.

Eventually, you lean in. Not all the way. But enough.

Enough for him to breathe again.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head, and this time, when his arms hold you, there’s no hesitation.

Just truth.

Just a quiet, desperate kind of love.

“I didn’t mean to let go,” he whispers. “But I swear to you I won’t ever let it happen again.”

And slowly, your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

Still bruised. Still healing.

But holding on, too.

Together. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Next Morning

You wake before him.

The room is bathed in a gentle hush, the kind that only exists in those rare early hours when the world hasn’t quite stirred. The sun pushes past the edges of the curtains, its light spilling gold across the suite across the rumpled sheets, the edge of the bed, and the hollow where Lewis sleeps beside you.

He lies on his stomach, arm stretched across your now-empty side of the bed, his face half-buried in the pillow. His breath is slow and steady, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly. Peaceful. Almost boyish. And for a second, it feels like maybe none of it happened. Like maybe last night was a bad dream you haven’t quite shaken.

But then your phone vibrates.

And you remember.

Reality creeps in like cold air under a door. Heavy. Sharp.

You slip from the bed, careful not to wake him. Your feet meet the cool marble floor, and the ache that’s settled in your chest tightens just a little more. Padding across the suite, you reach the counter where your phone glows softly waiting.

Just a glance, you tell yourself.

Just a glance.

Your name isn’t trending. His is.

Lewis Hamilton.

Again. Always.

Your heart starts to pick up speed as you unlock the screen and tap into the feed. You already know it’s a mistake. You know better. But curiosity is cruel. It itches beneath your skin like a scab you can’t help but scratch.

“Lewis Hamilton seen with mystery woman - walks away when spotted.”

“Here he goes again, protecting the image.”

“Why does he always look like he’s hiding something?”

“Same pattern, new girl. She’ll be gone in a month.”

Your stomach drops.

You keep scrolling, hoping desperately for something kinder. But most of it is static. Speculation. Grainy screenshots and blurry video clips from someone's phone. Ten seconds of nothing blown up into everything.

They’re building a story from silence. From that split-second decision. From the moment his hand slipped from yours like it had never been there at all.

And you…you look like a footnote. A plot point. A phase.

You barely register the sound of him stirring behind you until his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Hey,” Lewis says, sleep-rough and low. “You’re up.”

You turn, startled. He’s awake now, sitting up with the sheets pooling around his waist, blinking blearily as he studies you.

You hesitate. Then walk over, wordlessly holding out your phone.

He takes it from your hand, brows furrowing as he begins to scroll.

His jaw tightens. His thumb stills.

And when his eyes lift to meet yours, there’s a heaviness there you’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. The words feel distant, echoing against the hurt that’s already taken root.

“It’s not even that they’re wrong,” you say, voice flat. “That’s the part that hurts the most. They saw what happened. And they filled in the blanks exactly how it looked.”

He sets the phone down gently on the nightstand, like it might break. “They don’t know anything about us.”

“No,” you say, voice sharper now. “But they don’t need to. That’s the thing. All it takes is a ten-second clip. No context, no explanation. Just you walking away. Just me standing there. Alone.”

He opens his mouth, but you push on, words tumbling fast and bitter.

“You said you didn’t want to drag me into all of this. But Lewis, I’m already in it. I’ve been in it from the minute you kissed me like I mattered. From the moment I started trusting you with the softest parts of myself.”

He watches you, quiet. But you’re not done.

“I can’t be the only one carrying the weight of this relationship in the real world. I’m tired of being your secret. I’m tired of walking behind you or standing in shadows while you pretend like we’re nothing more than casual. You either let people see us, or you keep hiding me. But I won’t do both.”

The silence this time stretches taut. A rubber band pulled to the point of snapping.

“Do you want this?” you ask finally, voice cracking at the edges. “Do you really want me in your life, in your world or do you just want me in your bed?”

Lewis’s expression shatters. He stands slowly, bare feet touching the cold floor as he closes the distance between you.

But you step back, voice rising now. “Because let’s be honest people out there? They probably think you’re embarrassed. That I was just some fling you got caught with. That you walked away because I didn’t look like someone who fits your life.”

He flinches, the words landing hard. You press on, chest heaving.

“They think I’m replaceable. That I’m not the first. That I won’t be the last. And I don’t even blame them for thinking that. Because you made it look that way.”

His eyes are glassy now, rimmed with regret.

“I wasn’t asking for a red carpet,” you say, voice quieter. “I wasn’t asking for fanfare. I just needed to know that you’re proud of me. That I’m not some shameful secret you only get to love behind closed doors.”

Lewis doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for your phone again.

You frown, wary. “What are you doing?”

He unlocks it and scrolls to Instagram.

“Lewis—” you start, heart thudding as he taps into his camera roll.

He turns the screen toward you.

It’s a photo.

From a few nights ago.

You’re curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, bare legs tucked under you, holding a mug with both hands. The same mug you refused to let him wash because “the handle fits your hand perfectly.” Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are tired. But you’re smiling.

You look like you belong.

“I was going to post this,” he says, voice soft. “When it felt right.”

You stare at the screen, heart cracking wide open.

“And now?” you whisper.

He looks at you. Then back at the phone. Then, with one last breath, he hits post.

No caption. No filters. Just the truth.

The notification pings in your hand like a jolt.

You blink at it, then up at him.

