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kooklovee · 3 months ago

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HOLD ON TO ME (m) - JJK

Your husband forgets your second anniversary. What starts as disappointment and heartbreak soon spirals into doubt- about your love, your marriage & whether he even sees you anymore. But when Jungkook realizes his mistake, he’s willing to do anything to prove that his love has never wavered..

Can he make it up to you, or is it already too late?

Pairing - CeoHusband!Jungkook x Wife!Reader

Genre - 18+, established relationship au, angst, fluff, smut, some more angst MDNI

ONESHOT - 11k words

Warnings - angsty ride, hurt/comfort, workaholic Jungkook, miscommunication, crying, deep emotional intimacy, slow build, Jungkook is an idiot but trust me he's sweet alright😭, Explicit smut- unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom Jk, nipple play, lots of kissing, love-making, creampie, pet names <3, praises, happy ending (sad ending's not in my veins🫸)

a/n- snsjkqkw It's my first fic (well more like I've taken the courage to actually post it)🥹 do let me know your thoughts on it <3 n consider a reblog if you like it, thank you for reading! 🫶

Masterlist kofi☕

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The soft glow of the overhead light casts long shadows across the dining room. But its warmth does nothing to chase away the cold emptiness creeping into your chest.

You sit in one of the dining chairs, fingers idly tracing the gold band on your ring finger, the once-familiar weight of it.. feeling heavier than ever. The house is silent, except for the distant hum of the city beyond the huge windows.

Jungkook is late. Again.

You’ve lost count of how many nights have passed like this, curled up alone in bed, the space beside you growing colder with each passing hour.

He always has a reason. A meeting that ran overtime, a last-minute project, something urgent that demands his attention more than you do. And you’ve always understood. Until now.

Your second anniversary is just around the corner, and for the first time in weeks, you have something to look forward to. Something that, surely, he wouldn’t forget.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched dinner on the table. It’s the third time this week you’ve set two plates, only to eat alone. The food has long gone cold, but you still can’t bring yourself to clear it away. Some foolish, desperate part of you still hopes Jungkook will walk through the door, pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies against your skin.

But the door stays closed. Your phone stays silent.

You check the time—almost midnight.

He used to call. Even when he was busy, he always found a way to let you know he was thinking about you. A quick text. A voice note. Something. Now, hours pass without a word, and you’re left wondering when exactly you started feeling like a ghost in your own marriage.

You clench your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This isn’t you. You don’t doubt him. You don’t overthink things. But these days, love feels a lot like waiting, and waiting feels a lot like breaking.

And you’re so damn tired of breaking.

You close your eyes, trying to remember the Jungkook from before, before work took over, before the distance set in. The man who, despite his quiet nature, always found a way to make you feel cherished. He wasn’t one for grand speeches, but his words had always carried weight. Small, simple confessions once meant everything. Now, silence is all you get.

It wasn’t always easy with Jungkook. Back in college, he was cold, reserved, a storm you could never quite predict. But little by little, he let you in. His love had been careful, deliberate, whispered promises in the dark, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingertips brushing against yours like a secret only the two of you understood.

And now, it feels like you’re losing him.

The thought sends a sharp ache through your chest. You tell yourself it’s just work, that the weight of being CEO is heavier than either of you expected. That he still loves you, even if he doesn’t say it as often.

But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.

The clock hits midnight.

You don’t know what you were expecting. A text? A call? Maybe the sound of the front door unlocking, Jungkook stepping in, exhausted but still managing to hold you close?

But there’s nothing.

Your throat tightens as you stare at the small cake sitting on the dining table, the frosting slightly uneven, the decorations a little clumsy. You were never a good cook. Jungkook knew that better than anyone. But in the early days of your marriage, you had tried. Because back then, cooking together had been something special. Flour-dusted fingertips, shared laughter over burnt pancakes, stolen kisses between stirring batter.

So tonight, with him too busy and too stressed, you thought a quiet, cozy celebration would be enough. Something small, something just for the two of you.

But now, looking at the untouched dinner, the unlit candle, and the cake that no longer seems worth eating, you realize how foolish that hope was.

You glance at your phone—no messages, no missed calls.

You put away the plates. You put the cake in the fridge, even though you know it’ll probably stay there, forgotten.

And then you crawl into bed alone, wrapping your arms around yourself because if Jungkook won’t hold you, who else will?

----

You stir, feeling the warmth of an arm lazily draped around your stomach. The weight is familiar, and for a moment it feels like everything is okay.

Jungkook is still asleep. Shirtless, his toned chest rises and falls in steady breaths, his face soft in the morning light. His dark lashes cast faint shadows on his skin, and his lips parted just slightly, making him look so much younger, so much more at peace.

You take your time looking at him, memorizing the exhaustion on his face, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. He must’ve come home late—so late that you hadn’t even heard him.

Still, he’s here. Beside you. And that alone is enough to make something flicker in your chest.

Maybe he’s planned to stay home today.

Of course he remembers.

You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft, loving kiss against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your lips, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it used to.

Jungkook mumbles something incoherent, his brows knitting slightly before relaxing again. A small, sleepy noise escapes him, and the sound makes you giggle softly.

He stirs, his grip on your waist tightening just a little before his lashes flutter open. His dark eyes, still hazy with sleep, land on you, and for a second, there’s nothing but quiet warmth in them.

"You're up early," he murmurs, his voice thick with drowsiness. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your waist, a touch so familiar yet so foreign all at once.

You smile, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't sleep much," you admit softly.

Jungkook hums in response, his eyes falling shut again for a moment. He nuzzles into the pillow, his grip on you still firm like he has no intention of letting you go. And for a brief, fragile second, the weight of last night, of the distance, of everything, seems to disappear.

Maybe he really did plan to stay home today. Maybe this morning means something.

Your heart clenches with the smallest trace of hope.

Jungkook lets out a long breath and shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head before blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His warmth leaves your side, the air turning cold almost instantly.

You watch as his expression shifts, sleep slipping away as his screen lights up. His brows furrow, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Then, with barely a glance in your direction, he mutters, "Shit, I need to get to the office."

The hope you held onto so desperately?

Gone.

You blink, your mind scrambling to catch up.

Maybe he's kidding. Maybe this is just one of his teasing games, the kind where he acts all nonchalant just to catch you off guard later. That’s how it used to be. Him pretending to forget something important, only to turn around and surprise you in a way that left you breathless.

So you wait.

You wait for the smirk to tug at his lips, for him to toss his phone aside and pull you into his arms. You wait for him to kiss you insane, to murmur a husky "Happy anniversary, baby," against your skin.

You wait for him to prove you wrong.

But he doesn't.

Jungkook swings his legs over the bed, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up. He moves through the motions—grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, checking his notifications again, already half-immersed in whatever work emergency is pulling him away.

The realization settles in. suffocating. He’s not playing. He’s not pretending. He really forgot.

And with that, the last flicker of hope inside you dies.

----

The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut barely registers in your mind. The faint rush of water follows soon after, but you’re still frozen in place, staring at the empty space where Jungkook was just moments ago.

Your fingers grip the sheets as you try to process it, try to make sense of the ache settling deep in your chest.

He forgot.

The thought circles endlessly, refusing to fade. It should be simple, just a mistake, something easily fixed with an apology. But it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like another crack in something that’s already been fragile for weeks.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, the screen lighting up with messages from friends and family. Warm wishes, sweet texts. All reminders of the day that Jungkook should have been the first to acknowledge. And of course, they must have messaged him too.

But you know the answer before you even have to question it. Jungkook has two phones—one for work, one for personal use. And these days, his personal phone sits untouched, collecting dust somewhere in the house while his work phone never leaves his side.

Your throat tightens.

Even if someone did remind him, would he have even seen it? Would it have even mattered?

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

Maybe you should say something. Maybe you should remind him.

But a part of you, one that you don’t want to acknowledge—wonders if it even matters anymore.

You push yourself up from the bed, the weight in your chest making it harder than it should be. You don’t want to sit here, waiting for him to remember, waiting for an apology that might never come.

So you move. Just as you step toward the bathroom, the shower turns off. The door opens a moment later, as Jungkook steps out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his toned chest.

For a brief second, your eyes meet. He looks at you, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, his expression unreadable. There’s no sign of realization, no flicker of guilt or hesitation. Just the same tired, distracted gaze you’ve been seeing for weeks.

You say nothing. Instead, you walk past him, entering the washroom to go about your usual routine. brushing your teeth, washing your face, anything to avoid the tightness in your throat.

The sound of the sink running is the only thing filling the silence between you.

By the time you step out of the washroom, Jungkook is already dressed for work. His tie is slightly loosened, one hand adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves while the other holds his ever-present work phone. He looks like he’s in a hurry, but that isn’t surprising. He’s been having breakfast at the office for weeks now—always rushing out, always too busy.

Still, you can’t grasp that he’s actually forgotten.

Some part of you still expects him to pause, to turn around and say something. But he doesn’t. He’s focused on his screen, scanning through emails like today is just another ordinary morning.

Your chest tightens. You need to look away before the emotions creeping up inside you spill over. So, you pretend.

You settle at the table, opening your laptop like it’s just another workday. Since you’ve been working from home for the past couple of months, this isn’t unusual—but today, it’s not about work. It’s about avoiding him. About keeping your head down so he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble slightly.

If you act normal, maybe it’ll hurt less. Maybe you won’t break in front of him.

And maybe, just maybe, if you pretend hard enough, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t hurt at all.

“Baby, can you help me with the tie?”

His voice is smooth- like every other morning before this one. Like today isn’t supposed to mean more.

You hesitate for half a second before standing up, walking towards him. Your fingers move automatically, looping the fabric, tightening the knot, straightening it against his crisp shirt. You should pull away the moment you’re done, return to your seat, to your laptop, to pretending like everything is fine.

But just as you step back, Jungkook’s hand catches your wrist.

Before you can react, he tugs you closer, his warmth enveloping you as his large hand cups the side of your face, fingers splayed against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. His touch is tender, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours for a beat too long. like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, for the first time in days.

Then, he kisses you.

Warm & lingering. Like he actually means it. Like he actually feels it.

“Need it for good luck,” he mumbles lovingly against your lips, his voice deep, hushed.

You blink up at him.

Jungkook pulls back slightly, offering a small smile. “Big deal with the Kims today.”

And just like that, reality crashes back in.

Your mind struggles to process, to understand how he can be like this. How can he kiss you like this and still not remember.

His mind is somewhere else. His thoughts, his focus—none of it is here. None of it is with you.

You force a smile, nodding wordlessly. Because what else is there to say?

----

Jungkook moves around the house, gathering his things- his wallet, his keys. You stay where you are, settled on the couch with your laptop open, pretending to be busy, pretending that your heart isn’t sitting heavy in your chest.

Just as he’s about to leave, he steps toward you, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

Before you can even respond, he’s already halfway through the living room, his focus elsewhere, his steps hurried.

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.

You remember a time when things were different. When he used to whine, pout, and nudge you relentlessly if you didn’t say it back right away, just to tease him.

Flashback

The movie playing in the background had long been forgotten, the dialogue drowned out by the soft moans slipping from your lips. The purple neon glow cast dreamy hues across the living room, painting Jungkook’s skin in shades of violet as he moved above you.

His fingers laced tightly with yours, grip tightening slightly as his thrusts grew more desperate.

“J-Jungkook…” you moaned softly, nails digging into his hand.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby…”

Your body arched beneath him, pleasure building to something uncontrollable. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice deep and rough, sending you tumbling over the edge.

You both unraveled together, gasping, shaking, holding onto each other like the world outside didn’t exist.

Jungkook pressed lazy, loving kisses all over your face, his lips brushing over your cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “You alright?” he whispered.

You nodded, a sleepy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. But then he just stared at you. A little too long. A little too intensely.

And then, barely above a whisper, like a secret meant only for you—he said, “I love you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you bit down on them, trying to contain your smile. He’d been saying it more often lately, slowly getting used to voicing what he felt.

But when you took a second too long to respond, he groaned dramatically, dropping his head into the crook of your neck like a kicked puppy.

“Say it back,” he grumbled.

“What?” you teased, laughing.

Jungkook huffed, then playfully bit down on your shoulder, just enough to make you squeal.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice muffled against your skin.

Still giggling, you cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “I love you, you big baby.”

His grin was instant, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you even closer, like he could never get enough.

End of Flashback

Now, he just says it in passing. quick, thoughtless, already moving on.

The front door clicks shut, and just like that, Jungkook is gone.

You sit there, fingers motionless on your laptop’s keyboard as the weight of what just happened settles deep in your chest. He forgot. He kissed you, held you, told you he loved you, but none of it was because he remembered.

Is this what your relationship has become?

Work, work, work. Always work.

It’s not that you expect Jungkook to run behind you all the time, to ditch his responsibilities just to shower you with affection. Hell, you supported him through everything- through college, through late nights chasing his dreams, through every stressful moment leading up to him becoming CEO. You believed in him.

But what about your love? Your marriage? Communication?

You’ve been patient. Too patient. more understanding than any normal wife would be. And you know Jungkook. You know he loves you, would bring you the whole damn world if you asked. But then why—why are you beginning to question it all?

Jungkook stepped into the CEO position a few months ago. At first, things were fine. He handled it well, still made time for you. But then… everything became about work. Slowly, then all at once.

You can’t even remember the last time you had truly loving sex. Not that Jungkook doesn’t love you but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. There’s tension in his touch, frustration in the way he moves against you. It’s not the warmth, the desperation to be close to you like it used to be.

Is this how life is going to be from now on?

Sure, you could talk to Jungkook about your feelings. Tell him that the distance is starting to feel unbearable.

But when?

When he’s always checking his phone? When he barely even looks at you in the mornings? When you feel like you’re living with the CEO rather than your husband?

Well, happy anniversary to you.

----

Your gaze drops to your hand, to the delicate band wrapped around your finger.

Your wedding ring.

For the first time in a long time, you really look at it- tracing the intricate details, the subtle shimmer in the morning light. And suddenly, it feels… heavier. Like you’re only noticing the weight of it now, as if it’s trying to remind you of everything it once meant.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your fingers slip beneath the band, sliding it off. It’s only when the cool air brushes against your bare skin that it hits you.

Your breath catches, eyes widening at the sight of the ring resting in your palm. You hadn’t even thought about it—you just did it. And now, staring at the small, beautiful piece of jewelry, something inside you cracks. Tears gather before you can stop them.

Jungkook had spent weeks searching for this ring. Dragged you to countless jewelry stores, analyzing every cut, every design, obsessed with finding the perfect one. And no matter how many times you had told him that anything would make you happy, he had refused to settle for less.

"It has to be special," he had murmured against your temple the day he finally found it, slipping it onto your finger with the softest smile. "Because you’re special."

A broken sob escapes your throat as you clutch the ring tightly in your palm.

How did you end up here?

----

Jungkook leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he watches the final contract details appear on his screen. The deal with the Kims had gone smoothly, better than expected, actually. It should’ve been a moment of satisfaction, of relief.

Instead, he just drowns himself in more work.

The hours blur together, his coffee going cold beside him as he moves from one task to another. Another meeting. Another report. Another email. The same routine, the same cycle.

It’s later than evening when a familiar voice interrupts the quiet hum of his office.

“So you’re really here.”

Jungkook glances up, his fingers still typing as Taehyung steps into his cabin, arms crossed, a deep frown on his face.

“Hey, hyung,” Jungkook greets, barely looking away from his screen.

Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head playfully. “I really didn’t believe it when Yuna said you were still in your cabin.”

Jungkook blinks, confused. “Why?”

Taehyung gives him a look like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Y/N must really love you to let you work even today. My wife—dude, she would’ve killed me.”

Jungkook hums absentmindedly, still typing, still lost in work. “Mmm.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue, watching him for a second before letting out a chuckle. “Anyways, you’re still an asshole for working on your anniversary.”

Jungkook’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. The realization crashes into him all at once, like a punch to the gut, like ice spreading through his veins.

Fuck.

Jungkook’s fingers hover motionless over the keyboard.

His mind races to catch up with Taehyung’s words, but they don’t make sense. Not right away.

Anniversary?

No, that can’t be right. His brows furrow slightly as he glances at the date on his laptop screen.

November 22.

His wedding anniversary.

For a second, he just stares, as if the numbers might shift into something else, something that doesn’t prove what an absolute idiot he’s been. His heartbeat picks up, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like his brain refuses to register it fully, like if he doesn’t react, it won’t be real.

He’d forgotten.

Completely.

No hints, no reminders, no last-minute realization before heading out this morning. Just an entire day of emails, meetings, and a deal he had been so damn focused on that he hadn’t even spared a single thought for you.

His wife.

But—no, that can’t be right. He would’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered.

His jaw tightens, his mind scrambling for some excuse, some reason. anything to justify how this happened. But no matter how many ways he tries to twist it, the truth doesn’t change.

You had expected something. Of course you had. And Jungkook had given you nothing.

Taehyung’s voice barely registers now, his casual teasing just background noise to the way Jungkook’s pulse is starting to hammer against his ribs.

His wife. His love. His anniversary.

And he had let it pass him by like it was just another day.

How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?

Taehyung squints at Jungkook, waiting for some kind of reaction. When Jungkook stays quiet, his fingers frozen over the keyboard, Taehyung lets out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He leans forward, palms flat on Jungkook’s desk. “You just realized, didn’t you?”

Jungkook inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Hyung, not now.”

“Oh, no. Especially now,” Taehyung shoots back, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Y/N must really love you to put up with this shit.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, his mind already spiraling. He checks the time—late. The entire day is gone. He’s spent hours sitting here, drowning himself in work while you—

Fuck.

He pushes his chair back abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. His coat is next, yanked from the back of his chair as he moves on instinct.

“Whoa, whoa.” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So now you care?”

Jungkook levels him with a glare, his voice lower, sharper. “Hyung.”

Taehyung lifts his hands in surrender, though his smirk lingers. “Go. Try not to get divorced on your second anniversary.”

Jungkook doesn’t wait for another word. He’s already out the door, moving faster than he has all day.

And for the first time today, work is the last thing on his mind.

----

Jungkook’s mind races as he grips the steering wheel, his fingers tightening with every passing second. The city lights blur past, but all he can focus on is the suffocating weight in his chest.

How the fuck did he forget?

His phone vibrates in the passenger seat- probably another work email but for the first time in months, he ignores it. Instead, he swipes through his contacts, pressing the first name that comes to mind.

“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, jaw clenched as the dial tone rings.

“Yes, Mr.Jeon?”

“Yuna.” His voice is rushed, urgent. “I need you to get me something. Flowers. A gift. Something big—just—fuck, anything.”

A pause. “Sir?”

“Now,” he snaps.

There’s a shuffle on the other end before his assistant hesitantly speaks again. “I…Mr.Jeon, it’s almost 10 p.m. Most places are closed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Of course they are. Because he’s too fucking late.

His grip tightens around the wheel. “Just—check. Call whoever. I’ll pay whatever.”

“Understood,” Yuna replies before hanging up.

What the fuck is he even doing?

No expensive gift, no overpriced bouquet, no last-minute grand gesture can erase the fact that he forgot. That he spent an entire day drowning in work while you—his wife, his love, the woman who has stood by him through everything—sat at home, waiting for him to remember.

His hands clench the wheel.

How much had he missed? How much had he ignored?

And the worst part—the part that makes his pulse spike, that has panic clawing at his ribs is the question he doesn’t have an answer to.

What if you’re done waiting?

Jungkook slams his foot down on the gas.

He’s not losing you. He won’t.

----

Jungkook steps into the house, and immediately, something feels off. The air is still. The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against his chest. Almost all the lights are off, the space eerily empty, like no one has been here for hours.

His throat dries. “Baby?”

No answer.

He frowns, dropping his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink. His feet move quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway leading to the bedroom. nothing.

A weird feeling starts creeping up his spine. His heart beats faster as he strides toward the bedroom door, only to find the bed untouched, the sheets exactly the way he had left them this morning.

You’re not here.

His pulse spikes, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. His hands tremble as he yanks his phone out, immediately dialing your number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Straight to voicemail.

His stomach drops. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at his screen, the call log mocking him with the lack of response. His fingers tighten around the device, his mind spiraling.

Where are you? At this time of night, alone- where could you have gone?

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. His lungs strain for air.

Then, another thought claws its way in, violent and unwelcome.

Did you leave?

No. No. His chest tightens, his breath coming faster now. That’s not—that’s not possible. You wouldn’t just leave him. You wouldn’t—

He swallows hard, shaking his head. Don’t go there, Jungkook. Don’t even fucking go there.

But the panic is already curling around his ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.

You’re not here. And right now, that is the worst fucking thing in the world.

Jungkook’s fingers tremble as he redials your number.

Voicemail. Again.

“Fuck.” His breath comes out uneven, panic clawing at his throat. His hands are clammy, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where are you?

His mind is spiraling now, every worst-case scenario flashing through his head. His jaw clenches as he swipes to his contact list calling your friends.

Each time, the same response.

No, I haven’t seen her.

Did you check with—

Wait, what’s going on?

Jungkook grits his teeth, his hand tightening into a fist. His breathing is shallow, his pulse out of control. You weren’t with your friends. You weren’t picking up. You weren’t home.

And he still had no idea where you were.

Jungkook grabs his car keys with shaky hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t have a plan. All he knows is that he has to find you.

His feet move on instinct, carrying him toward the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, something catches his eye.

A small glint.

His breath stills. His gaze shifts toward the couch, and that’s when he sees it.

Your wedding ring.

Sitting there. Abandoned.

For a moment, everything stops. The pounding in his chest, the rush of his movements—everything.

The air in the room feels heavier, suffocating. His fingers twitch at his sides as he stares at the delicate band, his stomach twisting into something painful.

You never took it off. Never.

Jungkook swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He steps forward, slowly, almost cautiously, like touching it will somehow make this nightmare real.

His hand trembles as he picks it up, the cool metal pressing into his palm..

Jungkook stares at the ring in his palm, his vision blurring as a lump lodges itself in his throat. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, his chest tightening painfully.

You wouldn’t just leave him like that… would you?

The thought alone knocks the air from his lungs. His grip on the ring tightens as his mind spirals, drowning in questions that only make the ache worse.

Were you thinking about this before today?

How long have you been feeling like this, so alone, so unloved that taking off your ring even crossed your mind?

A sharp breath escapes him, shaky and uneven. His knees buckle, and before he can stop himself, he’s sinking onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

The ring feels heavier than it should, pressing into his palm like a cruel reminder of everything he’s neglected, everything he’s taken for granted. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a slow, trembling breath.

He needs to find you. He needs to fix this.

Before it’s too late.

Jungkook exhales shakily, forcing himself to move. His legs feel unsteady, but he pushes through, gripping the wedding ring so tightly it bites into his skin.

Somehow, he manages to stand, his entire body tense with desperation. He stumbles toward the door, his heart pounding, his mind racing with every possibility of where you could be.

But just as his fingers reach for the handle—

The door swings open.

And there you are.

Jungkook freezes, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, everything stills. His panic, his thoughts, his entire world narrowing to the sight of you standing in front of him.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he moves.

He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His grip is desperate, his hands fisting into your clothes, his entire body pressing against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You stand there, stunned, your own arms hovering slightly, unsure of what just happened.

"…Jungkook?” your voice comes out confused, hesitant.

But he just clings to you, burying his face into your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

You don’t know what’s going on.

But Jungkook?

He feels like he just got his heart beating again. You feel the way his body trembles against yours, his grip impossibly tight, like he’s holding onto you for dear life.

Then, the sound reaches you. A broken, uneven breath, followed by the unmistakable hitch of a sob.

Your heart clenches. “Kook…” Your voice is soft, laced with worry as you try to pull back, just enough to see his face. But he doesn’t let you. His arms only tighten, his body curling into yours, as if letting go would physically hurt him.

Panic bubbles in your chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to cradle his face, your fingers threading into his hair. “Hey… what happened?” Your voice wavers slightly. “Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

But Jungkook just shakes his head against your shoulder, another quiet, shaky breath leaving him.

You don’t understand.

But whatever this is, whatever’s breaking him like this—your own heart aches just watching him fall apart. Your concern deepens with every shaky breath that leaves Jungkook. He’s still clinging to you, his body trembling slightly, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t know what’s wrong, but seeing him like this—Jungkook, your Jungkook—completely unraveling, is enough to make panic rise in your chest.

Gently, you pull back, your hands cupping his face. His skin is warm, slightly damp from his tears, and when his glassy eyes finally meet yours, your stomach twists painfully.

“Come inside,” you whisper, your voice softer now, coaxing. “Please.”

He swallows thickly, nodding ever so slightly, but his grip on you doesn’t fully loosen. You guide him inside anyway, one hand wrapped around his wrist as you lead him toward the couch.

He sits down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhales shakily. His shoulders are still tense, his whole body radiating something raw and unspoken.

You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands, but he doesn’t lift his head.

Your worry deepens. “Jungkook… please tell me what’s wrong.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. His fingers twitch against his temples, his breath uneven.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, cracking slightly. He swallows hard, gripping his knees. “I thought you left me.”

You blink, his words settling in, but it takes you a moment to fully process them.

He thought you left him?

Your brows furrow slightly as you shake your head. “Jungkook, I was babysitting Hanuel.”

His breath is still uneven, his hands gripping his knees like he’s trying to ground himself. His eyes flick up to meet yours, confused, searching.

“Hana and Seokjin had a date night,” you explain gently. “They asked me to watch him for a few hours.”

Hanuel, your neighbour's son. Jungkook stares at you, his body still tense, like his mind hasn’t caught up yet. You watch as his lips part slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the ring still clutched in his hand.

His fingers tighten around it, his knuckles paling. A beat of silence passes before he swallows thickly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…Then why was this on the couch?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if he’s afraid of the answer. And for the first time tonight, you don’t know what to say.

“I…” The word barely escapes your lips before you stand up, turning away from him. You can’t meet his eyes, not when your emotions are still raw, not when the weight of everything is pressing so heavily on your chest.

Jungkook notices immediately. Panic flickers across his face, and in an instant, he’s scrambling up after you. “Wait—baby, please.” His voice is desperate now, thick with emotion, his hands reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping closer, his tone cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I—fuck, I forgot—I don’t know how, I don’t even have an excuse, but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head, his eyes glassy as they plead with yours.

“I never meant to make you feel like this,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t.” But you still don’t look at him. And that alone is enough to make his heart sink.

You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stare at the floor. His words, his desperation, his guilt—they all swirl around you, but they don’t erase the ache in your chest.

“Do you even realize how much this hurt?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight of it makes Jungkook flinch. “I spent the entire day thinking—hoping—that maybe you had something planned. That maybe you were just pretending to forget.”

Jungkook’s throat bobs as he steps closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold onto him either.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know I fucked up, baby. I—I was so caught up in work, I just…” He trails off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not an excuse. Nothing is. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been there.”

You let out a hollow laugh, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. “Jungkook… this isn’t just about today.”

His brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a shaky breath. “It’s been weeks..maybe even longer—since I felt like your wife instead of just… someone waiting for you to come home.” Your voice wavers, but you push through. “And it’s not that I don’t understand. I do. I’ve always understood. But at what point do I stop being understanding and start being invisible to you?”

Jungkook’s breath catches, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re not invisible,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “You never could be.”

“Then why do I feel like I am?”

Silence.

Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he exhales unsteadily. “I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he murmurs. “You are everything to me, baby. Everything. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then show me, Jungkook. Because I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The vulnerability in your voice nearly breaks him.

He’s been losing you, piece by piece, for a while now. And he hadn’t even noticed.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop, the weight of your words hitting harder than any argument, any fight you could have thrown at him. His grip on your hand tightens, but you don’t squeeze back.

He’s losing you.

And it’s not because of one forgotten anniversary—it’s because he hasn’t been here.

He swallows hard. “Baby…” His voice cracks, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, but you step back before he can touch you.

The distance, however small, is enough to make his chest ache.

“Tell me, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “When was the last time we sat down and had breakfast together? When was the last time you really looked at me—not just kissed me on the forehead before rushing out the door?” You shake your head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “When was the last time we made love without it feeling like you were trying to release your stress instead of loving me?”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

You let out a slow exhale, your voice calmer now but even heavier with hurt. “I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fancy gifts or a picture-perfect romance. I just… needed you to see me.”

His entire body feels cold. Because the truth is—he doesn’t have an answer.

He’s been so caught up in his responsibilities, his work, his stress, that he’s let the one person who has always been there for him slip through his fingers.

And the worst part? He didn’t even realize it was happening until now.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, his hands running through his hair as he looks at you, really looks at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lips tremble slightly like you’re holding back everything.

His heart clenches painfully. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you hold his gaze for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know, Jungkook. Did you?”

Jungkook's breath is unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he stares at you, at the distance between you, the weight of your words suffocating him.

He moves. Before you can react, his hands are cupping your face, his touch desperate, almost shaky. His forehead presses against yours as he exhales a trembling breath, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I see you,” he whispers, his voice raw, strained. “I swear to god, I see you, baby. I just..I lost myself somewhere along the way, and I didn’t even realize I was dragging us down with me.”

His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, a silent plea laced in his touch. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t push him away. You should- you should make him sit with this, make him feel what it’s been like for you all this time. But then his grip tightens, his voice breaking.

“Please, baby.” His lips hover just above yours, not quite touching, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me it’s not too late.”

His vulnerability shakes you to your core.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want to lose us either, Jungkook,” you whisper. “But I can’t keep being the only one holding on.”

Jungkook shakes his head instantly. “You’re not. You won’t be.” His lips ghost over your forehead before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let me prove it to you. Please.”

His desperation is tangible, seeping into every word, every touch. And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—he really does see you now.

Jungkook watches you, searching for something—anything in your eyes that tells him he hasn’t completely lost you.

Before doubt can settle in, he takes your hand, pressing it over his chest, right where his heart is hammering wildly. “Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Always.”

Your fingers twitch against his shirt, but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all, just staring up at him, your expression unreadable.

He swallows hard. “I know I don’t say it enough. I know I don’t show it enough, but fuck, Y/n—” His hands tighten around yours, his voice barely above a breath. “There is nothing in this world that matters more to me than you.”

You let out a slow exhale, your gaze flickering, like you want to believe him. like a part of you does, but the hurt is still too fresh. So he gives you more.

“I’ll fix this,” he promises, his thumb brushing soft circles over your wrist. “Not with flowers, or gifts, or some last-minute bullshit—but with me. With us.”

His voice drops lower, thick with emotion. “Just tell me it’s not too late.” Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. Instead, you finally—finally press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart beats erratically beneath your touch.

It’s enough to break something inside Jungkook. His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek—slow, hesitant, as if he’s still afraid you’ll slip away.

And when you don’t, when you let him, he exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours once more.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Like if he says it enough, he can make up for all the times he didn’t. And maybe, just maybe—you’ll believe him again.

Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, his forehead still pressed against yours, his grip on you unwavering. His words linger in the air between you. raw, desperate, filled with a love that had always been there, even when he’d failed to show it.

You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision. He’s waiting—watching you so intently, so hopelessly, as if your next words will either put him back together or completely shatter him.

You take a shaky breath. “Jungkook…” Your voice wavers, and his grip tightens instinctively. “I love you too.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his entire body sinking slightly in relief. But before he can say anything, you continue. “But this hurt,” you whisper. “More than you realize.”

Jungkook stiffens, nodding quickly, his hands cupping your face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. “I know, baby. I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice cracks, his jaw clenching before he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want promises, Jungkook,” you murmur. “I just… I need to feel like I matter to you again.”

His hands tremble slightly as they slide down, wrapping around yours. He lifts them to his lips, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to each of your knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“You do,” he whispers. “More than anything. And I’m going to spend every damn day proving that to you.” His voice is steady now. no hesitation, no doubt. Just quiet, determined love. And though the ache in your chest hasn’t fully faded, something shifts.

Because this time, you don’t just hear him. You believe him. Even if just a little.

Jungkook presses another lingering kiss against your knuckles, his touch reverent, as if grounding himself in you. But before he can lose himself completely, you gently murmur, “Have you eaten?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He shakes his head, gaze still searching yours. “No… I—"

“Go freshen up,” you say softly, stepping back just a little. “We’ll eat together.”

His fingers twitch against yours, hesitating to let go, but eventually, he nods. With one last glance—like he’s making sure you’re really here, he pulls away and heads toward the shower.

While he’s gone, you move to the kitchen, setting out dinner in quiet contemplation. The ache in your chest hasn’t completely faded, but there’s something else now- a warmth that wasn’t there before.

----

By the time Jungkook emerges, hair damp, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, you’ve already placed the food on the table.

He hesitates for only a second before joining you, sliding into his chair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice softer now.

You nod, offering a small smile as you take a seat. The conversation is light, effortless. Jungkook fills the silence, stealing glances at you like he’s still memorizing you all over again. And through it all, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin.

After dinner, he helps with the dishes, working beside you in quiet understanding. The air between you feels lighter, yet still fragile, like something delicate being pieced back together.

Jungkook sets the last dish onto the drying rack, wiping his hands on the towel before turning to you. There’s a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes, like he’s clinging to this moment.

You step away, hesitating for just a second before opening the refrigerator. Jungkook watches in silence as you carefully pull out the cake, placing on the counter, your fingers grazing the edges of the plate, before finally speaking.

“I…I’d made this.”

The words are quiet, but they hit harder than any raised voice ever could. Jungkook’s entire body stiffening as guilt crashes into him all over again. His eyes flicker to the cake- to the careful details, the effort, the thought you had put into it, for him. And suddenly, it feels like the walls are caving in.

His throat tightens. His fingers curl at his sides. He can’t look at you. He doesn’t deserve to. Tears gather in his eyes, blurring his vision, his heart breaking all over again, not just because he forgot today, but because he had broken you in so many ways without even realizing it.

And that? That’s something he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for.

“Jungkook..”, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a knife.

He wants to look at you, wants to say something—anything, but he can’t. His head remains bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, as if holding himself together takes everything in him.

You take a small step forward, the space between you feeling larger than it actually is. His silence is deafening.

“Jungkook,” you say again, a little firmer this time.

His lips part, a shaky breath slipping through, but no words come out. He wants to speak, to apologize again, to tell you how much he loves you, to somehow fix this- but his throat feels tight, his chest heavy.

He doesn’t know if words are enough.

“I… I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” Jungkook chokes out, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. His hands shake at his sides, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been an asshole—a terrible husband. I don’t even know how to make this right.” His breath stutters, his words spilling out faster now, raw and desperate.

“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you left me,” he continues, shaking his head. “You should’ve. You deserve better. I—I can’t believe I—”

“Jungkook.”

You don’t let him finish.

Instead, you reach up, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that have already begun to fall. His lips part in surprise, his rambling cut off as you rise onto your toes.

A gentle kiss on his lips.

Soft. Loving.

Tear-streaked and real.

Jungkook exhales shakily against your lips, his whole body melting into yours. His hands find your waist, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

The kiss is slow, there's no desperation, no urgency. Just you and him, emotions bare. Tears continue to slip down your cheeks, mixing with his, salty and warm, but neither of you pull away. Because in this moment, there’s no need for words.

Just this.

Just love.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing heavily, your tears still wet against each other’s skin. Jungkook’s grip on your waist is firm, like he’s grounding himself in your touch, afraid to let go. His lips part, like he wants to speak, but before he can, you whisper,

“You’re not a terrible husband, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes glisten with more unshed tears, his lips pressing into a thin line, unable to speak. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs, offering him the smallest smile. “Just… love me better, okay?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, nodding again, more determined this time. “I will.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you believe him.

You press one last gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping back, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. “Come on,” you say, nudging him lightly. “Let’s cut this before it melts.”

Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, wiping at his face as he nods. He steps beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours again as you both move toward the small cake. The two of you cut into it together, Jungkook’s fingers lacing through yours around the knife handle. He doesn’t let go, even as you both take small bites in comfortable silence.

Once the plates are cleared, you tug at his wrist, nodding toward the bedroom. “Come to bed?”

Jungkook exhales, relief washing over his features as he nods. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, you’re both under the covers, warmth surrounding you as Jungkook pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap tightly around you, his breath fanning against the top of your head as he whispers,

“I love you.”

This time, you don’t hesitate to say it back.

“I love you too, Jungkook.”

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms, where you’ve always belonged.

Jungkook’s fingers still tremble against your skin. Even as he holds you, his grip is laced with hesitance, a silent fear lingering beneath the warmth of his touch. It’s in the way his hands press into your back yet remain careful, as if he’s afraid of holding on too tightly.

You can feel the erratic thud of his heart beneath your palm, his breaths uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’s struggling to keep himself steady.

And something about that, about him—makes your own heart ache.

Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, your eyes locking onto his in the dim glow of the room. His lips part slightly, his gaze unreadable, but the moment you lean in, his breath catches.

You kiss him.

It starts soft, so gentle, full of longing. Filled with everything you can’t put into words.

Jungkook melts into it instantly, his grip on you tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of his lips, the slight hitch in his breath when you press harder. It sends a familiar heat curling through you.

The kiss deepens, your fingers gripping his t-shirt with urgency, needing to feel more. It’s desperate, heady, the space between you charged with something deeper than just want—something raw, something that had been missing for too long.

Jungkook pulls back gently. His forehead stays pressed against yours, both of you panting softly, but his hands shake slightly as they hold you in place.

His lips part, his breath uneven. “I… we shouldn’t…” He swallows hard, voice thick with hesitation. “I mean… I don’t want you to think I’m gonna fix this with sex.”

His words cut through the haze of warmth between you, grounding you both back in reality. You understand. Because even now—even now, he’s afraid. Afraid that this isn’t enough. Afraid that he isn’t enough.

Your eyes soften as you take in his hesitance, the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his breath trembles against your skin.

You reach up, your fingers threading gently through his hair. “I’m never gonna think like that, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quiet but sure.

His lips part slightly, his brows still knitted in concern, but before he can say anything, you lean in again. This time, the kiss is softer, filled with nothing but love.

You linger for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “I just… I need you.” Another soft kiss. “Please.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, his entire body shuddering under the weight of your words.

And just like that, whatever hesitation he had left—it’s gone.

Your breaths grow uneven as your lips move against his, the heat between you intensifying with every passing second.

Jungkook shifts, his body hovering over yours, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel him. His hands slip beneath the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his touch still hesitant, fingertips ghosting over your waist like he’s memorizing the feel of you all over again.

But you don’t want hesitation.

You tug at his shirt, a silent plea, and Jungkook obeys without question, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Before he can think, you pull him back in, capturing his lips in another deep, hungry kiss.

A quiet groan escapes him, his hands finally exploring freely, pressing against your skin, feeling the warmth beneath his palms. His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath warm as he presses soft, lingering kisses there.

You shiver when he reaches the collar of your shirt, your own hands moving to help him remove it. Dark, love-filled eyes roam over every inch of your skin, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the words but nothing he could say would ever be enough. Still, he tries.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucking perfect.”

Your breath catches when he lowers himself again, his lips planting soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, trailing lower over your shoulder, your chest. Your husband's mouth mapping you like you’re something sacred.

His lips slowly wrap around one breast, his tongue flicking teasingly before sucking softly. A moan escapes you, your fingers tangling into his hair, tugging lightly as he hums against your skin. His other hand moves to your neglected breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he keeps mouthing sweet nothings against you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers between kisses, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you so much, baby.”

And as the heat between you builds, his touch grows bolder. A desperate whimper escapes your lips as your fingers tangle deeper into Jungkook’s hair, your body arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

He groans against your skin, the sound low and warm, vibrating through you. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, pressing another lingering kiss to your chest before trailing lower, his lips tracing the curves of your body. “Let me take my time… let me make love to you.”

The way he says it, love—makes your stomach tighten, your heart aching as much as your body craves him. His hands glide down your waist, slow and purposeful, before slipping between your legs. His fingers find the damp fabric of your panties, pressing just lightly enough to make you gasp. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his touch, and Jungkook groans at the feeling.

His dark eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all he needs.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he tugs your panties down, dragging them slowly along your legs before discarding them somewhere behind him. His gaze never leaves you as he lowers himself further, trailing kisses down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips.

He settles between your legs. You feel completely bare under his intense gaze, the way his lips part slightly, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something reverent, something devoted. His hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, soothing circles.

“My wife.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, making your core clench in anticipation.

Finally, he closes his mouth around you. One long, slow stroke of his tongue, and you fall apart instantly, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.

Jungkook hums against you, pleased, his hands gripping your thighs as he licks another slow, teasing stripe through your folds. “So fucking sweet,” he groans, the heat of his breath against your slick skin making your body tremble. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

He isn't just making love, he's devouring you.

Jungkook hums against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes. learning you all over again, savoring every little gasp and shudder that escapes you.

“Jungkook—” Your voice is breathless, almost pleading, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging him closer.

He groans at that, the sound reverberating through your core as he laps at you with more purpose. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, testing, before he sucks gently, making your back arch off the bed.

“Fuck—” You whimper, your thighs threatening to close around his head, but his strong hands keep you spread wide, completely at his mercy.

His lips brushing your sensitive skin as he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick, his dark eyes burning with desire.

Your cheeks burn, he dives back in, this time with more urgency. His tongue moves in tight circles, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deeper, firmer licks that have your breath hitching.

One hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying across your skin before reaching your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers. The combined sensation makes your thighs tremble, a moan tearing from your lips as your hips buck against his mouth.

Jungkook groans, clearly enjoying how responsive you are, his grip on you tightening as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. He flicks his tongue over your clit again, then sucks, harder this time, sending sparks shooting through your body.

“-fuck, Jungkook—” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against you, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

The heat inside you is unbearable now, hot and consuming. You nod desperately, your moans spilling freely as you grip his hair, your body teetering on the edge. Jungkook doesn’t stop. He pushes you closer, his mouth working you over with expert precision, his hands holding you steady as your body starts to tremble.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your heat. “Let me taste you.”

And with one final flick of his tongue, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you, your back arching, thighs trembling as you moan his name like a prayer. Jungkook groans, drinking in everything you give him, his hands stroking your body as he helps you ride it out.

Only when your body goes slack does he finally pull away, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs, his voice thick with pride and adoration. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. “My love. My wife.”

Jungkook moves up, trailing kisses along your body, over your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. When he reaches your lips, he captures them in a deep, languid kiss, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile, something cherished.

Your fingers roam over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving lower, brushing over his abdomen until you reach the hardness straining against his sweats.

A groan rumbles from his chest at your touch, his hips twitching into your palm as you cup him, feeling just how ready he is.

“Baby…” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. You tug at the waistband of his pants, wordlessly asking for more. Jungkook obliges, sitting back just enough to push them down, kicking them off entirely.

He’s fully hard, the sight of him making your stomach tighten, heat pooling between your legs again. But before you can even reach for him Jungkook takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The intimacy of it overwhelming.

His other hand moves between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure-

With a final nod from you, he pushes in, slow and careful, stretching you inch by inch.

A soft moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook kisses you instantly, swallowing the sound, his own groan muffled against your mouth as he sinks deeper. The moment he’s fully inside, he stills, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in. And as he holds you close, as your bodies mold together so seamlessly, you realize- this isn't just sex.

This is home.

Jungkook moves slowly, each roll of his hips deep and deliberate, as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he let slip away. His body is pressed flush against yours, warmth seeping into every inch of your skin, his breath shaky against your lips as he kisses you between each movement.

Your fingers dig softly into his back, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him. One hand moves to his hair, your fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently as his lips travel from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart ache.

It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s love.

And then, suddenly, you feel it.

A faint tremble against your body.

Something warm and wet against your neck where Jungkook has buried his face.

Your breath catches as realization dawns- he’s crying. Tears gather in your own eyes without warning, the sheer weight of the moment crashing over you all at once.

You tighten your hold on him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you press a soft kiss into his hair. “Kook…” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.

He shudders at your touch, at the way you hold him, like you’re not just letting him fall apart but falling apart with him.

“I—” His voice cracks as he exhales shakily, his thrusts faltering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His lips find your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he presses kisses there—apology after apology, praise after praise.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his words thick with emotion. “You always have been.” A tear slips down your cheek as you cup his face, guiding him up until his forehead rests against yours.

“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I know, Jungkook.”

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss slow and deep, his movements resuming, gentle but full of something raw, something unspoken. His hands grip your waist tighter, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, as if this moment is rewriting everything.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, voice laced with love. “I’ll always have you.”

Jungkook shudders, gripping you tighter, his lips pressing against your shoulder, his movements slowing but never stopping. You can feel the love in every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath against your skin.

And when the pleasure builds to its peak, you come undone together, your bodies melting into one as waves of warmth crash over you. His name spills from your lips, his deep groan following right after, his arms holding you so tight you swear he never plans on letting go.

Silence lingers, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the space. Then, Jungkook shifts, lifting his head just enough to press the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of devotion. “I don’t deserve you… but I swear, I’ll spend my life proving that I do.”

You cup his face, your thumb brushing away the remnants of dried tears. “Just love me like this, Jungkook,” you whisper, voice steady. “That’s all I need.”

His hands tightening around you as his forehead presses against yours. “I’ll love you more,” he vows, his voice breaking slightly. “More than this, more than anything. Always.” His words settle deep in your chest, warm and real, and when he pulls you impossibly closer, tucking you into his arms, you believe him.

His heartbeat is steady now, no longer frantic with fear. Just warm, solid, home.

As sleep begins to pull you under, you hear him whisper one last thing against your hair.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”

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cathnospam · 2 months ago

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“What do you want for your birthday.”

“Nothing.”

“What kinda cake?”

“None.”

“Well besides my ass, which would be chocolate flavor—-“

“Are you finished?!”

That’s exactly how your conversation with your husband Katsuki went for the past 4 weeks.

Every year you get him something he always wants, last year was a new tool for his gauntlets, years before that was the autographed card from All Might, but this is your first year as a husband and wife and you really wanna do something EXTRA special.

But you’ve ran out of ideas.

And unfortunately you’ve ran out of time.

You were on a business trip for a week before his birthday and while you were in the states you managed to buy him new clothes, a hand written letter, a few American snacks he always wanted to try, and even some jewelry, but…it still didn’t seem enough.