He steps closer. His hands hover at your hips before resting there, warm and steady.

“Now feels right,” he says. “Because I don’t want you to feel hidden. Or small. Or disposable. Not ever again.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, trying to breathe through the emotion clogging your chest.

“People are going to come for me,” you say, voice thin.

“They already do,” he answers, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “But if they’re going to talk, let them talk about how lucky I am. About how in love, I am.”

You exhale shakily. And for the first time since the night before, the weight starts to lift.

When he pulls you into his arms, it feels different now.

Not like a secret.

Not like something fragile.

But like something known.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe maybe this time, he won’t let go. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later That Day

The internet doesn’t catch it at first.

The photo sits quietly on his feed, tucked between a carousel from the Miami paddock and a reposted campaign with IWC. It’s unassuming. No caption. No explanation. Just warmth.

But the F1 fandom never misses a beat for long.

An hour in, a Twitter account with far too much time zooms in on the background. That blanket looks familiar. That mug. That hoodie.

Then someone finds the original video the blurry, grainy clip of Lewis stepping away. Of you standing still. They line it up with the photo. The same girl. The same smile. The internet, ravenous and relentless, does what it does best.

It explodes.

“No way. NO WAY. He SOFT-LAUNCHED???”

“Y’all that’s not just a situationship post. That’s domestic. That’s intimacy.”

“Everyone who dragged her in the comments this morning - you better apologise now.”

“He saw the discourse and said let me fix it immediately.”

“He’s in his lover era.”

The reactions range from surprised to stunned to stunned-into-silence.

Fan accounts post side-by-sides, analysing lighting, his expression in the video vs. the softness in the photo. Someone finds a blurry shot of you at a Ferrari hospitality suite and posts it like proof of life. Edits are made. TikTok’s are narrated like it’s a docuseries. Suddenly you’re not “the mystery blonde” anymore. You’re her. The girl in his hoodie, in his house.

And then, the media catches on.

By evening, articles flip tone like a switchblade.

“Lewis Hamilton Goes Public in a Rare Glimpse at Private Life”

“A Soft Launch Heard Around the World”

“She Was a Secret for 10 Seconds. Now She’s the Moment.”

Some label it strategic. Others claim it’s romantic rebranding. But the most popular take the one that sticks is simple: This looks real.

And more importantly: This looks like love. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Back at His Place

You’re back on the same couch from the photo, tucked in the same corner, wearing the same hoodie. The handle of your mug fits perfectly in your hand, just like always, and your legs are folded beneath you as though they never belonged anywhere else.

Your phone buzzes again. And again. You’ve silenced it, turned it screen-down on the coffee table, but it still hums like a nervous heartbeat, vibrating the glass every few seconds.

Lewis walks in from the kitchen, balancing two mugs in one hand, blanket draped over his shoulder. He sets your drink down in front of you and then sits, pulling you into his side with quiet ease.

His warmth is instant. His thumb rubs slow circles along your upper arm like muscle memory.

“You, okay?” he asks, softly.

You shrug, staring at the coffee. “Not sure yet.”

He nods. Doesn’t push.

You glance at the phone. It hasn’t stopped.

“I don’t even want to know what’s being said now,” you murmur.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

He tugs the blanket up, tucks it around you both. Like a shield.

“I didn’t post it for them,” he says after a pause. “I posted it for you.”

You look at him now. He’s not scrolling. Not checking the numbers. He’s just…here.

“Still want to disappear?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You hesitate, leaning into his side. “Maybe for a few days.”

“Then we will.” His voice is steady. “We can take the jet and go off-grid. Italy. Japan. That cabin in Norway with no WiFi. Or—” he adjusts the blanket, tugging it tighter around you both “—we stay right here and hide under this thing like it’s our whole world.”

You smile, tired but honest. “The blanket sounds good.”

He kisses the top of your head like it’s instinct. “Blanket it is.”

A moment passes. Then another.

You trace the rim of your mug with your finger before breaking the quiet. “Lewis…”

“Hm?”

You turn a little to face him, tucking your legs across his lap. “You said you weren’t ashamed. That you meant it.”

“I did.”

“Then why’d it take the internet turning on me for you to say something?” The question doesn’t come out bitter. Just…honest. Soft, but cutting.

He exhales slowly, eyes drifting down to where your fingers rest on his thigh.

“Because I’ve spent so long protecting everything,” he admits. “The team, the brand, the causes. Myself. I got used to the quiet being safer.”

His thumb brushes your hand again.

“But it’s not quiet when it hurts you. That’s not protection. That’s just fear. And I’m tired of letting fear make my choices for me.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “So, posting me…”

“Was a start,” he finishes gently. “I want this. Us. Out loud. Even if it’s messy. Even if people have opinions. Because I’d rather they shout and scream than for you to ever feel like a secret again.”

You blink quickly, eyes stinging. “That’s a nice speech.”

He chuckles, forehead resting against yours. “Did I nail it?”

“You almost cried halfway through,” you tease.

“Because I thought I might lose you halfway through.”

That shuts you up.

Instead of answering, you curl into him, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, letting his scent and heartbeat and words sink in.

The world outside is loud. Unrelenting.

But in here, on this couch, under this blanket, in this moment it’s just the two of you.

No hiding.

No panic.

No spaces between.

Just two hands, still clasped.

And for once, not a single person least of all him is letting go.

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