Bakugo was actually the perfect husband, he allowed you the option to be a stay at home wife even if you are a hero too, he’s grown so emotionally intelligent for you, he listens, he cares, you just want to give him a birthday he deserves.

And you know he’d be grateful regardless, he always is. Which is why he always tells you he doesn’t want anything.

You get off the plane early to surprise him. Knowing he’d be off work by now, you told him to call off, but you knew he wouldn’t listen. Not even for his birthday, but luckily Kiri was on your side and insisted he headed home early and take a break for a couple days.

He honestly didn’t want to. He needed a distraction from you being gone. You just told him you’d probably won’t be in by tomorrow morning which means you’ll be missing his birthday. His voice sounded crushed behind his passive aggressive insults on the phone. You nearly told him it was a lie, but you needed your plan to go accordingly.

When you take the uber back to his penthouse, you arrive inside and it was quiet and dark. Hopefully he wasn’t home yet.

You drop your luggage to place all his gifts on the table and blow up a few balloons, and place his card right for him to see when he opens his door.

But he didn’t show up yet.

You waited

waited

wait waited.

But 45 minutes passed and he still wasn’t home.

You sigh, and text Kiri where he was and headed to take a quick shower,

25 minutes passed and you’re out to see he texted back,

“He went drinking w us (I TRIED TO SEND HIM HOME), but he’s headed back rn. i’m taking him.”

You roll your eyes until you hear the door open and the familiar voices of Bakugo cursing and kicking out his fellow friends.

“What—-?”

“Happy Birthday!”

You tip toe out the corner to see your flustered hubby holding his card, eyes widened from confusion to place it back down and rush over to you.

Man you missed his scent.

He was wearing an all black outfit with his gold chain with your wedding ring on it. You missed him so much.

“You said you were—“

“I know i know. I wanted to surprise you….you’re not mad are you—-!”

Picking you up from your ass he kisses you, practically swallowing your lips in the process, “H-hey I’m only wearing a robe here?!”

“Good. My present is easy to unwrap then.”

You playfully smack his chest before he smacks his lips with your agains, “THOSE are your presents….but…I wanted to give you something better..”

Bakugo furrowed his brows for a moment and rolled his eyes, placing you down he hugged you. He just needed to smell you, make sure you were really with him.

“You’re such a dumbass…”

“How? Because I wanted to give you the best present?”

“You did by being here you idiot.”

You looked at him a bit dumbfounded and he just scoffs at you before lifting you up over his shoulders and taking you both to the bedroom.

you really are dense, because if you really knew him you’d know you’re the only present he needed and wanted this year.

#mha #bakugo katuski #bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #mha bakugou #bakugo x black reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo #bakugo x black female #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bakugo x female reader #bakugou x you

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mephisto-reporting · 7 months ago

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Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous. His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

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julymusings · 7 months ago

Text

simplicity

out there they're afraid even of the killer's shadow, and here i reside in his heartbeat like a home

or; the big bad red hood has a soft spot only for you [3.4k]

jason todd x fem!reader; tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff; aggressive unwanted advances, implied roofie attempt, violence & blood, slut-shaming; Jason “my girl can wear whatever she wants I can fight” Todd; in da clerb, we all fam ⎯ based on this !

series masterlist

A humid, crowded, upscale club isn’t the most ideal way to spend your Friday night, and Jason knows this. Frankly, it’s not his either, but as the owner of the humid, crowded, upscale club, he had to make some appearances at his own business.

“It’s a night out,” he had said. “Let’s make the most of it.”

If you’re being honest, it’s also not the worst way to spend your Friday night. Not when Jason dressed up so deliciously, in a fitted t-shirt, jeans, and his leather jacket. Not when he took you to a booth in the corner of the club and had them bring over your favorite drinks and snacks with the order to keep them coming. Not when you got to wear that cute little black dress that’s been hanging in your closet for months with your favorite strappy heels, the ones with ribbons that wrapped around your ankle and tied into a bow in the back. Not when Jason sat you on his lap and settled a large hand on your thigh, where it stayed the whole night.

All in all, you would say you’re making the most of it.

You’re sipping on your drink, chatting about something or the other with your boyfriend. He’s half listening, half drawing circles on your thigh and pressing kisses to your shoulder when one of the employees finds you. She’s freaking out because one of the performers hasn’t shown up, and there’s no one else to go in her place.

Jason huffs. He lifts you off his lap and sets you down on the seat. “I’m sorry, baby, I just gotta take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be here.” You smile over the rim of your glass.

He looks around for a moment, then gestures to someone across the room. One of the bouncers make their way to you.

“Just keep an eye out,” he tells him. “I don’t trust these entitled country club fuckers.”

He gives a curt nod. Jason leans in close, smirking, and says, “Especially not when you look like that,” and gives you a quick kiss before disappearing into the crowd with the employee.

A couple minutes later, a crash snaps your attention towards the bar. A young, college-aged-looking man is berating a waitress while a mess of shot glasses litter the floor around them. The waitress looks about to cry.

“Jesus Christ,” the bouncer says to himself. Then to you, “Gimme a second.”

You move to the edge of the booth to watch as he goes over and tries to pacify the man, but that only seems to make him angrier. He shoves the bouncer, yelling about “shitty customer service.”

You don’t get to see what happens next, though, because your field of vision is obscured by an enormous, very shiny, and very douchey silver belt buckle. You look up for its owner, and a greasy-looking, white-haired man looks down at you.

“Hey there, sweetheart.” A fake gold tooth catches the flashing lights and it glints in your eye. Uninvited, he slides into the booth across from you. He places a drink on the table, sliding it towards you. “You look thirsty. Got this for you.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got one.” You hold your own glass up.

He rolls his eyes. “Pretty thing like you should be takin’ advantage of all the free drinks you could be gettin’.” His smile sends a chill down your spine.

“Again, I’m fine,” you say, a little harsher. “My boyfriend has brought me plenty of drinks already.”

He laughs. It’s a high-pitched, scratchy, wheezing sound. Like a kazoo. “I don’t see this boyfriend of yours anywhere. He should know better than to leave you alone. I’d treat you much better than him.” His eyes travel down your neck and stay there. You stand from the booth and take a big step back. It’s not entirely personal; no matter how much of a threat he may be, Jason is a worse one. And if he’s still in this neighborhood, never mind this building, you fear for this man’s safety much more than your own. But the man follows, bringing the cup with him. “Come on, honey, it’s a compliment. Show a little thanks. I don’t bite.”

You don’t have to be the world’s finest detective to know that is most definitely a lie. Or to know to avoid that cup at all costs.

You could just rebuff him, walk away. But you’re willing to bet he’d just move on to the next woman. One who’s probably a little less sober, and a little less aware of her surroundings. You feign a stumble and knock the drink out of his grip. It tips toward him, drenching him with its contents. He chokes out a shocked gasp.

“Oops,” you deadpan, not at all trying to hide your indifference.

“You bitch,” he snarls. He lunges forward, snatching your wrist. You try to pull it back, but his grip is iron and bruising. “I was doing you a favor. Do you see anyone else here looking at you?”

You’re suddenly grateful you didn’t put up much of a fight after Jason came home from patrolling one night insisting he show you some self-defense moves. Far be it from you to cause a scene, but this guy isn’t giving you much choice. You employ the cardinal rule of women’s self-defense: go for the crotch. You shift your weight to your non-dominant side and launch your dominant knee right into his groin. The sharp metal edge of his belt buckle slices the skin just above your knee, but it shocks him enough to release your wrist and double over. The same leg used in your attack plants itself on the ground, and you use the momentum to pistol your opposite fist forward. It collides with his nose in a bone-cracking cross. Your stacks of studded rings didn’t do him any favors, either. He cries out in pain. His hands fly up to cover his nose, and the cup falls from his grasp and shatters on the floor, garnering the attention of some surrounding patrons. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“You’re gonna fucking pay for that.” His tone drips with poison. He reaches into his coat pocket and brandishes a switchblade (because of course. You’re not surprised, though. It is Gotham). You look around in a panic, hoping to find Jason towering somewhere over the crowd. He’s not there. A few guys who work for him, though, have since taken notice of the commotion and are making their way towards you. You know they won’t make it in time. You weren’t scared a moment ago, but you definitely are now. Jason only briefly covered disarming techniques, and you didn’t have his practice to stay calm in situations like these. He steps closer, shoes crunching over the glass shards, and you step back. You’re backed into a corner, literally. Your back is pressed against the table. His eyes are glassy and void of color.

There is a resounding pop when the man’s knife-wielding hand is yanked to the side. Too fast for your brain to register, he thuds against the table next to you and the knife clatters to the ground. You look over and see Jason, one hand pressing his face into the table and the other twisting the man’s arm behind his back.

When his men finally reach you, Jason is seething. They look almost as afraid as the man, whose whimpers are muffled by the pressure with which he’s flattened against the table.

“Who the fuck let this happen,” Jason glowers. Uncomfortable glances are shared between the men, all sharing the same sentiment; we fucked up big time.

Jason’s livid gaze flits back and forth among them. His veins flex against his forearms, rippling with effort. It looks like he’s putting all his strength into incapacitating the man, but you know better. He’s putting all his strength into restraint. The look on his face is cold and steely, with hardened, venom-green eyes and a clenched jaw. This isn’t Jason, the sweet boyfriend, or Jason the easy-going yet respected club proprietor. This is Jason the crime lord. Jason the anti-hero. This is the Red Hood. Who makes his own rules and kills anyone who breaks them. It’s a bit off-putting for you to see him like this; he’s never like this with you. He’s always just…Jason. Your Jason.

One of his men speaks up. “We’re sorry, Boss, we were keepin’ an eye like you asked, but there was trouble up at the bar.”

Jason scowls. “Trouble that required all of you?”

At their silence, he rolls his eyes. “Idiots,” he says under his breath. He jerks the man up to stand, the hand that was pressing him to the table now gripping the back of his shirt collar. “Someone take care of this.” He shoves the man in their direction. Hard. One of them catches him. “And for fuck’s sake, check him for anything else.”

While they’re busy patting him down, Jason turns back to you. You get whiplash from how quick his demeanor changes. Though still tense, the rigidity of his expression is long gone, replaced with tender concern.

“Are you okay?” His wide eyes scan you up and down, searching for any signs of injury. You manage a nod, still a bit stunned by his apparent shape-shifting abilities. “I’m so sorry, honey, this is my fault. It’s my fault for leaving you alone.” He pulls you close for a hug and kisses the top of your head, murmuring further apologies into your hair.

You pull back and cup his face in your hands. “It’s okay, Jay, I’m fine. I promise.” You lean in to kiss him and feel his shoulders relax.

“Jesus, man, sorry! Wouldn’t’a come on so strong if I knew she was your whore. How much did ‘ya pay for her, anyway?” His voice rings from behind. Jason tenses up again. When he pulls back from you, he’s gone. He’s like Jekyll-turned-Hyde when the combatant that lay dormant inside him reassumes his body.

He turns around, but his large frame shields you from seeing the scene unfold. You place a hand on his arm, a silent message of support, and you can feel him vibrating with anger. His hand comes to rest over yours and gives a reassuring squeeze.

“You know what?” You can’t be sure who he’s speaking to, but you can hear the eerie smile in his tone. “I’ll take care of this.” He faces you. “Can you give me a minute? Is that okay?” His voice is calm.

You know he would stay if you asked him to. And you never would, but you know he would go outside and kill that guy if you asked him to. And maybe you’re feeling a tad vindictive after the whole ordeal, so you just say, “Okay.”

He kisses your forehead, squeezing your hand once more. “I’ll come find you,” he says, stepping away, and you nod.

“Ross,” he commands. “Take her to the office. Get her whatever she wants.” Jason then speaks to all of his men. His tone drips with disdain. “Tomorrow we’ll talk about who’s getting fired for this.” You catch some of his men flinch.

He grabs the man by the collar once again and stalks towards the exit, dragging him along.

You’ve met Ross once or twice, though never exchanged more than a few words. He smiles at you. It’s amiable, if not slightly nervous. You know where the office is, but you’re still grateful for the guide. The mesh of moving bodies under dim lights makes all four corners of the room look the same. With the adrenaline wearing off, your hands ache and you become acutely aware of the stinging shock that shoots up your knee when you walk on it but, persevering, you follow him to the back. He holds the door that reads ‘RESTRICTED - DO NOT ENTER’ open for you, and you smile in thanks.

Various employees, servers and performers alike, mill about in the back hallways. You know some of them, having met in passing during other visits to the club, and offer polite greetings as you walk by. When you arrive at Jason’s office, Ross unlocks the door for you and you step inside.

It’s a nice office, noticeably homier than it was when you and Jason met. The first time he brought you back here it was just a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet. You perched yourself on his desk while he sat in his chair and you teased him for not having a place for guests to sit, saying something about ‘men and their awful interior designing skills.’

“It’s not ‘bad skills,’ it’s cost-effective. ‘M runnin’ a business here, baby. If you need a place to sit that badly, you can sit right here.” He joked, patting his lap. And he said it with such conviction you believed him, but the next time you visited there was a brand new, plushy suede couch pushed against the wall.

You find a seat on said couch and try to get comfortable despite your protesting joints. From here you can spot a framed photo on Jason’s desk; the two of you smiling while bathing a shelter dog at the Wayne Animal Sanctuary. But while you smile at the camera, his gaze is trained on you.

Ross stands in the doorway, stoic as a bodyguard should be. “Do you need anything?” He asks you.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“‘Course. I’ll be outside. Just yell if you need anything.” He moves to exit, but pauses. “Look,” he says, “We’re all really sorry about what happened. It was our fault. You have every right to hate us.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “God knows the boss does.”

You purse your lips, unsure how to respond. Technically Jason did instruct them not to leave you alone. But really, the only person at fault is that horrible man, and he was currently getting what he deserved.

“It’s okay, Ross,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t blame you. And Jason’s not gonna fire any of you, okay? I won’t let him.”

He exhales. “Okay, you—yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He loiters awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. “Listen, Todd’s always been a great boss. But it’s no joke when it comes to you. Don’t know exactly what happened, but after meeting you, he’s just…different. Not sure if I believe it, but after the first time you were here, one of the bartenders swears they heard him whistling. Anyway, just mean to say…we’re glad he has you.”

His sincerity warms your heart. You thank him, and he assumes his post outside, closing the door.

At last in decent lighting, you take the time to examine yourself. Your knee, knuckles, and wrist are splotchy with bruises. A small scrape rests just above your knee from you were scratched. There’s a splattering of blood on your knuckles and on the rings you’re wearing. You grimace, the reality of what just happened settling in. Someone pulled a knife on you. If Jason hadn’t been there…the thought leaves you cold.

There are voices on the other side of the door, then receding footsteps. After a few seconds, a knock.

“Baby? Can I come in?”

“Yes,” you call out. Jason enters, locking the door behind him. There are some smatterings of blood on his hands and face, and he’s holding a first aid kit. Your immediate instinct is that he’s the one who needs first aid.

“Are you okay?” You ask as he kneels on the floor in front of you. “Did he hurt you?”

Jason tilts his head like a confused puppy, eyebrow raised. Just like that, The Red Hood is gone. He’s Jason again. He speaks softly, with a hint of his usual boyish charm. “Should I be insulted by you asking me that?” He picks up your un-injured leg and places the foot on his thigh, beginning to unravel the ribbon wrapped around your ankle. He removes the shoe and places it to the side, then repeats with your other foot. But when he moves it, your knee twitches and you wince. He frowns but doesn’t say anything. He sees the way your eyes travel between all the spots of blood. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, none of it’s mine.”

You sigh in relief. “You didn’t…kill him, did you?”

He chuckles, lightly massaging your foot. “Nah…did you want me to? ‘Cause I can still—”

“No.”

He smirks at you, before leaning down to press a kiss to your bruised knee. It’s so gentle, so loving, it completely contradicts the bloodstains that adorn him. As his hands move up to your calf, your hand moves to his hair, fingers threading through the white streaks and pushing them back so you can get a better view of his eyes. They’re a silky teal, bordering on sea green. They remind you of lake trips in the summer, and ice skating during the holidays.

“How bad is he? Like, on a scale of ‘he can walk it off’ to ‘he needs to go to the hospital.’”

Jason pauses his movements, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“He…he’s walking himself to the hospital.”

There’s not much you can say to that. After all, you gave him to okay to go fuck that guy up.

From the first aid kit, he retrieves a box of Band-Aids. They’re the children’s ones, decorated with cartoons and various characters. A specific one catches your eye, and you pick it out of the carton.

“Robin? Really?”

Jason breathes out a small laugh. “One of my guys’ daughter loves him.” He unwraps the bandage and sticks it over the scratch. You admire the small red plaster. Jason traces a finger over the emblem in the center, a black and yellow ‘R’.

He moves from your leg to your hand, gingerly laying it in his palm. One by one he slides each of your rings off. They’re not particularly special, but you still like them and you try to protest when he tosses them in the trash. He’s quick to assuage you with promises to buy you new ones with, hopefully, less blood.

"Did you see how good I got him?" You suddenly feel shy asking such a question. Like a child seeking validation.

"I did see," Jason says. And there's not a hint of condescension in his tone. "I'm proud of you. You remembered what I taught you."

You beam under his pride.

He uses a sanitizing wipe to remove the droplets of blood from your knuckles, kissing each one along the way. He reaches your wrist last. There’s a purple hand-shaped mark that wraps around it, and he stares at it. You can see his thoughts race at sixty miles an hour, and you know he’s beating himself up about it.

“Hey.” The hand in his hair moves to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I promise. I love you.”

He leans forward to press his forehead to your wrist. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry.” He places gentle kisses on the purple skin. “I’m sorry. I love you.” He moves to the scratch above your knee, pressing more kisses, repeating the words like a prayer. Your hand is still enclosed in his hands, and his cool fingers soothe the throbbing swell. You pull his head up, holding his chin in your fingertips. His eyes close as he soaks in your warm touch.

You reach for another wipe and begin wiping the blood from his face. Some of it has dried, so you press the wipe a little harder, and blood rushes to his cheeks to give him an adorable flush. You repeat the process on his hands. Blood erased and wipes discarded, you pull him up to the couch to lie down with you. He stretches out, so large that his feet hang over the armrest. You snuggle up to his side and your head rests on his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. It’s surreal, how utterly soft he is, and just for you. How no one else gets to see him like this. He goes out at night as a fighter, a crusader, a deadly threat. And then he comes home to sleep in your arms. In your bed.

You place your hand against his chest, right over his heart to feel it thrum beneath your palm. It beats simple and steady, and just for you.

am i the only one who likes the whole jason owning the iceberg lounge storyline (aside from the whole penguin prisoner thing but i only write according to canon that i like and leave out the things i don't! whoops🤷‍♀️);

the feminine urge to write more fics that take place within the universe of this one...

divider is from here

#my jason todd domesticity agenda #batman #red hood #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #batfamily #dc universe #dc comics #dcu #dc robin #robin

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geminiwritten · 4 months ago

Text

cowboy ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: the squad are sick of you and hangman pining after each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - 'you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy' (i know it's never specified but because glen grew up in texas, i'm applying that to jake)

notes: i am literally posting this while at work because i am so excited! i'm actually pretty proud of this one right now, so i'm trying not to second guess it and keep rereading it... i really hope y'all enjoy! please let me know all your thoughts! (in case you can't tell, i'm currently reading elsie silver's books)

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption / drunkenness, mention of a student/teacher relationship, and general horniness but no actual smut (i'm sorry, it's already so long)

word count: 10667

You roll your lips as your eyes wander across the faces of your friends, each of them expressing varying degrees of excitement as they discuss the upcoming celebration for Javy’s birthday this weekend. It’s been a good week for the dagger squad, and even Maverick has managed not to piss off the admiral in almost five whole days. Everyone is holding their breath, praying he can hold off for the second half of the day so the team doesn’t get punished with weekend rotation... again.

You’re sitting in the middle of the long table with Natasha to your left and Bradley to your right, and across from you is the most gorgeous man on the planet. You can’t help settling your gaze on him, tracing the bridge of his nose as he faces Javy beside him, lips moving as words spill from them, but you can't possibly know what he’s saying because you’re too busy picturing what else those lips would be good at. His Adam’s apple bobs between statements and his tongue occasionally darts across those lips, making your innocent Friday lunch feel a lot filthier as your thoughts wander in the most inappropriate way.

An elbow nudging into your ribs knocks you off your bullet train of thought, derailing it at high speed as reality comes crashing down and you turn accusingly toward Bradley. “What?” you snap.

He chuckles, “You’re drooling.”

Your hand flies up to your mouth, fingers padding at each corner only to find the skin dry. You scowl at him, “Asshole.”

He has to hide his increased laughter in the mouth of his water bottle, taking a long sip so to not draw the attention of the rest of the group. “Sorry,” he says as he places the bottle back on the table, “but you were about to. I was saving you from yourself.”

You roll your eyes, “Whatever.”

Bradley shakes his head, his amused grin fading as he drops his gaze back to the tray of food in front of him, and a tiny pebble of guilt drops in the pit of your stomach. You suddenly feel bad for snapping at your best friend, so you bump your shoulder against his and reach over to steal a fry from his tray.

He shoots you a glare from the corner of his eye, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he isn’t really mad. You pop the fry into your mouth and chew it with a smile before turning your attention back to the group, startling when you find a pair of green eyes already trained on you. Heat flushes up your neck, colouring your cheeks as you stare back at the man you had just previously been ogling. Time seems to slow down, or speed up, you’re not sure, but what you do know is how pretty Jake’s eyes are, swirling shades of green with flecks of gold that glow in the afternoon sunlight flooding through the high cafeteria windows.

“Hangman?” Javy clicks his fingers in front of Jake’s face, simultaneously snapping you both out of whatever trance you’d been stuck in.

When you look around the table, you notice that most of the group are standing now, holding their empty trays and getting ready to return to work.

Jake blinks a few times, a slight frown creasing between his brows. “What?” he snaps.

Javy chuckles, holding one hand up in surrender. “Calm down, I was just asking what time we should get to your place tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” Jake’s shoulders visibly relax, “1800.”

You roll your eyes playfully as you push up from your chair. “Okay soldier, you can just say 6PM.”

His face breaks into a breathtaking grin as he stands and picks his tray up from the table. “Sorry civilian, I’ll see you at 6PM tomorrow night.”

Low laughter rumbles through the group as you take an extra moment to appreciate the gorgeous man smiling at you, but then Javy tugs on Jake’s arm and interrupts you both for the second time less than a minutes. “Come on man, Mav will be pissed if we’re late.”

“Wait for me?” Bradley asks.

You turn to your best friend and find him looking at you – asking you – rather than his squadmates. “Huh?”

He raises one judgemental brow, a teasing smirk on his lips. “After work, wait for me so I can give you a lift home.”

“Oh,” you nod, “duh, I’m not walking.”

His eyes flash toward Jake’s retreating form before he looks back at you with a grin. “Would you at least try to control yourself? Jesus, it’s so obvious.”

“Oh, shut up,” you frown at him. “Hurry up or Mav will have your ass.”

He stacks his tray on top of yours in your hands and leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re so sweet to me,” he jokes, before turning on his heel and jogging after the others.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you watch him leave, meeting Jake at the exit door leading to the main hangars. Just as they both disappear, you can swear Jake throws an angry glance over his shoulder at you, but the door swings shut before you can be sure.

That glare haunts you on your journey back to the control tower. Had you really seen what you think you saw? Jake had just been grinning at you, joking with you, but then somewhere on his way across the cafeteria he had found a reason to glare at you. It doesn’t make sense.

You try to push the image of his angry face out of your mind as you sit back at your desk, one of eight situated on the fourth floor of the main control tower. Three screens stare back at you, displaying various windows of information about the sky’s conditions and other operational statuses from around the base. You slide your headset on and adjust the dials until you can hear a soft crackle indicating successful connection to the correct frequency. One by one, you watch the faces and callsigns of your friends pop up on the right-most screen as they turn their comms on and ready their jets.

“Maverick to control,” Mav’s voice comes through your headset.

“Good afternoon, Maverick,” you reply, as if you hadn’t already been on the comms with him for half the day.

“Radio check before take-off please, aviators,” he says, “alphabetical order if you geniuses can figure it out.”

You roll your lips to keep from laughing, reminding yourself that despite your personal connection to these people, this is still your job.

“Bob to control, can you hear me?”

“Lound and clear,” you respond, quickly trying to figure out the alphabetical order for yourself.

“Coyote to control.”

“Copy.”

“Fanboy to control.”

“Copy,” you repeat.

“Hangman to control,” Jake says, his voice in your ear sending the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.

“Copy,” you reply.

The line then goes quiet, a faint crackling the only indication that the radio hasn’t completely dropped out. You wait a beat before speaking again, “Radio check please Payback.”

“Shit, sorry. Copy,” Reuben’s voice responds. “I thought Phoenix was before me.”

“A comes before H, idiot,” Natasha says, followed by a chorus of snickers. “Phoenix to control, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Phoenix,” you reply through your laughter.

“Rooster to control,” Bradley’s voice fills your ears, “your favourite pilot here, bringing up the rear.”

You roll your eyes, “Copy that, Shakespeare.”

Another rumble of laughter comes through your headset as you quickly type into the afternoon’s log that the radio check was successful.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Mav says as the laughter dies down. “Control, are we good for take-off?”

“Skies are clear, Mav,” you reply, “take off at will.”

You tune out the soft chatter as the squad ready themselves for taking off, and one by one watch their altitudes rise on your middle screen. They all pop up as red dots on the radar window, blinking slowly as they cruise through what you know is a cloudy afternoon sky.

“We’ve got a stormfront coming in from the south,” you say, eyes darting to your left-most screen. “We might need to call it a little early this afternoon, Mav.”

Maverick chuckles, “An early mark on a Friday? I don’t know if this lot deserve it.”

A series of protests then fill your ears, almost every pilot falling for Maverick’s taunt and arguing that they do deserve an early mark, even going as far as to say that they’ve had a hard week. You’ve been here all week too, and you probably couldn’t agree with that since this week has been one of the cruisiest in a while.

“Alright, alright,” Mav says to quell the bickering, “if you can perfectly execute the cloak and dagger drill, I’ll let you all land by 1500.”

The complaining turns into cheering, and Bradley threatens the team to perform because he’s not staying back in a storm on a Friday afternoon. Not that Mav could keep them in the skies if the weather gets that bad.

“Listen up,” Maverick says, “Coyote, I’ll be your wingman, and I want Phoenix and Bob behind us. Hangman, Rooster will be your wingman-”

“I’ve been trying, Mav,” Bradley interrupts, his voice dripping with cheek, “but the man is oblivious.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, blocking your airways as you suffocate on the audacity of your best friend. The laughter from your headset sounds distant as you try to remember how to breathe, willing yourself to calm down. Afterall, no one could really know what he’s talking about, right?

“Yes, Rooster,” Maverick chuckles, “we’re all aware of how oblivious Hangman is.”

Your eyes grow wide.

“What are you talking about?” Jake pipes up, and you can almost see the adorable and confused look on his face. His brows pinched together, a little crease between them, and his bottom lip pushed forward in a small pout.

“Point and case,” Bradley says, at which the rest of the squad dissolve into giggles.

Does everyone know about your crush? Is Jake really the only confused pilot right now?

“I don’t get the joke,” Mickey says over the laughter.

You can’t help the smile that cracks across your face, a breathy laugh leaving your lips as you try to focus on documenting the weather warning in your afternoon log. The team continue to giggle, turning their teasing on Mickey before Maverick orders them to focus. They run the drill perfectly, finishing up just before an orange alert pops up on your screen, a notification from the weather analysis team telling you to get the squad on the ground.

“Maverick,” you say, “the storm is coming in fast; you’ve been ordered to land.”

“Copy that,” he responds, before rattling off instructions to the squad.

One by one, you watch their blinking dots on the radar screen approach the runway and land. They manoeuvre toward the hangar, following instructions from the ground team to store the jets for the weekend. You exchange a couple of last words with Mav before they all remove their helmets and start the end of day procedures. You take time to check your emails and send the day’s log to the data analysis team before doing all your usual sign offs. By the time you’re exiting the control tower, it’s almost 4PM.

You pull your phone out of your back pocket, about to text Bradley asking which lot he parked in today when his Ford Bronco skids to a halt three feet in front of you. He leans across the passenger seat and pops the door open with a grin. “Need a ride?”

You roll your eyes, taking two long strides forward and throwing your bag into the back seat before flopping into the passenger seat beside him. “That was quick,” you state. “Doesn’t the debrief usually take longer on Fridays?”

Bradley shrugs, “The admiral left early today so we didn’t have to do a formal debrief, and maintenance are doing a fuel flush on all the jets this weekend so they took them off our hands pretty quick.”

“Oh, nice,” you reply simply before turning your attention back to your phone, checking the notifications you missed during work.

Bradley navigates the base easily, slowing to a stop at the exit gates and having a short chat with the security guard in the booth before the boomgate rises and he hits the gas again. When the car merges onto the main highway, you tuck your phone under your thigh, not wanting to risk motion sickness with Bradley’s driving. Let’s just say, he’s a much better pilot than he is a chauffeur.

“So,” he says, glancing at you with a cheeky grin, “do you want to hear something interesting.”

You sigh, recognising that look. “Who were you eavesdropping on today?”

“I heard Hangman talking to Coyote before I left,” he explains, eyes sparkling with mischief, “and I heard Coyote say to ‘stop making excuses and just ask her out’.”

You frown, trying to tamp down the green-eyed monster rumbling to life in your stomach. “Ask who out?”

“I didn’t hear a name, but I’m assuming-”

“Don’t say me.”

He chuckles, “Not me, you.”

You scowl at him, “Don’t argue with me about semantics.”

He rolls his eyes, “I just don’t understand why you won’t believe me. You heard the whole squad before, everyone knows except Hangman, even Mav!”

“Mickey doesn’t know,” you argue.

“Fanboy is almost as oblivious as your boyfriend.”

Your eyes narrow, “Do not use that word.”

He laughs again, “Which one?”

“You know which one.”

He sighs heavily, as if the weight of your unrequited crush was pressing down on his shoulders too. “Look, if you’re going to be stubborn, I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.”

“Please don’t,” you beg, your eyes growing wide.

He shrugs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, but you’re giving me no choice.”

“Bradley, please,” you plead, turning in your seat to face him, “just leave it alone. I don’t want to ruin the friendship and make it uncomfortable for the whole group.”

“The whole group already is uncomfortable with you two constantly eye-fucking each other!”

Heat creeps up your neck, turning your cheeks pink and making your ears burn. You want to protest and continue arguing with him, because you’re adamant that Jake does not return your feelings, but your brain can’t seem to string a coherent sentence together. Instead, you sink down in your seat and scowl at the road, wondering what you could possibly be in store for if Bradley really is taking matters into his own hands.

The rest of the drive home isn’t long, and soon enough, Bradley is pulling the Bronco into his parking spot in the garage of the apartment block you both live in. You don’t live together, but you do live in neighbouring studio apartments, so it often feels like you live together. You drive to and from work together, you usually have dinner together and watch movies together in the evenings. Basically, if you’re both not busy, you’re with each other, and it’s been that way as long as you’ve both been based on North Island.

The squad had initially teased that the two of you might be more than friends, they even had you questioning it, but one wine-drunk kiss while watching The Bachelor confirmed that neither of you felt anything romantic toward the other. It was that same night that you also confessed to Bradley that you might be falling for Jake, to which he looked at you like you were stupid because duh. Apparently, your crush has been obvious from day one.

Now, here you are, hopelessly in love with a man you not only work with, but you’d also consider one of your closest friends. Rock, meet Hard Place, and you? You’re in the middle.

After spending the night on the couch with Bradley and a box of pizza, you took yourself off to bed and dreamed one of the many reoccurring dreams you have about a certain fighter pilot. You managed to sleep in before taking yourself for a long walk and making a mental list of all the things you needed to do before Javy’s birthday party.

Jake had been generous enough to offer having the party at his place, since the squad wanted to do something other than go to The Hard Deck for once. You'd offered to help shop for supplies and set up for the night, but Jake and Javy assured the group that they had it all under control. All you have to do is waste your Saturday and quell your nerves before the party.

At exactly 5:45PM, there’s a knock at your door. You quickly finish applying your lip balm before tucking it into the purse hanging from your shoulder and grabbing the jacket you’d thrown over the back of the lounge. You yank your front door open to find your best friend grinning from ear to ear, his moustache looking particularly fresh.

“You shaved,” you state, stepping forward and forcing him to step back.

He nods before asking, “Did you?”

You finish locking the door, slipping the key into your purse with one hand while the other slaps Bradley’s bicep. “Don’t be creepy!”

He chuckles and rubs his arm. “I’m not being creepy, I’m just making sure you’re prepared for any outcome.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you planning?”

"Nothing in particular,” he replies innocently, though the small smirk on his lips betrays him.

You decide to leave it, since you're already nervous enough, and focus on relaxing the butterflies flapping wildly in your stomach. Bradley decided earlier that he would drive to Jake’s, since it’s hardly ten minutes from where you live, and leave his car in favour of getting an Uber home. Jake had said that anyone who wanted to crash was more than welcome to, but the thought of sleeping at his place only invigorates those nervous butterflies.

“Stop,” Bradley says, one hand leaving the steering wheel to grab your bouncing knee. “Why are you so nervous?”

You shrug, opting instead to wring your hands in your lap. “I don’t know, I just am.”

“You see these people every single day,” he points out, “what’s so nerve-wracking about tonight?”

You sigh, refusing to look at him as you reply, “I’m just feeling a little weird about going to Jake’s apartment.”

His brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you can tell by the way he rolls his lips that he’s holding back laughter. Your cheeks burn, and you have to hide your face in your hands.

“I’m not going to make fun of you,” he says quickly, “I actually think it’s a bit cute.”

You drop your hands, turning to him with a frown. “What? Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “I don’t know. It’s cute that you’re nervous to see where you’ll be living once the two of you finally fuck and get marr- ow!”

You cut him off my smacking his arm, the same one as before, harder. “Would you stop being such a pain?!” you exclaim as the car comes to a halt. “You’re supposed to be my best friend; you’re supposed to comfort me, not make my face all red and blotchy right before we go inside.”

He finally lets his laughter win, his shoulders shaking as he chuckles into his closed fist. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not trying to be a dick, it just comes so naturally.”

You roll your eyes and pop open the passenger door, throwing him a glare over your shoulder. “I know.”

He manages to keep his thoughts to himself while the two of you cross the lobby and ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. This apartment block is shorter than yours, but wider. It’s one of the most coveted locations for naval personnel based on North Island, being the closest two- and three-bedroom apartments to the base. Jake had lucked out when he snagged one of these apartments with another lieutenant, and he’d lucked out even harder when that lieutenant got relocated and he ended up having the apartment to himself.

The sound of Bradley’s knuckles against the hardwood door knocks you back to reality, and you find yourself standing in front of apartment 4B.

“Who is it?” Natasha’s voice calls from the other side of the door.

“Stripper,” Bradley calls back.

“Finally,” the door wooshes open and you watch the liquid in Natasha’s red cup slosh dangerously. “We’ve been waiting all night.”

Bradley winks at her as he strides into the apartment, but before you can follow, Natasha blocks your path. “You need to pay the entry fee,” she says, offering you the red cup.

You frown, “Why me and not him?”

“Because it’ll calm your nerves.”

You catch Bradley smirking over his shoulder, and you scowl at him, wishing you could telepathically punch him for texting Natasha in advance, warning her of your anxiousness.

“Fine,” you sigh, taking the cup and tipping it to your lips.

You drain the cup, ignoring the burn that slides all the way down to your stomach. When you tip your head back to look at Natasha, she’s grinning. “Now you may enter,” she says, stepping aside.

There are a few more people than just the dagger squad in the apartment. You recognised most of them, but you decide that it’s not important enough for you to go around the room introducing yourself to the ones you don’t know the way Bradley is. Outgoing motherfucker. Instead, you beeline for the kitchen where Bob is on the phone reading out an extensive list of pizza orders. He offers you a quick smile before returning his attention to the list.

There’s a makeshift cocktail station set up beside the sink, with an array of alcohol bottles sat on the passthrough window bench. Your gaze drifts past the bottles and into the lounge room where everyone is gathered, landing easily on Jake who is animatedly retelling something to two men you recognise as Fritz and Yale. You’ve never been so charmed by someone in your life, it’s almost laughable the way this man captivates you. You can’t look away from the bright grin on his face, the tiny crease between his brows, and the excitement in his pretty green eyes.

“Hey,” Bob says, startling you out of your trance.

You can feel heat blooming in your cheeks as you turn to face him, leaning your left hip against the countertop. “Hey.”

“Drink?” he asks, a small but knowing smile tipping the corner of his mouth up.

You nod quickly, “Please.”

You chat idly while Bob fixes you both a cocktail that you don’t recognise, not that you’re much of a connoisseur when it comes to bartending, and you’re pretty sure he sneaks an extra shot into yours. Either way, the drink he hands you tastes delicious and fruity, and you’re feeling a little less nervous as you both join the group in the living room. A couple of Javy’s friends who you don’t know have already parted from the dagger squad, starting a foosball competition while the rest of you find somewhere to sit around the coffee table.

“Okay,” Bradley says to the group, “let’s play a little warm up game.”

“Yes!” Mickey exclaims as he settles into a beanbag. “I’m so down.”

Javy chuckles, “Alright, what are we playing?”

“Never Have I Ever,” Bradley replies, his lips curled into an evil smirk.

Your heart stutters, forgetting its usual rhythm before jumping into an erratic beat. You tip your drink to your lips, almost draining the whole thing, and when you finally look back at your best friend across the coffee table, he winks. This is his plan.

“But instead of just putting a finger down,” Natasha says, making you realise that she is in on it too, “you have to take a sip of your drink.”

“Does everyone have a drink?” Bradley asks.

You watch as a few of your friends drain the dregs of their current drinks before getting up to retrieve fresh ones, and you sigh, tipping the last of your cocktail into your mouth. You might as well get drunk with them.

When Bob returns to his seat beside you, he hands you a bottle of blue liquid. “Thought you might need this.”

You smile gratefully, “You’re the best.”

Once everyone is settled again, Bradley and Natasha take turns going over the rules of the high school game, even though it’s not that complicated.

“Oh, one last thing,” Bradley says, eyes trained on you, “nothing is off limits, and if you lie, you finish your drink.”

“How will we know if someone’s lying?” Reuben asks.

“I think there’s enough of us here that know each other well enough to spot a lie,” Natasha replies with a smirk.

Well, fuck.

“I’ll start,” Bradley announces. “Never have I ever slept with someone else in the navy.”

Jake, Javy, Mickey, Reuben, Natasha, and Harvard – who you only know by his callsign – all groan and take a sip of their drinks. Your eyes widen and you turn to Natasha on your right. “Excuse me, why did I not know about this?”

She rolls her eyes, “It was ages ago.”

“Damn, Phoenix,” Reuben says with a smirk, “didn’t think you were a rule breaker.”

“Technically,” Natasha bites back, “it’s not a rule, just frowned upon.”

Laughter rolls through the group before Bradley turns to Jake on his left. “You’re up, Hangman.”

Jake clears his throat as he sits up straighter and surveys the group, lingering on you for a moment longer than the rest. “Okay,” he says, “never have I ever had a secret relationship.”

There’s a beat of silence, a few people’s brows creasing in confusion as everyone stares at Jake.

“That’s a weird one,” Natasha states, though you can see in her eyes that she’s trying to figure out the hidden meaning to Jake’s declaration.

“Well, anyway,” Javy says, chuckling as he tips his beer to his lips.

The rest of the group takes a moment to think before both Bradley and Mickey also take a sip of their drinks. You watch Jake’s eyes widen slightly as he watches Bradley drink, then his gaze darts toward you, as if waiting for you to take a sip too. When you don’t, his shoulders seem to relax.

“Oh, my God,” Natasha whispers so softly that only you can hear, and when you turn to look at her, you find her eyes focused on Jake.

You feel yourself splitting in two, torn between asking Natasha what her revelation is or demanding to know what this secret relationship of Bradley’s was. You decide to go with the less nerve-inducing option.

“Excuse me, Bradley,” you speak across the group, “what was this secret relationship?”

He chuckles, “It was in high school.”

“Oh,” Reuben wriggles his eyebrows and nudges Bradley’s side, “were you a junior and she was a senior?”

Bradley snorts, “Actually, I was a senior and she was a teacher.”

Javy chokes on his second mouthful of beer, and the group suddenly erupts into laughter and questions while Bradley sits there like a king. You join in the laughter and use the commotion to slide your gaze toward Jake, heat rising in your cheeks when you find his eyes already fixed on you. He smirks, and you’re pretty sure your stomach does a triple somersault.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Bradley says. “I know I’m a legend. Now, let’s get on with it.”

Beside Jake, the man you only know as Harvard announces that he has never skinny dipped, at which everyone but Bob takes a sip of their drink. Next is Fritz, who declares that he has never had sex in the shower, and everyone in the group drinks. Your heart starts to race again as Natasha wriggles beside you, clearly excited about it being her turn next.

“Let me think,” she says, rolling her lips as she pauses to think for a moment.

You feel her brief gaze from the corner of her eye, and heat prickles the back of your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Never have I ever,” she begins, her brown eyes glowing with mischief, “had sexual fantasies about someone else in this group.”

Your breath catches on its way out, lodging in your throat as you once again forget how to breathe. You can feel your pulse across every inch of your skin, your heart thudding so hard against your ribs you worry it might break free. You can’t lie. You know you can’t lie, because Bradley is giving you a very pointed glare from across the group and Natasha has turned her whole body to face you.

“Fine,” you mutter into the bottle as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up.

You hear Javy's laughter above everyone else’s hoots and hollers, and when you look back at the group, you catch the tail end of Jake taking a sip from his drink. Natasha giggles beside you, subtly nudging your side with her elbow.

Bradley’s eyes are trained on you, and he opens his mouth to no doubt say something taunting when Reuben lifts his drink to his lips, and Bradley turns to him in shock. “You too?!” he exclaims.

Mickey has dissolved into fits of laughter, curling over and holding his stomach.

“It was an accident,” Reuben justifies, the colour of his cheeks growing deeper, “I had one dream.”

“About who?” Jake demands, his frown more accusatory than curious.

Reuben shakes his head, “That is nobody’s business but mine.”

The laughter slowly dies down, and you silently thank any god that might be listening for the distraction before Bradley or Natasha could embarrass you further.

“Okay, my turn,” you say, quickly moving the game along. “Never have I ever piloted a jet.”

The smirk on your lips is incredibly proud, and half the group groans while the other half chuckles as every single one of them tip their drinks to their lips. It was a cheap shot, but you had to distract from all the sex stuff before you spontaneously combusted.

“Alright, Bob,” Bradley says, looking at the man to your left, “what have you got for us?”

Bob clears his throat, a small smile curling his lips. “Never have I ever worn a bra.”

Both you and Natasha roll your eyes and take a swig of your drinks, and across the group so does Bradley. You stare at him wide eyed as a stupid grin stretches across your face.

“Oh, I have got to hear this story,” Natasha says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

Bradley tries to shrug nonchalantly, but you can see blood seeping into his cheeks, turning them red. “Alright, as if none of you have tried a bra on before,” he says, eyeing the men around the circle.

Everyone bursts into fits of laughter, holding their stomachs or their chests as they fold over and start mocking your best friend. You almost feel bad for him, watching him try to defend himself, but then you remember that he started this game to out your crush and any trace of empathy you had is quickly wiped clean.

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Javy says over the giggling and teasing, “it’s the birthday boy’s turn.”

The noise dies down, and only then do you realise that the group of Javy’s friends by the foosball table are now watching the game of Never Have I Ever as if it’s some enthralling reality TV show.

“Never have I ever,” Javy says slowly, his eyes locked on Jake directly across the circle, “been too chickenshit to ask someone out even though I’m clearly obsessed with them.”

Your heart stutters again, unable to discern the difference between being held at gunpoint and playing a stupid game mostly likely created by high school students. You tip your drink to your lips, not missing the fact that Jake does too, and certainly not missing the way Bradley’s eyes widen and snap toward you. Mickey and Fritz also drink, but to your immense relief, the rest of the group hold off on the teasing for this round.

“Okay, um,” Mickey taps a finger on his chin as he stares into space, “never have I ever ridden a horse.”

Beside him, Reuben frowns, “What?”

Mickey shrugs, “I was looking at the horse.” He gestures toward the narrow bookshelf beside the television cabinet, adorned with a few books, photo frames, and knickknacks. On the very middle shelf is a golden trophy with a little figurine of a cowboy riding a horse, his rope poised in the air mid-lasso.

Reuben turns his quizzical frown toward Jake. “Why do you have a horse trophy?”

Jake’s cheeks are pink, either from embarrassment or alcohol, you can’t tell, but Javy speaks before he can reply. “Didn’t you know baby Hangman was a part of Austin’s champion junior penning team?”

Mickey tilts his head like a confused dog. “What’s penning?”

“It’s a ranching thing,” Jake replies, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re in a team of three on horseback, and you have to separate cattle. There’re all these other rules too, but that’s the basis of it.”

Your chest aches at the sight of Jake Seresin actually looking shy. You’ve never seen this man with less confidence than a stag in mating season, and that mixed with the imagery of a young Jake working on his family’s ranch; well, your heart is just about ready to burst.

Bradley chuckles, “I always forget that you’re a cowboy.”

“Can take the boy out of Texas,” Javy says with a southern twang, “but can’t take Texas out of the boy.”

Jake rolls his eyes playfully and rumples up his empty red cup before tossing it across the circle at his best friend. From what you can gather, Jake and Javy have known each other far longer than just the past few years, and you’re always pleasantly surprised when either of them comes out with historic pieces of information about the other.

“Alright, one more and we’re playing a new game,” Bradley announces, turning his attention to Reuben who is the last to go before it’s back to the beginning.

“Never have I ever,” Reuben says with a cheeky smile, “owned a cowboy hat.”

The group dissolves into another fit of laughter, and you see Natasha and Fritz sip their drinks from the corner of your eye, but everyone’s attention has turned to Jake.

He rolls his eyes again and pushes to his feet. “You people are relentless!” he exclaims, his tone laced with amusement. “I finished my drink anyway, so suck on that.”

Renewed laughter rumbles through the room as Jake storms off down the short hallway, disappearing into a room you can’t see from your position on the lounge. Half the group make their way toward the kitchen to refresh their drinks, while the other half continue joking about Jake’s cowboy ancestry.

You turn your attention back to the bookshelf where the trophy is, letting your eyes wander over all the pieces of Jake that are displayed on the shelves. You hadn’t noticed before, but a lot of the decor in the apartment gives subtle nod to his upbringing. Everything is washed in warm browns and oranges with rich wood furniture, photos of horses and farmland, and trinkets reminiscent of a life on the ranch. He has more than one trophy, you note, and there are a quite a few photos of a young, smiley boy standing proudly beside the same chestnut horse. Your chest squeezes again, reminding you just how enamoured you are with this man.

“Drink?” Bob asks for the second time tonight, offering a different coloured cocktail than earlier.

You nod, “Thank you.”

“Pizza is almost here,” he says, looking at both you and Natasha. “Would you help me go down to the lobby and pick it up?”

You both agree and let the rest of the group know where you’re going before heading out of the apartment door. The pizza guy meets you in the lobby barely a minute after you step out of the lift. Bob pays with cash, and you all stack your arms with boxes of delicious smelling pizza before stepping back into the lift and riding it up to level four.

You can hear commotion the second the elevator doors part, and it gets louder the closer you get to Jake’s apartment. The three of you exchange dubious looks before Bob shifts the boxes in his arms to free one hand and knock on the door. It swings open almost immediately, and you can now very clearly hear some unrecognisable country song blaring while everyone hoots and cheers.

Fritz, who opened the door, takes some of the boxes and calls for more help. As soon as your arms are free, you turn to see what all the fuss is about, your jaw dropping open the second your eyes land on the two men in the middle of the living space.

Jake and Javy are arm in arm, jumping in circles and doing what you assume is supposed to be some country jig. It’s uncoordinated and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe, but it’s not the dancing that has the butterflies in your stomach whirring to life. Atop Jake’s head is a brown cowboy hat. It’s simple and a little worn, the exact same colour as the horse in the photos with young Jake.

Holy fucking shit, does that man look good in a cowboy hat.

You’ve never really considered yourself as having a ‘type’, but right now you couldn’t be more sure that this man is your type. The only person on planet earth that is your type. You can’t help the way your lips are pulled into a grin so wide it hurts, and the fast, uneven thud of your heart against your ribcage, threatening to crack bone.

“Are you okay?” Bradley asks, startling you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

You sigh, feeling the pull in your gut that tugs toward the man in the cowboy hat. “No,” you reply, leaning into him, “I’m not okay.”

His chest vibrates with laughter as you hide your face in it, keeping your arms slack by your side as you pretend to sob into your best friend’s shirt. His other arm wraps around you and his laughter doubles, one arm squeezing you tight while the other hand rubs circles on your back. Despite how much of an asshole he can be, you know that Bradley is always there for you when you need him.

You pull out of his embrace when the music dies down and Bob announces that its dinner time. Your eyes easily find the cowboy, watching him walk toward the dining table where all the boxes of pizza are laid open.

“Look at him,” you whisper-shout to Bradley. “Fucking look at him! Don’t you just want to lick-”

“Nope,” Bradley interrupts before you can even finish. “I definitely do not want to lick any part of that man.”

You roll your eyes playfully as he guides you toward the table of pizza. He hands you a plate and you start stacking a few slices on it despite your nervous stomach’s protests. When you glance across at Jake, his piercing eyes are already on you – like they so often seem to be of late – but he doesn’t look nearly as joyous as he had moments earlier. There’s a crease between his brows and tension in his jaw as he chews.

Natasha pops up beside you and starts babbling about what game you should all play next. She’s always a chatty drunk, not at all annoying, but definitely more vocal than usual after a few drinks. You listen to her and Bradley squabble about games before Javy pipes in, declaring that it is his birthday so he should get to decide.

After everyone has eaten their fill, Jake and Reuben pack away the leftover pizza while Bob and Mickey start making a round of cocktails. Meanwhile, Javy announces that he would like everyone to do a shot, which is when three of his mates who you have guessed are not navy make their exit.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Javy mutters, lining up all the mismatched shot glasses on the kitchen counter. “How many do we need?”

You look at Jake, who is standing beside you and craning his neck to count the heads in the room. “Why do you have so many shot glasses?” you ask him.

He pauses for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head. “You made me lose count.”

When he looks down at you, it feels like your lungs constrict, forgetting once again how to do their one job. Your chest aches in the most deliciously painful way, because that ache radiates all the way down to the apex of your thighs. You don't just want this man, you need him.

“I used to like to collect shot glasses,” he finally replies. “I’d try to get one in every city I visited but after about ten, I kept forgetting.”

“We need eleven,” Javy announces, obviously having counted the room while Jake answered your question.

“We’re one short then,” Jake states.

You shrug, your inebriated brain quickly diving into devious thoughts. “Someone could do a body shot off me.”

Every head in a two-foot radius snaps toward you. Jake’s eyes are blown wide, and a huge grin is pulling Javy’s mouth across his face. Bob looks shocked and Mickey looks amused, but Bradley is almost glowing with pride.

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time, “I’m joking, guys. Calm down.”

Jake’s shoulders sag as if he’s disappointed, but he huffs a short laugh out before picking up one of the bottles to start pouring liquid into the line of shot glasses. “I’ll go last,” he says, looking at Javy. “I’ll just use your glass.”

At Javy’s request, everyone gathers around and picks a shot, clinking them together and spilling drops of amber liquid on the floor before tipping them up to their lips. It burns all the way down and sizzles angrily in your stomach. Sweat prickles the back of your neck as heat breaks out across every inch of your skin. You’re well on your way to being drunk, so you take advantage of the cheering to slip back into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. If anything, it might save your head tomorrow.

Twenty minutes later, everyone has a full drink and a seat somewhere around the coffee table. Javy decided that it’s time for another game, and despite protests, he said that he has picked one and there will be no negotiations. You find yourself comfortably between Bradley and Natasha, trying not to ogle at the gorgeous man across the circle. He is no longer wearing his cowboy hat, having taken it off just before doing his shot, hanging it on the back of one of the dining chairs.

“Alright, what are we in for?” Bradley asks Javy.

Javy grins, “Truth or Dare.”

There’s a mixture of cheers and groans, but everyone ends up giggling with each other since the whole group is very happily tipsy by now.

“Okay, okay,” Natasha calls over the laughter, “what rules are we playing?”

Javy and Natasha negotiate the rules of the game, deciding not to move the game in a circle but from player to player; whoever gets asked ‘truth or dare’ then gets to choose the next victim. You glance quickly toward Fritz, Harvard, and Yale, the three you don’t hang out with all that much, and wonder if they’ll ever get a turn.

“And if you don’t want to answer the truth or do the dare,” Natasha says, “then you have to drink.”

Everyone nods in agreeance before Jake announces from beside Javy, “Birthday boy goes first.”

Javy’s eyes scan the circle before settling on Bradley. “Rooster,” he says, “truth or dare?”

“We’ll start of lightly,” Bradley states. “Truth.”

“Is it true that you and Y/N are just friends?”

Your eyes widen and you immediately inch away from your friend, leaning into a giggling Natasha.

“Yes!” Bradley exclaims. “It couldn’t be truer! Are you kidding me?”

Laughter rumbles through the group, everyone but Jake finding Bradley’s disgust rather amusing.

Javy chuckles, “Just checking! You two are pretty cosy.”

You scoff, “He’s like my brother.”

“Alright,” Javy raises both hands in surrender, “I won’t ever question it again.”

“Good,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.

Bradley clears his throat and the snickering dies down. He looks straight at Jake, “Hangman, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Jake replies.

“Is it true that you’re totally hung up on someone right now?”

Jakes cheeks turn bright pink and he immediately covers his face with his hand, hiding his sheepish smile. He sighs, “Yes, that is true.”

Your stomach twists itself into a knot, threatening to eject everything you’ve consumed in the past few hours. The rest of the group start giggling again, teasing Jake and making stupid oohing noises as the poor man places his beer on the coffee table to bury his face in both hands.

“Okay,” he chuckles, swatting at Javy as he makes kissy noises, “that’s enough.”

Once everyone manages to mostly compose themselves, Jake asks Bob truth or dare. Bob chooses dare, which lands him in Bradley’s lap for the next ten minutes. Bob then asks Natasha truth or dare, and she picks truth, deciding to drink instead of admitting who she finds the most attractive in the room. You have a feeling Bob might already know the answer to that, which is why she flips him the bird before asking Mickey truth or dare. He picks dare, of course, and has to do a shot of straight vodka.

After he’s finished coughing and hacking, he returns to his spot between Bradley and Yale, turning his attention to you. “Y/N,” he says with an evil grin, “truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you respond.

“Earlier tonight, you told Bradley that you wanted to lick someone; who were you talking about?”

Your heart leaps into your throat, beating erratically as it tries to crawl up and jump right out of your mouth. Bradley bursts into a fit of laughter beside you, and Natasha coughs on the sip of drink she had just taken. You clear your throat before lifting your own drink to your lips, taking a purposeful sip and rolling your lips together.

Mickey whines, “You’re no fun!”

You scowl at him, “You were eavesdropping!”

His grin turns sheepish. “Technically, I overheard.”

You roll your eyes and let the laughter subside before scanning the circle, wondering who you could pick that might keep you safe in return. Your eyes land on Jake and you have to roll your lips again to keep from smiling. Sure, you could dare him to make out with you, but you’d rather not force yourself on him, so you settle your gaze on the man beside him, Reuben.

“Payback, truth or dare?”

His face lights up, “Dare.”

“I dare you to give your WSO a big kiss on the lips,” you say with a grin.

Mickey snorts, “You think we haven’t kissed before?”

“Dude!” Reuben exclaims across the group as everyone loses it to laughter once again.

Mickey giggles as he crawls into the middle of the circle and meets Reuben, who rolls his eyes before grabbing either side of Mickey’s head and mashing their lips together. It’s very brief, but it has the group hooting and hollering like high schoolers as the two blushing boys return to their respective spots.

Reuben shoots you a scowl, “I’ll get you back for that.”

You give him a wink before tipping your drink to your lips, realising that it’s empty. You push yourself to stand, “Drinks?”

You and Bradley work on taking the empties from the group and retrieving fresh drinks for everyone while they start asking questions about Reuben and Mickey’s first kiss. When you settle back into your seat, you see Reuben crouched beside Javy as they whisper into each other's ears, their eyes watching you carefully and their lips curling into evil little smirks.

Well shit.

Once everyone is settled again, Reuben looks toward Javy. “Coyote, truth or dare?”

“Hm,” Javy pretends to think, “dare.”

“I dare you to prank call Maverick.”

Everyone oohs as Javy pulls his phone out, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He switches off his caller ID before finding Maverick’s contact, and the group falls silent at the first dial tone. It rings and rings, but Mav doesn’t answer, so when his voicemail requests a message, Javy puts on his gruffest voice. “Maverick, it’s Admiral Simpson. I’ve had a few drinks, and I know this isn’t appropriate, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”

He hangs up and wheezes with laughter. Everyone is folded over, some wiping tears from their eyes, because right now, Maverick’s inevitable scolding doesn’t seem to be a worry.

It takes a little longer for everyone to calm down, but once they do, Javy’s eyes narrow on you. “Y/N,” he says, “truth or dare?”

“Me again?” you ask. “I just had a turn.”

He simply shrugs, awaiting your answer.

You sigh, “Fine, dare.”

You played right into his hand, and you know it by the way his lips have split into a Cheshire Cat grin.

“I dare you,” he says slowly, eyes moving past you and across the room, “to put Seresin’s cowboy hat on.”

You frown, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. It’s too simple. “What?”

Javy nods toward the hat in the dining room. “Put the cowboy hat on.”

“Coyote,” Jake warns, his voice low.

“It’s just a hat,” you say, pushing off the couch and waving a hand dismissively.

You walk quickly across the living space toward the dining table, taking the hat off the back of the chair and plonking it on your head. When you turn back around, Jake’s mouth pops open, Javy and Reuben giggle, and Mickey and Natasha look like they’ve just realised what the stupid joke is.

“Oh, I get it!” Mickey announces proudly.

You frown at him, “Get what?”

He glances at Reuben, who makes the action of zipping his lips. Mickey turns back to you, “Sorry, I can’t say.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, Fanboy, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he says.

“What’s the big joke about the hat?”

“The hat rule,” he replies simply, as if it’s obvious.

“What hat rule?”

“The cowboy hat rule, you know-”

“Nope!” Javy exclaims. “Technically, he answered the question, you can’t get another answer.”

You huff, “Okay, whatever. Play your little games.”

You lean back and cross your arms, the hat still propped on your head. Across the circle, Jake’s eyes are trained on you, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips. He looks mildly amused by whatever the joke is that you don’t get, but he also looks a little like he might be enjoying the way the hat is sitting on your head. The alcohol rushing through your veins gives you the courage to hold his stare as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth before pulling it back out slowly. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there before he swallows thickly and looks away.

When you tune back into the game, you realise that Fritz is now asking Bradley truth or dare. You’re not sure what you missed, but you’re guessing it was one or two uneventful turns.

“Dare,” Bradley says.

“I dare you to walk out onto the balcony and make some weird, loud sex noises.”

Bradley springs up, excitedly jogging toward the balcony doors, throwing them open and starting to honk and moan the second he steps outside.

Jake chuckles into his hands. “You guys do realise that I still have to live here after tonight?”

“OOH, FUCK YEAH!” Bradley shouts, at which everyone’s laughter doubles.

Natasha nudges you, “Is this what you have to hear whenever he has a girl over?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you say with a dramatic sigh.

Another few seconds pass of Bradley’s terrible sex noises before Jake calls him back inside. He sits back down beside you with a satisfied grin, his cheeks bright pink and eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to Jake. “Hangman, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Bradley clears his throat and casts you a quick glance before looking back at Jake. “What is the cowboy hat rule?”’

Javy and Reuben start to giggle again, and Jake sighs, looking incredibly sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s uh- well,” he sighs, “you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”

Your jaw goes slack and your mouth pops open, heart thundering in your chest. Bradley cackles beside you and Natasha snickers on your other side. The thought crosses your mind that if these people keep laughing so hard, they might explode.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Javy says to you before turning to look at Jake. “Now the two of you can fuck and relieve us all of this stifling sexual tension.”

Neither you nor Jake can muster a laugh. You simply stare at each other, thoughts racing as you wonder why Javy would do this. Is what he said true? Does Jake actually like you the way Bradley has always said? Is the tension between the two of you that obvious?

Eventually, the game rolls on, and neither you nor Jake get asked again. Truth or Dare somehow morphs into Would You Rather, and soon Bradley is standing beside you offering another round of drinks to the group. You stand up beside him and rush into the kitchen, dying for a moment away from Jake’s piercing gaze. It’s not that you don’t like him looking at you, you just wish you knew what it meant.

“You good?” Bradley asks as he steps into the kitchen after you.

You nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Still got the hat on,” he notes, pointing at your head.

You quickly take it off and plonk it on the kitchen counter before reaching up to the passthrough shutters and swinging them closed. No one seems to notice, and the small amount of privacy seems to help settle the butterfly disco currently happening in your stomach.

Bradley rummages through the fridge while you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping it slowly and watching him juggle as many bottles as he can between his two hands. He raises his brows at you before he leaves, a silent question, and you nod, assuring him that you’re fine. He disappears around the corner right before Jake steps into the kitchen, making your heart leap dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, seeming much more relaxed than you’re currently feeling.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

You nod again, “Of course.”

“Coyote can be a little insensitive sometimes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

You shrug. “I’m tough. It was just a joke.”

He frowns. “Which part do you think was a joke?”

“The hat rule,” you reply, “right?”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “yeah, I mean, that is a known rule but I’m not going to-” he hesitates, “I mean, I would never- oh, my God, this isn’t coming out right.”

“It’s fine,” you say, dropping your gaze to your feet. “I know they were just having a laugh.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that either,” he adds frantically. He steps forward, leaving very little space between your bodies. “What I’m trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that I definitely would do that with you, but not if you didn’t want to.”

You look up, startled. “Would what?”

He chuckles awkwardly, the pink in his cheeks turning red. “Let you ride me, if you wanted.”

Looking up at his pretty green eyes is making your head spin, but you feel surprisingly stable. Something about his gaze is holding you steady, reassuring you the way a hug from your best friend does, and you quickly realise that this is the closest you’ve ever been able to stare into his eyes. They’re even more amazing up close.

“You’re very pretty,” you blurt out, internally cursing all that liquid courage.

He chuckles again, but its deep and breathy. “Thank you, but I’m nothing compared to you.”

You frown now. “You don’t think your pretty?”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I know I’m a little pretty.”

You roll your eyes playfully.

“But you are possibly the prettiest thing on this planet,” he adds, cupping your jaw in his hands.

The contact lights your skin on fire, and your heart is practically vibrating in your chest.

“Who’s the girl that you’re in love with?” you ask, once again unable to control that brain to mouth communication.

He chuckles again, his eyes darting away from your face and finding the hat on the bench. He reaches past you, his breath fanning across your neck as he picks the hat up off the counter and plonks it on your head.

“I’m in love with the girl wearing my old cowboy hat,” he says, hands holding either side of the brim as he adjusts the hat to sit perfectly.

You don’t even wait for him to finish fixing the hat before you surge up onto your toes, pressing your lips to his. He responds immediately, hands abandoning the hat to find your hips and hold your body tightly against his. You’re almost positive you can feel his heart beating where your chests are pressed together, and it’s almost as erratic as yours.

His lips move against yours gently, but there’s urgency in the way he holds your body, like you might disappear if he doesn’t hang on tight. Your own hands are gripping the hem of his shirt, fisting the material until you can feel your nails digging little half-moons into your palms. Maybe you feel the same, like if you don’t hold on, he’ll disappear, because you’re almost positive you’ve had this dream before.

He pulls back for air, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his hands drop to the crease beneath your bum. In one swift movement, he lifts you onto the counter and stands between your open legs, the buckle of his belt pressing deliciously against the crotch of your jeans. You squeeze your knees around his hips and tilt your head back, letting his tongue slide past your lips. You sigh against his mouth, every ounce of tension from the past few hours leaching out of your body as his hands explore and squeeze your thighs.

“You have no idea”- he speaks breathily against your lips -“how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

You pull back, staring up at his puffy lips and lust-blown eyes. “Why did you wait, then?”

He chuckles and relaxes, the buckle of his belt no longer pressed against you. “Have you seen the way you and Rooster act?” he asks. “You’re practically inseparable, always having your little inside jokes, and you basically live together. How was I supposed to know you wanted me when all you do is look at him?”

You gnaw at your bottom lip, willing your foggy brain to sober up and try to picture things the way Jake would be seeing them. “I guess,” you say, resting your hands on his chest, “but I only look at him to avoid staring at you all the time.”

He tilts his head, a quizzical frown set between his brows. “Really?”

You nod. “And most of our inside jokes are about the fact that I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

His frown melts into a grin. “Hopelessly?”

“More or less.”

“More, I hope,” he murmurs as he leans forward again.

Your lips have barely touched when a bang startles you both. Jake holds you against his chest as you look over your shoulder to see the passthrough shutters blown wide open. Your friends are all gathered in the opening with stupid grins on their faces and laughter bubbling from their lips.

“I knew it!” Javy exclaims.

“That’s all it fucking took?” Bradley asks, his brows almost raised to his hairline.

“If I knew that, I would have put a cowboy hat on you ages ago,” Natasha says with an eye roll.

“Yeah, okay,” Jake says, his smile wide and cheeks bright red, “that’s enough from you lot.”

He reaches around you to grab the passthrough shutters and swing them closed, despite the shouts and protests of your friends. When his eyes find yours again, you feel like the only two people in the world. The noise from the living room fades away and the only thing you can feel is his warmth, his body.

“Where were we?” he murmurs, holding your face in his hands as he dips toward you again.

A sudden spike of panic slices through you, and you pull back with wide eyes. “Wait.”

His smile fades, worry creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not just saying and doing all this because you’re drunk, right?”

The concern on his face dissolves just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced again by that dopey grin. “Baby, I’m not drunk. You are a bit drunk.”

You frown indignantly. “I am not drunk, I’m tipsy.”

“Okay, tipsy,” he chuckles. “Are you only kissing me because you’ve had a few drinks?”

You shake your head fervidly. “No. I’m kissing you now because sober me didn't have the balls to.”

He laughs again, a little harder. “Are you saying that you’re not going to kiss me again tomorrow?”

“Oh, I’m definitely not saying that,” you reply. The corner of your lips lift into a smirk as your eyes fall to his puffy pink lips. “You’ve opened the flood gates now. I’m going to have to put my lips on every inch of your body.”

When your eyes find his again, the pretty green of his irises is almost completely consumed by black, lust-blown pupils. “I’ll be right back,” he says, untangling his limbs from yours.

You hold on to the waistband of his jeans, not letting him move too far from you. “What are you doing?”

“Kicking everyone out so we can get to all the kissing and the licking,” he replies, as if it was obvious.

A soft giggle slips from your lips and you tug on his jeans, pulling him back into your arms. “As much as I love that idea, we should probably get back to celebrating Coyote’s birthday. We’ve got all day tomorrow to kiss and lick and suck and fuck.”

His jaw slackens and a soft groan rumbles from the back of his throat. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Not at all,” you reply with a cheeky grin. “Come on, let’s get back out there before they decide to come back in here.”

He sighs heavily as you slide off the counter, but before you can exit the kitchen, his hand wraps around your wrist. “We’re going to have to wait a minute,” he says, looking down at his pants.

You glance down to see a bulge in the dark blue denim at his crotch, the zipper almost straining against the pressure from the inside of his pants. You roll your lips to keep your giggles at bay, and to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you right here in the kitchen regardless of who can hear.

As if on cue, Bradley’s voice resonates from the living room, “You two better not be fucking in there! My beer is getting low and I will be getting another one no matter how traumatising it might be!”

END.

#top gun #jake seresin #hangman #glen powell #imagine #oneshot #one shot #fanfic #fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #glen powell x reader #miles teller #rooster #maverick #top gun maverick

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littlegochu · 27 days ago

Text

hold me tight │ jjk 18+

"I never stopped loving you."

Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers

rating: 18+, fluff w smut.

synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."

Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.

Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.

Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.

“Maybe,” you start, voice light and sweet, “the reservation can wait.”

You round the corner into the bedroom, heels in hand, lips slightly parted at the sight in front of you.

Black dress shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tattoos. Silver watch, subtle chain. Hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try.

He glances up from the mirror.

Smirks.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, walking over, eyeing your dress like he wants to ruin it.

You loop your arms around his neck lazily, standing on your toes. “You just look so good, baby. It feels wrong to let anyone else see you like this.”

Jungkook chuckles, low and rough, hands finding your hips like instinct.

“Pretty sure you’ve seen me look better.”

You pout. “Not recently.”

His brow lifts. “That right?”

Before you can answer, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you down on the kitchen counter with a grunt of satisfaction.

Your breath catches.

He steps between your legs, crowding your space, lips ghosting over yours.

“We have all day, baby,” he murmurs, voice a little rough. “I’m all yours.”

You fake a whine. “You’re teasing.”

He grins, kisses your cheek, your jaw, then finally your lips. “Maybe.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper into his mouth: “Ten minutes.”

He pulls back just enough to grin. “Dinner first. Then I’ll give you all the time you want.”

The sunset hits just right — golden and warm, spilling over the skyline like it’s bending just for you. String lights sway gently above your heads, casting soft glows on silverware and champagne flutes. The city buzzes somewhere below, muffled by height and distance, replaced by the quiet clink of plates and the lull of soft jazz floating through the speakers.

Sitting in Le Morte— the restaurant his parents gave to him on his 21st birthday. The same restaurant where he asked you to be his girlfriend, the same tiny restaurant you both promised his parents to build up to success. Now, it's a beautiful restaurant sitting at the top of the tallest towers in South Korea.

You sit across from Jungkook, candlelight flickering between you, and he looks—

God. He looks unreal.

Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, collar loose. Gold chain sitting just at the base of his throat. One arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other lazily stirring the ice in his drink like he has all the time in the world.

But his eyes are locked on you.

The whole time.

Not just glancing. Not just admiring. Watching you like he’s soaking in every second. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your lip gloss catches the light, or how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh too hard.

“Stop,” you murmur, cheeks warm from the wine. “You’re staring.”

His smile is crooked. Intimate. Like it’s just for you.

“Let me,” he says softly. “Might not get to do it like this again.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, fingers rubbing gently at the base of his glass. The sunset behind him catches the glint of something silver in his palm.

A small box.

Your breath stops.

You freeze.

He stands up.

“I was gonna wait until dessert,” he says, voice low but certain. “But I can’t. Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve been carrying this for months.”

The world quiets.

He drops to one knee.

Your heart stumbles.

“You’re it for me,” he says. “Even when I’m loud. Even when I’m wrong. Even when I piss you off and leave dishes in the sink. I want you. I want lazy mornings and midnight drives and grocery trips with a shared cart and matching house keys.”

Your eyes are already burning.

“So marry me. Let me wake up next to you for the rest of my life. Let me be yours, fully, finally, forever.”

He opens the box.

A silver ring. Simple. Elegant. Yours.

You cover your mouth, tears slipping before you can stop them. And your voice shakes as you whisper, “Yes.”

He lets out a breathy laugh like he was holding it in for hours.

You stand. He grabs your waist and pulls you into him — tight, full-body, arms around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He kisses you.

Slow. Certain. Familiar.

And when you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you smiling through tears.

“Told you I’d give you forever,” he whispers.

You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.

The ring is still snug on your finger, your heels are kicked off, and he’s kissing you like the air in his lungs depends on you.

Your back hits the wall. His hands are everywhere — one at your waist, one sliding up your thigh, slow and sure and possessive like he’s already memorized every inch.

But it’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s deliberate.

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You look so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.

You whisper, “You’re shaking.”

He swallows hard. Smiles, a little unsteady.

“I’m in love. Give me a break.”

You reach for him — fingertips curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

And he lets you.

Lets you tug him down. Onto the couch. Into you.

He kisses you like a prayer, like a secret, like a man terrified and overwhelmed and deeply, undeniably yours.

His hands are slow.

His mouth is reverent.

Every inch he touches feels claimed, branded, held.

“Say it again,” he whispers as his nose grazes your collarbone.

“What?”

“That you’re mine.”

Your voice breaks against his shoulder. “I’m yours.”

And he breathes out the quietest, most broken “Good.”

His lips press into the crook of your neck, soft at first, barely there — like he's grounding himself. Like he needs to feel you just to believe you're real. His breath is warm, shaky against your skin. You can feel the smile in it. The ache, too.

You exhale slowly, hand threading through the hair at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the undercut.

He kisses your collarbone. Then again. And again. Slower. Lower.

Your dress slips off one shoulder. His mouth follows the exposed skin like it’s his path home. His hands — warm, steady — trace your hips like he’s reminding himself you said yes.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the top of your chest. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “You already have me.”

He leans back just enough to look at you — really look — and the way he stares makes you forget how to breathe.

Like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

His thumb grazes your jaw, then your bottom lip, slow and reverent.

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

Before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time, hungry but restrained, like he’s savoring it. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him instinctively, your body already arching into him like it knows its place.

He lifts you without warning, hands gripping the backs of your thighs, walking you toward the bedroom like he’s done it a hundred times — but tonight it feels different.

Charged. Worshipful. Final, somehow.

He lays you down like you're made of glass.

Then he follows.

His weight settles between your legs, but it’s not heavy — it’s perfect. Warm. Familiar.

His kisses slow. Dragging. Like he wants to memorize how you taste.

You feel his hand slide down your side, slipping under your dress, skimming the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches.

You shake your head, voice breathy. “Don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” His eyes darken. “You want me to take my time with you?”

You nod.

And he does.

The dress comes off inch by inch — not rushed, not desperate. Like unwrapping something sacred. His eyes never leave you, like if he blinks, he’ll lose you.

Your back arches when his mouth moves lower, slow kisses across your chest, your ribs, the dip of your stomach. His hands are warm and sure, holding your waist, smoothing over your skin like he’s trying to learn every inch by feel.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, voice almost shaky. “You always have been.”

Your chest clenches. Because the way he says it—so full of awe, of devotion—it sounds like he’s been waiting his whole life just to tell you.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed. It’s slow. Deep. Everything.

You cling to him — arms around his shoulders, nails lightly digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist — because it feels too good. Too full. Too much.

He moans into your neck, low and guttural, breath hot against your skin.

“This… you… this is it for me,” he murmurs, hips rolling deeper, like he can’t get close enough.

Your eyes blur. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer.

Every stroke is steady. Intimate. The rhythm building slow, like he's not just trying to make you come—he’s trying to mark you. Remember you.

And when it finally crests—when you cry out and he groans your name like it’s carved into his lungs—he holds you through it.

Shaking. Pressing kisses to your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his hand softly stroking your side.

“I love you, my wife.” he whispers.

“We’re done.”

You don’t yell. You don’t have to.

The silence between you and Jungkook splits open the second the words leave your mouth.

“We’re fucking done.”

He’s frozen where he stands — barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He just got out of the shower. His hair’s still damp, clinging to his forehead. He looks… normal. Relaxed.

Like he’s not about to lose everything.

Like he has no fucking clue.

Your hand is trembling as you hold your phone out, the screen still glowing. His name is highlighted in the thread of messages, half-jokes and ego and the kind of careless boyish cruelty you never thought could come from him.

[Taehyung]: “Yo, you actually gonna do it?” [Jungkook]: “Already started. She’s cute. This’ll be easy.” [Namjoon]: “Bet you 200 she falls for you first.” [Jungkook]: “Watch me make her say I love you.”

Your voice trembles. “How long?”

He doesn’t answer.

You swallow, hard. “How long were they laughing at me?”

He takes a step forward and you step back, heart racing, breath caught.

“Y/N,” he says, quietly. “I can explain—”

“No. Don’t.” Your throat tightens so suddenly it almost chokes you. “You don’t get to look at me like that right now.”

He blinks like he’s been slapped.

“I wore your ring for two months,” you whisper. “Two months I’ve been waking up beside you, loving you, planning forever with you—while your friends texted you behind my back, congratulating you for playing me.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it?” The crack in your voice finally splits open. “What the fuck was I to you, Jungkook? Some prize? A challenge?”

He flinches like it physically hurts.

“It started as a dare, we were young,” he says, voice low, ashamed. “I was drunk. It was stupid. But the second I actually got to know you—”

“Stop.”

“—I fell so fucking hard, Y/N.”

“Stop.” Your eyes sting, but you refuse to cry in front of him. “Don’t stand there and feed me that now. Not when the only reason you ever spoke to me was because someone dared you to.”

He looks like he’s falling apart.

You wonder if he feels it the way you do—like the air’s been punched out of your lungs. Like your body’s full of splinters, breaking from the inside out.

“You were never a bet to me,” he says softly. “Not once I knew you.”

You almost laugh. It comes out broken.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

You take a shaky step back, the ring suddenly burning on your finger.

“You had so many chances, Jungkook. We dated for two fucking years, you proposed two months ago. You could’ve told me after our first date. After the first time we slept together. After the night you held me when I cried about my mom. You could’ve told me before you proposed.”

“I was scared,” he admits, voice breaking. “I knew I’d lose you.”

“Good.”

His eyes lift to yours—glassy, wounded.

You don’t care.

“I trusted you,” you whisper. “With everything. My body, my heart, my life. And you… you humiliated me.”

His breathing hitches. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I am,” he says quickly. “I am. You know me better than anyone—”

“No, Jungkook.” You shake your head, blinking back tears. “I knew the version of you you let me see. I never knew this.”

Silence stretches between you, unbearable and sharp.

You slide the ring off your finger. Slowly. Like peeling off a layer of skin.

His eyes drop to your hand.

“No,” he breathes. “Don’t—”

You step forward. Place the ring on the counter. Not thrown. Not dramatic. Just... final.

“I was going to marry you,” you whisper. “I wanted to build a life with you.”

Tears slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe them.

“I would’ve given you everything.”

Jungkook’s voice is raw when he speaks. “You still can.”

You shake your head once, then again. Firmer.

“I’ll never know what was real,” you say. “I’ll never know if you looked at me like that because you loved me—or because you knew you’d already won.”

He breaks then.

Takes a step forward like he can’t stay still anymore, his voice cracking open.

“You were never a game to me.”

“But I was a joke to you once,” you whisper. “And that’s enough.”

His face crumples. “Please don’t leave.”

“I already did.”

You grab your bag. Sling it over your shoulder.

His feet move before he can stop himself. “Y/N, please. Baby—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He freezes.

You reach for the doorknob with trembling hands.

And then—because you can’t help it—you turn back one last time.

He looks ruined.

Hands limp at his sides. Eyes red. Chest rising too fast like he’s barely breathing.

He whispers your name like it’s the last thing he has.

You whisper back, barely audible—

“Goodbye.”

Then you walk out.

And this time… he doesn’t follow. Because he knows he lost you the second he lied.

[2 years later]

It’s warm inside the café.

Not the cloying kind—just soft. Familiar. The kind that seeps into your bones and tells your chest to stop bracing so hard. The kind of warm that smells like cinnamon and vanilla, where the hum of espresso machines mixes with quiet music and the occasional clink of mugs.

You’re sitting at a window table, one hand wrapped around a latte, the other steadying Jiho as he bounces lightly in your lap. He’s sticky with syrup and joy, a piece of pancake still clutched in one tiny fist. His laughter bubbles up when your boyfriend leans in and makes a quiet, ridiculous face just for him.

And you laugh too. Soft. Full. Real.

Your boyfriend has been good to you. Patient, steady, kind. He doesn’t push. He never tried to fill shoes that weren’t his to wear. He just showed up and stayed. And when you finally let him in, he didn’t treat your past like baggage. He treated it like part of the road that led you here.

So yeah, mornings like this? They feel okay. Safe.

Until the bell above the door rings.

You hear it, but you don’t look up right away. You’re busy wiping syrup off Jiho’s chin with a napkin, murmuring a quiet, “Hold still, baby,” while he wriggles.

And then you feel it.

Not just a presence. A rupture.

Your breath catches before you even know why.

You glance up.

And everything stops.

Jungkook walks into the café like a memory you weren’t ready for.

He’s with Taehyung. Laughing at something he says. But the moment he sees you, his body goes still. His expression falls apart in real time. And then his eyes drop—to Jiho.

To your son.

His son.

You feel the air punch out of your lungs.

He looks older. Bulkier. His hair is longer now, a little curl tucked behind his ear. He wears a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing familiar tattoos that used to trace your skin. He looks…

Ruined. But whole in a new way. A version of him you don’t recognize. One that never held your hand in the middle of the night or whispered promises against your spine.

“You okay?” your boyfriend asks, his voice cutting softly through the tension.

You don’t answer at first.

Jungkook is still staring. At Jiho. Then at you. And there’s something in his expression that’s not shock anymore.

It’s betrayal.

“He’s getting fussy,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on Jungkook. “Can you take him to the car? I’ll just run to the bathroom and meet you there.”

Your boyfriend nods without hesitation, presses a kiss to your temple, and lifts Jiho easily into his arms. Jiho yawns and rests his head on his shoulder, thumb slipping into his mouth.

You can feel Jungkook’s stare as they leave.

You rise. Walk past him without looking.

The bathroom is down a narrow hall, dimly lit. You lock the door behind you and grip the sink until your knuckles ache.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

You rinse your hands slowly, as if that could wash off the past year.

And when you open the door—he’s there.

"Cheater." Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You were mad at me this whole time,” Jungkook says, low and cold, “but you were out here carrying some other guy’s fucking baby?”

Your heart twists.

He laughs, humorless. “That’s rich, Y/N. You didn’t want me, but you moved on just fine, didn’t you?”

You stare at him. Silent.

The hallway feels like it’s shrinking.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t think I deserved to know?”

“Did I deserve to be a bet?”

That shuts him up.

You shake your head, eyes burning.

“I was pregnant when I left,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know it yet. I found out alone. I stayed alone. I gave birth alone. I raised him—your son—alone.”

Jungkook goes pale.

He looks stunned. Pale. A man watching the earth split under his feet.

His mouth opens once. Then closes.

“Y/N…”

You step back.

“And yeah, I moved on,” you breathe. “Because I had to. Because loving you almost destroyed me. Because trusting you did destroy me.”

His hands shake. His chest rises like it hurts to breathe.

“I would’ve been there.”

“Would you?” you whisper. “You lied every day for months, Jungkook. I don’t know what part of you was ever real.”

He swallows, eyes desperate now. “All of it. I loved you. I still—”

You cut him off with a cold laugh. Final. Solid. Unforgiving.

“Then you should’ve fought harder.”

There’s silence. Dense. Trembling.

“His name is Jiho,” you say flatly. “He’s brilliant. He has a real dad now. Someone who shows up, every day, no matter what. Someone who didn’t need to be biologically connected to love him better than you ever could.”

Jungkook flinches.

You feel nothing.

You take a step closer, voice low and sharp.

“You want a role in his life?”

He nods slowly. Hope flickers behind his eyes.

You smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Too fucking bad.”

And then you walk.

You don’t look back.

Let him break.

Let him wonder.

Let him live with what he lost.

Because you have a son.

And a man who never made your love a game.

And a life you built from the ashes he left behind.

[jungkook pov]

Jungkook doesn’t remember how many shots it takes before the guilt finally numbs.

He doesn’t feel the booth beneath him or the sticky table under his forearms. Just the pressure in his throat—the kind that burns more than the liquor. The kind that doesn’t let go.

“She said his name is Jiho.”

His voice is rough. Slurred, but not from the alcohol. From everything else.

“He’s brilliant. Got a smart mouth. Big eyes. My fucking eyes.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. He just watches him from across the table, jaw tight.

“She didn’t need to say it,” Jungkook mutters. “I knew the second I looked at him. That’s my kid.”

Yoongi leans back in his seat, arms crossed. Hoseok twirls his empty glass, saying nothing.

“She told me he has a real dad now.” Jungkook laughs, but it’s hollow. “Said he shows up. Loves him better than I ever could. Said he doesn’t need to be blood to be his father.”

The table goes quiet. No one meets his eyes.

“She meant it,” Jungkook breathes. “Every word.”

Taehyung finally speaks. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Anger. Screaming. Anything but that fucking smile she gave him.”

Jungkook rubs his hands over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrub the memory off his skin.

“She looked happy. Safe. Not because of me. In spite of me.”

“You hurt her,” Hoseok says, careful but blunt. “You don’t get to be surprised she moved on.”

“I’m not,” Jungkook snaps. “I’m not surprised. I’m—” He stops, breath catching.

“I’m destroyed.”

The word hangs there. Honest. Raw.

Yoongi taps a finger on the table. “You said you didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I didn’t,” Jungkook growls. “I didn’t fucking know. If I did—God—do you think I would've let her go? Let her raise him alone?”

Taehyung’s voice is low. “Doesn’t change what you did before.”

Jungkook looks up slowly. “I never meant to fall in love with her.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters. “That’s kind of the problem.”

The silence turns heavier.

“She's a mom now,” Taehyung finally says. “And you? You’re the guy who made her a dare.”

Jungkook flinches.

“No mother worth a damn is gonna risk her child’s safety—or her own peace—on a man who turned her love into a joke.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispers.

“You say you want to be there for Jiho,” Hoseok says, “but you’re not the one who decides anymore. She does.”

“I’m not trying to take him,” Jungkook says hoarsely. “I just—I want to know him. I want him to know me.”

“He has a dad,” Taehyung says gently but firmly. “The one who stayed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply. His head drops into his hands.

“She said I couldn’t love him better. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t deserve the chance.”

No one replies.

“I just want to try.”

The words leave him in a whisper. Barely there. But the silence that follows feels deafening.

No one answers.

Taehyung just stares at him like he’s already bracing for impact.

And maybe Jungkook was hoping for something—anything—a crack of sympathy, a nod, a sign that someone still believed in him. That he wasn’t completely fucking ruined.

But there’s nothing.

Only the echo of his own voice, pathetic and hollow.

And that’s what finally makes him snap.

He shoves the chair back so hard it topples. Kicks it across the floor without thinking. Glass clinks and shatters as a bottle rolls off the table and explodes near the wall. Hoseok jolts up, trying to steady him, but Jungkook shoves him off with a harsh, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

His breathing turns ragged, chest heaving as he grips the edge of the booth like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“She didn’t even give me a chance,” he spits, venom coating every word. “She just looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was the fucking villain.”

“Jungkook—” Taehyung tries, but he’s not listening.

“She never even told me. She made that choice for me. Took him away from me before I even knew he existed.”

He pounds his fist into the table—once, twice—until his knuckles split open. Blood pools against the cracked wood. He doesn’t even flinch.

Yoongi stands up slowly. “You’re scaring people.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook growls. “I’m already a ghost in my own life. What’s one more mess?”

Taehyung’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not helping anyone like this. Least of all yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying to help myself!” Jungkook shouts, eyes wild. “I just wanted to try. I wanted to be something—to someone. To him.”

He sways slightly, blood dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are glassy now, somewhere between fury and devastation.

“I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. I didn’t ask to lose her. But I did. And I lost him too.”

He finally sinks back into the booth, shoulders sagging like the fight’s drained out of him all at once.

“I’m not asking her to forgive me,” he whispers. “But she doesn’t get to erase me either. That’s my son.”

Nobody speaks.

The bar is quiet around them. Tense. Distant music playing beneath the weight of everything unspoken.

Taehyung finally breaks the silence.

“You’re bleeding.”

Jungkook looks down at his hand, broken skin and bruised knuckles.

He just laughs.

It’s almost midnight.

The apartment is still—blanketed in that soft kind of silence that only exists when the world’s asleep. Jiho is down for the night, his tiny breaths steady through the baby monitor on the table. The lights are low. My tea’s cold. Cassi’s face lights up the screen of my laptop, her voice a soothing constant in the quiet.

“So this girl—hand to God—she told her man, ‘If he wanted to, he would.’ And then this man shows up outside her job with a damn sign.”

I laugh into my cup. “A sign?”

“A literal cardboard sign. In public.”

“Okay, fine. That’s cute.”

"Hm, you have that look again."

"What look?"

“The one where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not.”

“Sure,” she drawls, then leans closer to the camera. “Bet he’s still hot. I wonder if he’s single.”

I laugh. “Wanna stalk him?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Her fingers are already moving. “What was his full @ again?”

I try to hide my grin. “You’re horrible.”

“Got him,” she says triumphantly. A second later, a notification pops up. Cassi’s just sent me his profile.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Instead, I lean back, feeling the air shift. That weird, aching weight that creeps in when you let a memory hang too long.

Cassi notices. “Hey,” she says gently. “You okay?”

Before I can answer, the door opens.

The lock clicks.

I freeze. Cassi’s expression sharpens. “Is that him?”

I nod and quickly end the call. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The apartment door creaks open. Han steps inside—jacket askew, smelling like beer and sweat and the kind of cheap cologne that clings to your skin for hours. His smile is crooked, lazy. A little drunk.

“Baby,” he calls out, dropping his keys to the counter, “you’re still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He stumbles over and drops onto the couch beside me, pulling me into his lap without waiting. He’s clingy—hands all over me, breath hot against my neck.

“I missed you tonight,” he says, lips grazing my cheek. “Was thinking about you the whole time.”

“You smell like beer.”

“I had a few.”

His fingers start trailing down my side. I pull away.

“Han, Jiho’s sleeping.”

“Let him sleep. I want you.”

“I’m tired.”

He stills. Then pulls back slightly to glance at the screen I didn’t have time to close. The Google tab is open again.

His eyes narrow.

“What’s this?”

I move to shut the laptop, but he snatches it first. Reads the screen.

His voice sharpens. “You’re looking up his shit?”

“It was nothing.”

“You miss him?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

He stands abruptly, sending the laptop sliding off the couch.

“I go out for a few drinks and come home to this? You—still thinking about that fucker who left you?”

I rise to my feet. “Han, you’re drunk.”

He steps closer. “You want him again? That it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No, I’m not—”

He grabs my wrist hard.

“You were mine,” he growls. “I took care of you. Took care of your kid. And you’re still out here googling your ex like some pathetic little girl.”

“Han,” I whisper. “Let go.”

But he doesn’t. His grip tightens.

And then he slaps me.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the room.

My head jerks sideways. My cheek stings. My ears ring.

I freeze.

He doesn’t.

He lunges again, fists balled, grabbing my shoulders now, shaking me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the one who ruined him.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “I fed him. I stayed. And you still look at me like I’m not good enough.”

I cry out as his knuckles graze my collarbone.

“Please—stop—”

But he won’t.

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

I shove him back with everything in me and sprint for Jiho’s room.

My heart is slamming in my chest.

I grab Jiho—still half asleep, clinging to my shirt—and the baby monitor. I don’t even grab shoes.

Han’s shouting behind me, but I don’t listen. I don’t stop.

I bolt.

Out the door.

Down the stairs.

Into the night.

It’s almost 2 a.m.

I’m sitting on a metal bench outside a shuttered pharmacy, cold biting through the thin fabric of Jiho’s blanket, my coat, my skin—everything.

He won’t stop crying.

His little hands keep clawing at my chest, his body trembling as I hold him tighter and tighter, whispering, “I know, baby, I know,” even though nothing I do is helping.

He’s cold.

I’m cold.

And everything is closed.

I tried every door. The gas station. The diner. Even knocked on the back entrance of a convenience store until my hands went numb.

No one answered.

I pull him tighter into my chest. Try to rub warmth into his back, over and over, like friction and desperation will be enough to make him stop shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, rocking him slightly, even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean to bring you out here. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

My voice cracks before I can finish.

Jiho’s sobs aren’t the loud kind. They’re tired, hoarse, hiccupping. The kind that gut you. The kind that sound like trust breaking down.

And I’m failing him.

I’m failing my baby.

I try not to cry. I really do. But my eyes are stinging so hard I can’t see, and my throat’s so tight I can’t breathe.

I press my lips to his forehead. He’s too cold. His skin is damp with sweat and tears.

“Please stop crying,” I whisper, like begging him will undo everything. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where to go.

Everyone I thought I could call—Cassi, gone. My old neighbor, asleep. Family? Not an option. I burned that bridge when I chose Han. I told myself I could fix him. I told myself Jiho would never see the worst of him.

I lied.

I bounce Jiho lightly in my arms, trying to calm him down even though I’m shaking just as badly.

He coughs once. Shudders again.

Something cracks inside me.

I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it. I scroll. Scroll again. I open every app like something magic might be waiting there—someone, anyone—who could help.

But there’s no one.

And then… I don’t know why I think of it. I just do.

That stupid restaurant name. Le Morte.

The place he made me promise we’d build together.

My thumb hovers over the browser.

I shouldn’t.

I swore I’d never give him another chance to hurt me.

But Jiho’s still crying. His whole body trembling against mine.

And I have nothing left.

I type the name.

The website loads. I don’t read it. I just find the number.

I hit “Call.”

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I almost hang up.

Then—

“Le Morte.”

His voice is deeper than I remember. Quieter. But still him. Still Jungkook.

I don’t say anything.

"Hello?" A pause. A faint inhale. Then again, softer this time— "...Hello?" The sound of his voice breaks something open.

My throat caves in on itself. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a choke—sharp, ugly, aching.

I press the phone tighter to my ear, like that could steady my hands, like that could hold me up.

Another gasp escapes me. “I… I don’t…”

“Y/N?” His voice shifts. Urgent. Gentle. “Is that you?”

"Bab—" He stops himself. Breathes out slow. Then, careful and quiet: “Y/N, I need you to breathe. Just breathe for me, okay? I can’t help if I can’t understand you. Please—just tell me where you are.”

I blink, but everything’s a blur—wet and trembling and spinning. Jiho’s still crying against me, his little sobs going straight through my chest like wire.

“I don’t know—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Hey. Hey, stop.”

His tone softens again, that low warmth I haven’t heard in two years, like balm against an open wound. “I’m glad you called me. It’s okay, I promise it’s okay. Just tell me where you are. Anything you see around you. Anything, Y/N.”

I look around wildly, heart clawing at my ribs. “Pharmacy. Near… near the intersection by the overpass, across from—there’s a bus stop. Metal bench. I—he’s so cold, Jungkook. He won’t stop crying and I didn’t mean to bring him out I just—”

“Okay. Okay, I know where that is. That’s enough. I’m coming. Right now. Don’t hang up, alright?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay.”

“I want you to hold Jiho just like you are. Keep your cheek against his. I’m getting in my car now. I’ll talk to you the whole way.”

His voice is quieter now. Thicker.

“I’ll be there soon. Just hold on for me. Please.”

And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—I let myself cry. Really cry. The kind that comes from somewhere deep. Not panic. Not frustration.

Just grief.

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the betrayal, the years apart—I still remember what it felt like to be safe in his voice.

The headlights cut through the dark like a promise.

I hear the tires before I see them—skidding slightly on wet pavement as the car pulls up to the curb. The engine dies, and the world goes quiet again except for Jiho’s whimpers, quieter now, fading into hiccups against my chest.

The door swings open.

Footsteps.

He’s still in his suit.

The one from Le Morte. Midnight black, sleek lapels catching what little light bleeds from the streetlamp above. His tie’s undone. Hair slightly windblown like he ran the second he got my call.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

Just stands there for a beat, eyes scanning me—Jiho pressed into my chest, my tear-streaked face, the way I’m shaking like my whole body’s trying to hold back a scream.

Then he moves.

His steps are fast but careful, like he’s afraid if he startles me, I’ll vanish.

He shrugs off the suit jacket and drops to his knees in front of us.

He drapes the coat around Jiho’s small frame, then pulls it over my shoulders too, like he’s trying to shield both of us at once. His hands linger there for a moment. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

My body caves forward.

I don’t mean to. I don’t even think. I just fold into him, and he catches us like he never stopped being mine.

I sob into his shoulder. Gasping, messy, completely undone.

Jiho clings tighter to me, still crying, but quieter now—like he knows something’s shifted.

Jungkook wraps his arms around both of us.

He doesn’t ask anything.

He just holds on.

Tight.

One hand cups the back of my head, the other bracing Jiho’s trembling spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay now.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That nothing’s okay. That I’m still broken, still afraid, still so angry.

But all I do is cry harder.

And he lets me.

His own breath stutters against my cheek, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ask for answers.

He just holds me like he never wants to let go again.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. On the cold pavement. Wrapped in the scent of him—cologne and city air and something achingly familiar.

Jiho’s hiccups start to slow. His small hand curls into the front of Jungkook’s shirt, and for a second, Jungkook stops breathing altogether. His fingers twitch slightly against Jiho’s back, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to react.

But Jiho doesn’t let go.

So Jungkook exhales. Slowly. And wraps both arms around us again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I whisper eventually. My voice is raw. Shaky. “I didn’t want to call you.”

“I know.”

He gives a small nod, like he’s scared saying anything will push me away. “But you remembered Le Morte.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. His face is shadowed, lit only by the flickering streetlamp, but I see it—every crack. Every line.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes are red. Not from the cold.

He’s hurting too.

“Why did you come?” I whisper. “You could’ve ignored it. You could’ve sent someone else. You could’ve—”

“I would’ve crawled through fire to get to you.”

I suck in a breath. My lip trembles.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, barely getting the words out. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t even know how I got here. I just—he hit me, Jungkook. He—he hit me and Jiho saw.”

His whole body tenses. His jaw ticks so hard I flinch, and he notices—immediately softening.

“I’m not him,” he says low. “I swear to God, I’m not him. But if you need me to leave after this, I will. I’ll go. Just tell me where you want to be, and I’ll get you there safe. That’s all I care about right now.”

I look down at Jiho. His head is resting on my shoulder again. One hand fisting the fabric of Jungkook’s coat. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his eyes are fluttering shut. He’s exhausted.

“Can we go somewhere warm?” I ask. “Just…for tonight.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, baby.”

I freeze.

He sees it—hears it—and his voice softens again.

“I mean—Y/N. Yeah. Let’s get you warm.”

He rises carefully, lifting Jiho from my arms without waking him. He holds him so securely, like he’s done it a hundred times, and my chest twists.

I stand too, legs weak. Jungkook watches me closely, like he’s waiting for me to collapse again. He keeps an arm around me as we walk toward the car waiting by the curb.

He opens the back door, gently places Jiho in the seat, then looks back at me.

“You sit with him. I’ll drive.”

And just like that, I nod.

Because for the first time in a long time— I believe him. We’re safe.

He places Jiho in the backseat, his hands steady but his jaw locked so tight it looks like it might shatter.

When he closes the door and turns to me, I expect him to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not at first.

He just stares.

At me.

His eyes flick over my face, pausing on the bruises beneath my makeup, the swelling just below my eye. My cracked lip. My trembling fingers still clutching the edge of his coat.

His whole body shakes as he exhales through his nose.

And then he’s in front of me—closer than I can brace for.

His hands reach out, hesitating for a breath before they find my cheeks, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over my skin like I might disappear. His brows are drawn so tight, his mouth pressed in fury, but his touch… God.

His touch is gentle.

Too gentle.

He wipes under my eyes with trembling fingers.

He swallows hard, like the words taste like poison. His thumb keeps brushing under my eye, trying to clean away the tears that won’t stop falling. His forehead leans close, almost touching mine, his breath shaky.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low, “what it did to me to hear your voice like that.”

I blink up at him. My knees feel hollow.

“You were crying. And Jiho was crying. And I wasn’t there—again."

“Tell me where he is,” he whispers. “Just tell me where.”

“Jungkook—”

“No,” he says, voice still soft, but steel beneath. “You don’t get to show up shaking and scared, with bruises on your face and tears in your eyes, and expect me not to burn the fucking world down.”

His voice falters at the end. His hands drop, then fist at his sides.

“I didn’t come to fall into you again,” I say quietly. “I came because I had no one left. That doesn’t mean I—”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes closing for a second like he’s steadying himself. “But I’m not strong enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

Silence lingers.

The wind cuts past us, but he steps in again, cupping the back of my head, his palm warm against my scalp. His other arm wraps around me slowly—cautiously—like he’s waiting for me to pull away.

I don’t.

I can’t.

He holds me against his chest like I’m glass.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers into my hair. “All along. Through everything.”

I cry harder.

Because despite everything I told myself— Despite the time, the pain, the silence—

A part of me never stopped wishing he had been.

The morning light slips through the blinds in pale streaks, soft and almost kind, like it doesn’t know how much pain this room has held overnight. I haven’t moved much. I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at the carpet, trying to pretend my stomach isn’t hollow, that my lungs aren’t tight, that the world hasn’t shifted underneath me again.

Jiho is asleep in the hotel crib across the room—warm, safe, breathing steady. Jungkook insisted we take the king bed, and he spent the night on the armchair, half-awake, shirt wrinkled, jaw locked. He left early this morning, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t coming back.

But the door opens.

My shoulders jump before I can stop them.

“It’s just me,” he says, voice low, careful. I don’t turn around. I just listen to the soft thud of his shoes as he steps inside.

“I brought breakfast.”

I hear the tray set down on the small table. Hear the lids lifting, the faint hiss of steam rising into the quiet. I don’t move. I can’t.

“You didn’t have to,” I murmur.

“I wanted to.”

His voice is closer now. I feel him looking at me, the silence stretching. I finally glance up.

He looks… tired. The same white button-down from last night, sleeves pushed up. No jacket. Dark slacks, black watch. His hair is messy, like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times since the sun came up.

I can’t hold his gaze.

He sits down slowly, arms resting on his knees. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t push. But his voice cuts through everything anyway.

“Why him?”

I freeze.

“Why Han?” he says again, quieter now. “What made you pick him? Stay with him? Let him around Jiho?”

I feel the sting in my eyes before I even try to speak.

“I thought I didn’t owe you that.”

“You don’t.” His voice catches. “But I need to know. Because last night you looked like you were breaking. And then you called me.”

I don’t answer.

“I thought you hated me,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “I did.”

His breath catches.

“But I didn’t have anyone else.”

That admission burns worse than anything.

He doesn’t speak right away. And when he does, it’s so quiet I almost miss it.

“I’m glad you called me.”

I blink hard.

“And don’t look at me like that,” he says gently, like he can read every line of guilt on my face. “I know you feel guilty. I know you think you shouldn’t have. But Jiho’s my son. And you’re his mother.”

He stands, steps closer.

“I wanted to do this. I want to be here. Don’t be guilty.”

His voice cracks. Just barely.

“I wanted to protect you.”

The room feels too small. My throat feels too tight. I can’t breathe with all this silence pressing on me.

When he reaches for me, I let him. His hand touches my cheek, his thumb brushing beneath my eye—and I realize I’m crying again.

His palm is warm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he says.

And I break.

I lean into him, and he catches me, arms wrapping around me like a shelter I never thought I’d need again. He holds me tight—tight like he doesn’t want to let go, tight like he’s afraid if he does, I’ll disappear again.

My hands clutch his shirt, and his lips brush my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t have to say that. Not right now.”

And before I can think—before guilt or pride can pull me back—I lift my face and kiss him.

It’s slow. Raw. Desperate. Like everything we’ve buried is clawing its way back to the surface.

His hand cradles the back of my neck, his breath shuddering.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting years for this.

And for once… I let him.

authors note: im ngl im tryna stay active by using my old stories, sooo they're lowkey unedited but again pls comment i love hearing ur opinions!!!

#bts smut #bts x reader #jungkook #jungkook scenarios #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts army #bts #jungkook smut #jungkook ff

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dakusan · 13 days ago

Text

B e G o o d F o r M e

Felix x Reader | praise-soaked filth, soft aftercare, and a thigh you’d die for

synopsis: He’s sunshine in the hallway. A hand on your lower back. A kiss to your temple. But tonight? He tells you to ride his thigh like you were made for it. Spits on your pussy, praises your cries, and fucks you through every broken sob until your voice is gone and your body’s trembling. And the worst part? He still calls you “baby.” Still holds your hand. Still whispers, “One more for me, yeah?” with that fucking smile. You thought you knew Felix. Until tonight, you were proven wrong.

💌a/n: okay so this was requested by 🦔anon and honestly? i blacked out somewhere between “ride my thigh” and “you ruined my guts, felix.” idk if i did well. i feel a lil unsatisfied but also my brain was full of static and lust and then halfway through writing i got violently pulled into a side quest where i had to help my mother BURN A FUCKING WASP NEST that decided to colonize our garden shed like it pays rent??? do i feel like i could’ve gone a different route? sure. do i also kinda love how this spiralled into daddy thigh riding praise ruin sunshine aftermath hours™? also yes. idk. i feel conflicted. if you loved it? i am kissing your forehead with consent. p.s. if you reblog it???? i will cry. on your carpet. gently. if you comment, i respect you. and if you're still here, i love you. p.p.s. i don’t even like wasps but i think one of them is haunting me now

📌 Please ride responsibly. Moan louder. Hydrate after.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Mmmh — KAI « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:12 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You met Felix under the fluorescents of a backline studio.

He had walked in humming—hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, freckled face flushed from rehearsal, damp hair curling around his temples—and dropped his bag with a thud that made your audio meters spike. It was your second week working with Stray Kids’ internal production team, still proving yourself in a room full of idols and engineers who already moved like family.

But Felix? He’d smiled at you.

And not the polite, press-trained one. The real one—the kind that cracked wide open, all dimples and gold, the kind that made you forget your own name for a full five seconds.

“Hey, new sound girl,” he’d said. “You got magic fingers or something? This mix sounds insane.”

You didn’t blush. (You absolutely blushed.)

From there, it built in quiet pulses. Shared coffee runs. Long nights layering harmonies in empty booths. The two of you tucked into a corner of the console, your hands moving across sliders while his voice—that voice—poured like honey into the headphones. It didn’t take long before he was leaning into you, brushing your wrist with his pinky, whispering, “You always smell so good…” in a way that made your pulse hiccup behind your ears.

Six months later, he was in your bed. Not just once. Often. Softly. Cuddled behind you in oversized sleep shirts, brushing your hair out of your face in the morning. Whispering things like “I’m so lucky I get to love you” and giggling when you squirmed under the weight of it. He’d bring takeout to your place after double shifts. Leave notes tucked in your laptop bag. Keep his toothbrush beside yours in the cup.

You knew him as Felix the angel. Felix the sweet. Felix the clingy little golden retriever who kissed your temples and held your hand under the dinner table. Even the sex had been like that—sweet, devotional, slow. He called you beautiful. He was perfect. Made you feel like you were living in heaven.

But something had been changing lately.

Little things. A sharper look in his eyes when you teased him too far. A rougher grip on your waist when he pulled you onto his lap in the studio. That one time his voice dipped too low in a live take and you jolted so hard you hit the mute switch. You’d laughed it off.

But Felix had seen. And Felix never forgot.

Tonight, it starts like all the others.

Long day in the studio. Changbin and Chan gone before midnight. Felix stayed with you—always did—half-sprawled on the couch, hair tied back, legs propped up, scrolling through beat drafts while you fixed the last few compression issues on Jeongin’s verse.

He kept glancing over at you.

Not in a sweet boyfriend way. In a watching-you way. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You feel it again when you both get home—your place, still messy from the ramen rush earlier, one overhead light on low. You stretch your arms, ready to slip into something more comfortable, and murmur:

“God, you sounded so good today. That second take in the booth? Nearly melted me.”

Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. Felix has dropped his bag by the door, but hasn’t moved since. He’s standing there. Still. Head tilted. Eyes… dark.

“Yeah?” he says. Quiet. “You liked the way I sounded?”

Something in your stomach tightens.

“You always sound good,” you reply with a nervous smile, turning to walk toward the bathroom. “I mean, I mix you for hours every week, Lix. I—”

But he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not harsh.

But firm.

“Say that again.” His voice is still soft. But it slips now. Deeper. Tighter. “Say I sounded good. While I was making you melt.”

Your heart stutters. He takes a step forward.

“Felix…?”

He watches your throat bob as you swallow.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he murmurs, crowding into your space. His palm slides down to your waist, warm and grounding, deceptively sweet. “I’ve been thinking about the way you react when my voice drops. The way you get quiet. Still. Like you’re waiting for something.”

You can’t speak. He presses forward again, herding you toward the couch.

“I’ve been good,” he says, lower now. Freckles glowing like they’re under a full moon. “I’ve been so good. But you keep pushing. You keep giving me that look like you want me to break.”

He stops when the back of your knees hit the couch cushion.

“So tonight, baby,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your ear, “You’re gonna let me.”

Felix’s hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just pressing you still, guiding you down further onto the couch with a gentleness that makes the control feel even stronger. Your back hits the cushion. You blink up at him, breath caught between a question and a moan.

He climbs over you, knees on the cushions, straddling your thighs. His hoodie’s still on, sleeves pushed up. His rings are warm from the walk home. He drags two fingers down your collarbone, slow, watching goosebumps bloom in his wake.

“You know I’ve been holding back, right?” “You know I watch how you squirm every time I call you good.”

Your breath stutters.

“So we’re gonna try something new tonight, angel.” “You don’t touch me unless I tell you to.” “You don’t cum unless I say so.” “You speak only when spoken to, and you take every fucking second of what I give you. Got it?”

You nod, frantic, heart pounding.

His hand moves to your hair and his grip tightens in it.

“Use your words.”

“Y-Yes. Got it.”

“Atta girl.”

He tugs your shorts down first. Not your top. Not your panties. He likes to tease. Leaves you half-dressed, on your back, thighs slightly open as he pushes your knees apart with one hand.

“Fuck, baby. Look at this mess.”

He hums. Brings his thumb between your legs and drags it slowly over the damp cotton. You whimper. His eyes flick up.

“You gonna cry already, sweetheart?”

And then he rips the panties to the side. No gentleness now. Just that soft tone and filthy mouth working in perfect contradiction.

He spits on your cunt.

Hot. Messy. His.

“You know what I wanna do to you?” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through the slick. “Wanna make you ride my thigh till you can’t see straight. Then bend you over and fuck you slow ‘til you cry for me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod. Helpless.

“Too fuckin’ pretty like this. Can’t say no to you when you beg.”

He tugs his hoodie off one-handed. You get a glimpse of his lean stomach, the way his chain hangs against his chest, the ridges of toned arms from hours of dancing.

And then he sinks back onto the couch, spreads his legs and points.

“Come sit, good girl.”

You hesitate for half a second—and he slaps the side of his thigh with a sharp smack.

“I said. Sit.”

You climb into his lap. He holds you in place, arms locked around your waist, his thigh pressing right there, and begins to rock you.

And the feeling? Oh, it's heaven. You're simply melting.

You’re already gasping before you’ve even started.

The heat of his thigh against your bare cunt—muscle flexed just enough to grind into that aching spot—makes your legs weak before they’ve even moved. Felix doesn’t rush you. He just watches. One arm around your waist, the other relaxed across the top of the couch like he has all the time in the world. And those eyes?

They ruin you. All heat and hunger, waiting for the show.

“Go on,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Make a mess for me.”

You brace your palms on his shoulders, shaky, breath trembling. The first grind of your hips feels dangerous. Too much friction, too much slick, not enough rhythm—but fuck, it hits.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice dropping further. “Rub that needy little pussy on my leg. Just like that. C’mon.”

You gasp. Then whine.

Your hips start moving on instinct—small at first, trying to chase pressure without falling apart too fast. But Felix’s leg is solid. Flexed. Perfect. Every roll of your body sends your clit dragging against muscle, and you can feel the wetness soaking through both layers already.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

You whimper, nails clutching at his hoodie sleeve. “Felix—”

“No.”

He grabs your chin and forces your eyes to meet his. “Not ‘Felix.’ Not when you’re like this.”

His lips hover right over your cheek, voice velvet and vicious in your ear.

“Try again, baby. What do you call the man ruining you?”

Your whole body stutters—hips still rocking, cunt dragging shamelessly over his thigh.

“D-Daddy—”

He moans, low and filthy, like the word alone strokes his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it. Knew you’d sound perfect saying it. Say it again while you ride me.”

You do. Over and over. Falling into it like a prayer. His name. His title. Your surrender. Your cunt is throbbing, twitching—your thighs slipping from the slick and heat of your own arousal. The more you chase it, the more you shake.

“You close?” he whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of your jaw. “You gonna cum just from my thigh like the good girl you are?”

You nod. Desperate. “Please, please—need it—need to—”

“Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

The moment you let go, it breaks you. You cry out—body seizing, vision spotting, hips still moving even as your muscles twitch through the overload. It’s too much. Not enough. You want to scream, moan, sob—and all that comes out is his name, slurred and needy.

“That’s it, angel. There she is.”

You collapse forward into his chest. Your legs refuse to work. Your pussy’s still pulsing and he’s holding you there, firm hands stroking over your spine like he cares—but his cock is hard beneath his sweats, and you feel it press against your stomach.

“One down,” he whispers against your temple, smiling like he hasn’t just destroyed you. “How many more can my good girl take?”

You try to answer—but you can’t. You’re dazed. Fucked out. Sweating and panting, still twitching from aftershocks.

And that’s when you feel him lift you.

Arms under your thighs. Carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing. You cling to him, head buried in his neck, still whimpering.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I got you, baby. Gonna lay you out. Gonna fuck you slow and deep ‘til all you remember is my name.”

When he enters the bedroom, Felix lays you down like you’re made of something expensive. Your back hits the sheets—warm, soft, rumpled—and he hovers over you with his palms planted on either side of your head. His hair has come loose from its tie. It falls into his face, golden and damp, framing the sharp line of his cheekbones and the flicker of obsession glowing in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice a threadbare hush. “Fucked out already. But I haven’t even been inside yet.”

You try to respond—some tiny sound of need or please or Lix—but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between overstimulation and begging.

He smirks. And then he moves.

“Arms up, baby.”

He strips your tank top off first, dragging it over your head like he’s unwrapping silk. Your skin pebbles at the cold air, nipples tight, chest rising and falling with shallow little gasps—and fuck, does Felix stare. His eyes rake over you like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of your ruin.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he’s not saying it to you—just… to himself. “So fuckin’ perfect. All mine.”

His sweats are next, undoing them—slow, teasing—and then finally pulls them down along with his briefs, letting his cock spring free.

It’s hard. Already flushed, leaking. Beautiful. So him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he says, crawling over you again, voice deeper now. “Thinkin’ about how tight you’re gonna feel wrapped around me. Thinkin’ about how good you’re gonna take it.”

And then?

Then he turns you over.

“Face down, ass up baby.”

You shiver. But you listen. You shift onto your stomach, arms stretched up across the pillow, chest pressed into the sheets. Your ass is bare, slick, glistening under the light. You feel the mattress dip as Felix settles behind you, feel the heat of his body as he palms your thighs and spreads you wide.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he growls, dragging two fingers through your folds, slow and heavy. “You’re dripping, angel. You need me that bad?”

You sob. Nod. “Please—need you—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to the curve of your spine. “Gonna give it to you. Gonna fill you up real slow. Fuck you so deep you feel it tomorrow.”

He fists himself—just once—and then lines himself up.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, thumb pressing into the small of your back. “And stay still. Let me in.”

The first push is agony. Sweet, stretching agony. His cock slides in slow—so slow you think you’ll break—inch by inch, until the fullness makes your eyes roll back and your fingers clutch the sheets.

“There she is,” he groans, voice cracking. “So fuckin’ tight. So wet. You’re squeezing me already.”

He stills when he bottoms out. Just holds you there—stuffed full, twitching around him, your thighs trembling from the pressure.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispers, leaning over you, voice melting into your ear. “That’s mine now.”

He doesn’t start slow.

There’s no easing you into it. No gentleness now that he’s buried to the hilt inside you. Just the stretch of him—thick, perfect, intentional—and the way his hands lock around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him sane.

He finally starts moving. Deep. Slow.

His hips drive forward in measured, devastating strokes—like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your insides. Each thrust rocks you forward into the sheets, your arms trembling from the force. You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch, every grind against that spot that makes you see stars.

You’re a mess. Whimpering. Gasping. Drooling on the pillow.

And Felix?

He won’t shut up.

“That’s it, pretty thing. Cry into the sheets. Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you.” “You feel full? You feel mine?” “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob. “Fuck—Felix—I’m yours, I’m yours—”

“Fuckin’ right you are.”

He leans over you—pressing your spine down, mouth right at your ear—and his voice goes low. That lethal octave. That ruinous, deep rasp that shakes your bones from the inside.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” “Taking my cock so deep. Letting me fuck you stupid.” “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna cum so deep it drips out of you.”

Your eyes roll back. Your stomach coils. Your voice breaks on a scream, “I’m gonna—gonna cum—Felix—Daddy—!”

“Do it. Cum for me, baby. Let go. Show me who fuckin’ owns this pussy.”

And you do—you cum hard, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably as you clamp down around him, crying into the sheets, wrecked and shaking and so full you swear you can’t take another second.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down.

“Nah, sweetheart. We’re not done.”

His grip on your waist tightens. One hand slides up your spine and pushes—forcing your chest deeper into the mattress, arching your back until the angle makes your vision white out.

“One more,” he growls. “You can take it. Be good. Be so good for me and take every drop.”

You sob again—loud, broken—but your hips still push back. You want it. You need him to fuck you through it, to stretch your limits, to claim every inch of you like you asked for this.

And he does.

He fucks you until the sound of skin-on-skin is filthy and frantic, until the pressure builds again so fast you can’t catch your breath. You’re babbling now, incoherent—his name, god, daddy, please—over and over like a litany.

“You gonna give me one more?” he whispers, ragged. “Let me fuck you dumb, pretty girl. Just one more. C’mon. Make a mess on my cock.”

You break again.

Screaming. Crying. Shaking so hard your knees give out under you.

Your knees collapse.

You can’t hold yourself up. You’re shaking too hard—legs trembling, muscles locking from the force of your second orgasm. Tears have soaked into the sheets beneath your face. Your hands have long since given up. Your body is boneless, fucked out, ruined.

But he holds you.

Felix grunts low, adjusting his grip as you slump forward. One hand locks around your waist, the other slides beneath your chest, hauling you up against him.

Your back hits his chest—slick with sweat. His cock stays buried deep inside you. You whimper at the stretch, the burn, the rawness—but he coos softly in your ear, kisses your neck like it’s his salvation.

“That’s it, baby. I got you.”

He doesn’t stop moving.

His hips roll up into you—slow now, but just as deep—while his hand splay across your stomach, holding you flush against him like he never wants to let go. Your thighs are soaked, your pussy is twitching, and fuck, you can feel the mess between your legs.

“So full,” he whispers, lips dragging across your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me. All mine, yeah? Say it, baby. Say who owns this perfect fuckin’ body.”

You sob. “Y-You do, Felix—yours, I’m yours—”

“That’s my girl.”

His thrusts stutter—hips jerking erratically now, cock twitching inside you as he moans into your shoulder. His voice breaks—half-growl, half-worship.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. “Gonna fill you up so deep, baby. Wanna fuck it into you. Wanna watch it leak down these thighs while you’re still twitching for me.”

Your walls flutter around him—tight, hot, soaked—and that’s all it takes.

He snaps.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh, fuck—”

His moan rips through your ears as he buries himself one final time and cums hard—hot, thick pulses spilling deep inside you while he holds you pinned against his chest. You can feel it. The way he throbs, the way he doesn’t pull out, the way his body shakes around yours like he’s giving you everything he has left.

And through it all—he kisses you.

Everywhere.

Your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder. The curve of your neck. Gentle little presses, over and over, like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ perfect. My pretty baby. My good girl. Took it all so well.”

You’re crying again, but they’re not sobs now. They’re soft. Shaky. Your body can’t process anything but him. His weight. His voice. His praise laced with that worn-out sunshine that’s never left.

He holds you there. Doesn’t pull out. Just lets you sit in his lap, full and dripping, his cock still twitching gently inside as your breath slows and your limbs go lax.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

It’s quiet. Only your breathing, mingling. And the occasional kiss— his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, his nose nudging into your temple, his voice whispering like a lullaby.

“So good for me, baby…” “Took me so well…” “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head. Weakly. “Never.” you whisper.

And God, does that wreck him.

His arms tighten. He holds you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His mouth presses to the top of your head, then your damp cheek, then your lips—soft, slow, tender.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I love you so much.”

And then—finally, finally—he shifts. One hand strokes your back. The other gently cups behind your thigh.

“Okay, angel,” he says gently. “I’m gonna pull out now, alright?”

You nod against him, breath catching.

And he does.

Slowly. Carefully. The stretch stings a little—your pussy is puffy, throbbing, still fluttering around nothing—and when he slips free, you can feel the mess spill out of you. His cum leaks down your thighs, warm and slick, and Felix groans low in his throat.

“Shit, baby… look at that. I really did fill you up, huh?”

But it’s not dirty now. Not filthy. Not teasing.

It’s awe.

“Time to take care of my girl.”

His arms wrap around you as he lays down on the bed, holding you close, cuddling you. You’re still quiet. Not from discomfort—just overloaded. Floating. Felix is holding you like he always does after a long day—chest to chest, arms around your waist, nose tucked into your hair.

If it weren’t for the light ache between your legs and the twitch in your thighs, you could almost pretend none of it happened.

But oh, it happened.

You feel it in every nerve ending.

“You okay, my love?” he murmurs, lips ghosting across your forehead. “Everything feel alright?”

You nod, still dazed. “I think I left my soul in the couch cushions.”

He laughs—a real laugh. Bright. Golden. Felix. The soft boy you thought you knew.

Until tonight.

“You’re not mad at me, right?” he asks after a moment, quieter now.

You blink up at him.

Stare.

Then squint.

And whisper: “Sir.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Felix. Sunshine. Angel boy. Literal human serotonin. You just—” You gesture vaguely to the air. “You ruined my guts.”

His mouth drops open. He chokes out a laugh, half-scandalized, half-proud.

“I did not!”

“You did too!” You shove his shoulder, weakly. “You throat-fucked me with praise and then made me ride your fucking thigh. I’m pretty sure my ancestors felt that orgasm.”

He’s red. Like ears-pink, nose-scrunched, dimples-deep red.

“I mean… I did say I was gonna fill you up,” he mumbles. “But I also kissed your forehead. So. Balance?”

You gape at him.

“Balance?! You said I was your good girl while you were filling me up.”

“Because you are!”

You collapse into the pillow, half-laughing, half-moaning. “Jesus fucking Christ, Felix.”

He wraps his arms around you even tighter. Nuzzles into your hair. His voice goes soft again, syrupy with affection.

“Hey. You really loved it?”

You pause. Look up at him again. There’s nothing teasing in his face now. Just that pure, open warmth—the boy who’s been falling in love with you since the day you EQ’d his vocals for the first time.

And you nod. Soft. Sincere.

“I didn’t just love it,” you whisper. “I think I need it again. Like… soon. Maybe with handcuffs next time?”

Felix short circuits. “I—you—what—okay—”

You smile into his chest. "I like this duality. How dare you not show it sooner."

He groans. Buries his face in your shoulder.

“God help me. I think I am creating a monster.”

But you just grin, ear to ear.

"Damn right you are."

#stray kids #skz x reader #skz smut #lee felix #felix x reader #filth friday #skz imagines #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #lee felix x reader

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yeyinde · 3 months ago

Text

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you.

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat.

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks.

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged.

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop.

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you.

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue.

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath.

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh.

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs.

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

#daddy is not said in reference to price even once in this but honestly it should have been #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader

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slutla · 3 months ago

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ROLLED UP ‘N RUINED ! | MARK GRAYSON X FEM READER

warnings: 18+, nsfw, usage of weed, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), cunnilingus, unrealistic pussy eating, mark tries weed but it doesn’t affect him, mark is kinda subby, outgoing ‘n carefree reader, friends with benefits kinda. whimpering.

summary: you try to teach your friend how to smoke a blunt—instead, you learn something entirely different. wc: 3.1k

an: minors dni. i’ve only done weed once n i greened out horribly so this may not be the best description of a good high lmfao. also idc idc mark a d1 eater, literally nothing could convince me otherwise. not proofread excuse any mistakes.

“Does weed even do anything to Viltrumites?” You don’t look at him when you ask, your fingers working the paper, the grind of leaf and resin between your fingertips. A familiar ritual, slow and practiced. The room is thick with the scent of it, sweet and burnt, though the air between you is heavier with something else.

Mark shifts on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. “Not sure,” he says, voice easy, weightless. He waits, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his hands loose at his sides. You stride over to him ignoring the mess on the table—scattered lighters, empty glasses, a book neither of you had finished—and hold the thing out to him. His fingers brush yours when he takes it.

“Well,” you murmur, striking the lighter, its flame leaping up, carving out the planes of his face in gold and shadow. “Let’s find out.”

The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhales—too fast, too much—and then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like he’s been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.

A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. “You’re not supposed to rush,” you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. “Here, let me show you.” Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.

Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. “You could’ve started with that first,” he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.

“’S not even my fault,” you scoff, sinking back into the couch. “Didn’t know you were gonna try ‘n inhale the thing like its air.”

Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, because—yeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like he’s mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.

He exhales, waits a beat. “I don’t feel anything,” he says, flat, like he’s waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. “No shit,” you mutter. The fact that he doesn’t know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You would’ve thought Amber—Who’s often at party scenes—might have taught him at some point, but apparently not.

“It’s not gonna work instantly,” you say, settling deeper into the couch. “Well—actually, I don’t even know if it’s gonna work at all, considering you’re basically, like, half alien.” Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. “You say it like it’s an insult.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of your lips. “Maybe it is,” you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. “Maybe it’s not.”

He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. It’s a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.

Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. You’ve never really looked at him before—not like this. He’s handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.

And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingers—earthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.

“Stop hogging it,” you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. “Just ’cause I’m teaching you doesn’t mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.”

Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate—just for a second—before leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but you’re barely paying attention to that. You’re too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.

Maybe it’s the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe it’s just plain curiosity—but the thought creeps in before you can stop it.

You know he’s not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isn’t just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? You’d take him for the type.

The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at him—his lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.

“Mark, have you ever eaten pussy?”The words slip out before you even think to stop them.

Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. It’s almost comical—the way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.

“What—?” His voice cracks, just a little. “Why—why would you even ask me that?”

You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like you’ve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.

You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. “We’ve been friends for a long time, I’m just curious,” you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.

Mark blinks at you, still looking like he’s in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.

A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing again—except for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.

“No,” he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. “I haven’t.”

You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. “See,” you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like it’s waiting to be broken. And, maybe because you’re high, or maybe because you just can’t help yourself, you push further. “Why not?” You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?”

Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. “Why are you so invested in this?” You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. “I’m just saying, statistically, it doesn’t add up.”

“I mean,” he starts, still staring at the ceiling like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, “I just never really got the chance, I guess.” You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? It’s not like his exes would’ve stopped him—if anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.

He’s a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriend’s charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.

You laugh. You don’t even know why you’re laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe it’s just him.

And then—before your brain can catch up to your mouth—you say it.

“If you ever want to, you could always practice on me.”

The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.

“I meant—like, I meant it—” you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. “It was supposed to be comforting!”

Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesn’t say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.

Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Mark—his face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like he’s still buffering.

Neither of you say anything.

The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedal—how to undo whatever the fuck this is.

Will you ever recover from this? Can you?

You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.

Mark’s head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, he’s never—never—thought about you like that.

Sure, you’re beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But he’s never let his mind go there before. Not with you.

You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now you’re sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like you’re feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.

And fuck—now it’s in his head.

Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the air—anywhere that isn’t your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.

Something he won’t be able to take back.

And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself say—“Is—Is that something you’d like?” The second it’s out, he wants to die.

Because now? Now the silence between you isn’t just awkward. It’s charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He can’t see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.

Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something else—something warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.

And maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like he’s fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe it’s the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.

Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch up—nipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? It’s probably too late to walk it back.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, it’s relieving. Like you just confessed something you didn’t even know you needed to get off your chest.

Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couch—only now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.

Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throat—but his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.

“Uh—I’m not sure how this works, so… can you guide me?” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. “Or, like, tell me if you don’t like it?”

There’s something endearing about it. The way he’s so earnest, so unsure despite everything else he’s capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldn’t even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way he’s looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this right—it makes your heart squeeze a little.

Honestly, you didn’t think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that he’d laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he is—kneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.

He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and there’s your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. It’s not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. You’re confused—does he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? You’re on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudge—strings of slick arousal gleaming between them.

You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. You’re sweet on his tongue—warm, slick. Maybe it’s too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of you’s got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.

You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throat—each one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.

“You can use your fingers too… if you’d like,” you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a command—breathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.

“Fuck, ‘s good, you’re doing so good,” you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. You’re soaked—coated in his spit, in your own slick—and the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

It’s filthy—the way he’s practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t stop—if anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.

“Tastes so fuckin’ good,” he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. He’s desperate—humping into his own palm like he can’t help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.

“Fuck—” His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. “Tastes like you were made for me.”

It’s messy, shameless—the way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.

Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. “‘M—‘m cummin’,” you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.

Mark doesn’t stop—not yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like he’s starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.

His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high that’s been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasure—the broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way you’ve completely let go for him—send him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.

That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #៹ archive !

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beloveds-embrace · 3 months ago

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the fae animals ask made me kinda have some confidence of the fae boys being able to appreciate and care about even readers soft and more human qualities.

I hope the boys become desperately obsessed with both her strong more far likeness but also have a crisis realizing that they like her softness. I think some panicking is deserved on the boys part. I am still partial to our boys

also I think reader need some others in her corner and the fae animals are such lovely supports.

masterlist || cw: neglect and angst but it’s getting better trust me

It started, as most catastrophes do; with something terribly, innocently mortal.

A scarf, of all things.

It was nothing of note- no glamour woven into the threads, no whispering enchantments stitched along its hem. Just wool, soft and worn, hand-dyed in a shade of pale lavender that clashed horribly with the obsidian and ivy of your usual wardrobe. But you wore it regardless, looped twice around your neck as you wandered barefoot through the frost-touched gardens, your breath blooming into the mist.

Simon saw you first; he’d stepped from one of the doors, summoned by a courtier’s sniveling request, only to stop dead beneath the frostglass archway. The trees were alive with quiet, with fireflies and will-o-wisps watching from between the thorns- but none moved as you crumbled honeyed bread in your palm, scattering it over moss and stone.

He did not expect the birds that came for you.

Iridescent and shimmer-feathered, their glassy eyes gleamed like dew-wet gems. Birds that usually only sang for moonblood offerings or circled above dying kings- Simon remembers seeing them when Queen Mother publicly slaughtered the late King- came when you called, soothed by your voice as you hummed something heartbreakingly human.

And now, you scolded one when it snapped too eagerly at another. “Mind your manners! There’s enough for everyone!”

Simon nearly groaned aloud. Not from annoyance- but from the pressure building in his chest. Like a curse long slumbering. He needed to pull you close, squeeze your soft safe between his hands- ugh.

You were not cloaked in fae glamour. You did not drip moonlight from your lashes or speak in riddles.

And yet… all the old trees leaned subtly toward you; he didn’t tell the others of that, nor of this occasion, and instead cradled in the space between his ribs just for himself.

But things like you- tender, strange, human- don’t stay hidden long. Not when you were the Queen.

The next week, Johnny found you curled into the window seat of the great hall. Sunset painted molten gold across the high walls, catching in the floating motes of pollen-dust that always drifted lazily through the wings of the palace, especially in spring. You were barefoot again, your legs tucked beneath you like a child’s, nose buried in a battered mortal book whose cover had long since faded.

You were snorting with laughter- head tossed back, a hand slapping your knee like you couldn’t help it. The crown you’d worn that morning, spiked with garnets and bone, lay forgotten on a nearby table, half-buried under a folded shawl of spider-silk.

Johnny was halfway across the hall before he realized he was moving. He stopped only when your laughter faded and you turned, eyes crinkled and warm, still in the cozy world within your book.

He fled.

And sulked about it for the rest of the day. He was a creature of battle, of storms and songs sung in blood. A King’s advisor. He was not supposed to be enchanted by the softness of your laugh, the little crinkles in your eyes. Yet it was all he could see whenever he closed his eyes for the new hours.

It got worse when Kyle caught you in the kitchens; the palace’s heart at night was strange- lamplit with flame-flowers that opened only after sundown, their petals flickering like winking eyes. Everything pulsed with magic, every door could lead to a dream or a trap. Yet there you were, barefoot again (why were you always barefoot? Did you maids not ensure your comfort?) sneaking across tiled mosaics made from the bones of long-dead sea beasts, clutching a slice of chocolate cake like it was sacred.

Kyle froze. The moth that lived in your sleeve- the little beast could change its size- blinked sleepily at him. You looked up, wide-eyed, and your sheepish grin dimmed but you still held on and raised your chin.

“… You won’t tell?”

He gave you another piece.

Then sat outside your door later that night, staring up at the star-swallowed sky, and didn’t sleep a wink. Glowy and Thrain kept him company by glowing and growling at him, respectively.

John, then, watched you handle the court with a precision that could slice a man in half. You were everything they’d hoped a human queen wouldn’t be- poised, unreadable, willing to he adorned in thorns and black petals that whispered curses in dead languages, not making enough mistakes for them to consider throwing you back to the human kingdom. The fae bent for you, even when they didn’t want to. Because you were a good Queen- and you were slowly gathering supporters.

And then he found you, days later, curled in an oversized dress by the fireplace in your study.

You weren’t weeping. But your eyes were red, and Thrain, your antlered beast, had curled around you like a fortress, one massive antler tipped toward the fire. Your giant moth rested across your shoulders, wings twitching dreamily as it glowed soft golden light.

You looked up at him and said, in the voice of someone who had not spoken all day- who had no one to speak to all day:

“I didn’t think it would end that way.”

You said no more after that, but it was just enough to crack open the hollowed, ancient stone of his heart.

They all began to spiral after that, unsurprisingly. Curse you and your frustrating, beloved humanity.

Johnny wouldn’t wear anything you hadn’t touched, and even better if it held the scent of your soaps and perfumes. Kyle started leaving small gifts on your desk- tiny, enchanted things, but useful, and he smiled when he saw you using the little quill that liked to dance across parchment. Simon wouldn’t let anyone stand within a breath of you if they weren’t announced, glaring from behind like death incarnate- as if Thrain wasn’t enough.

And Price began to carry your scarf.

Not visibly, never that. But in the inside pocket of his coat, tucked like a relic he didn’t dare speak of. He’d raise it occasionally, when he was left alone-

And simply kiss its soft wool, and imagine to himself it was your forehead. It woukd suffice until he fixed this terrible mistake they’d made in their treatment and seclusion of you.

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dearlenore · 4 months ago

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THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID

SUMMARY: when a serial killer obsessed with Spencer sends threatening letters to the BAU, they uncover mentions of a mysterious first love the unsub vows to kill. Confused, the team questions Spencer — wasn’t Maeve already dead? Left with no choice, Spencer is forced to confess the truth.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i was thinking about this concept forever and finally got around to writing it so this one might be my longest fic yet please bare with me <3

w/c: 3.5K (goddamn!!)

The BAU’s bullpen was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Phones still rang, keys still clattered, but there was an undercurrent of unease — that lingering tension that crept in before a storm.

Spencer Reid sat at his desk, flipping through a worn copy of Gödel, Escher, Bach. The logic should have grounded him, but his mind refused to focus. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of the page, folding and unfolding it absentmindedly. Something was gnawing at him — something he couldn’t quite place

“Reid?”

He startled, glancing up to see JJ standing by his desk, a thick envelope in her hand. Her expression was serious, eyes scanning him with quiet concern.

“This came in this morning,” she said, placing the envelope on his desk. “Addressed to you.”

Spencer’s eyes dropped to the envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in elegant, looping cursive. No return address. The paper felt heavy, expensive — like something you’d use for wedding invitations. His stomach twisted.

“Did you open it?” he asked quietly.

JJ shook her head. “I wanted you to see it first.”

The bullpen felt quieter now, the air heavier. Spencer slid his letter opener beneath the envelope’s seal and carefully unfolded the thick parchment inside. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something floral — lavender, maybe.

And then he read the words:

A heart once shattered, sewn in gold,

Memories linger though years turn cold.

The girl who smiled with eyes so bright,

Will burn again before the night.

A book’s torn page, a crimson thread —

Retrace the steps or find her dead.

Spencer’s fingers went numb. His pulse thumped in his ears as his gaze lingered on the words — especially the third line.

“Reid?” JJ’s voice was softer now. “What is it?”

“It’s… it’s a poem,” he said quietly, his voice tight. He swallowed hard. “It’s referencing my first love.”

JJ’s brow furrowed. “Maeve?”

Spencer nodded hesitantly. “She used to write me poems like this — riddles, puzzles. But this…” He reread the words. Will burn again before the night. His stomach twisted.

JJ’s expression hardened. “I’ll get Garcia.”

“No.” Spencer’s voice was sharper than he intended. JJ froze, her eyes narrowing.

“Why not?”

“Just… give me a minute,” he said, folding the letter carefully and sliding it into his desk drawer. “I need to think.”

JJ didn’t look convinced, but she relented. “Okay,” she said softly. “But you’re not figuring this out alone.”

As she walked away, Spencer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingers to his temples. His heart raced — not just from the letter, but from the secret he had buried for months now.

Because whoever wrote that letter wasn’t just referencing Maeve.

They knew about her.

The team gathered in the briefing room minutes later. The envelope lay open on the table, its contents displayed beside it. Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her usual energy tempered by the tension in the room.

“Okay, so the envelope’s custom stationery,” Garcia reported. “Handmade, actually — imported from Italy. Not cheap.” She tapped a few more keys. “I’ve reached out to the company for a buyer list, but this isn’t something you grab at a corner store.”

Hotch nodded grimly. “This poem… you said it references Maeve?”

Spencer shifted in his seat. “I think so,” he said carefully. “The way it’s written — it’s similar to how she’d write riddles for me. But the wording…” He hesitated. “It’s different. Darker.”

Emily’s gaze sharpened. “You think the unsub’s mimicking her?”

“Or they knew her,” Spencer murmured.

“Maeve’s been gone for over two years,” Rossi said. “Why now?”

Before Spencer could answer, Garcia’s computer pinged. She clicked into her inbox, her eyes widening.

“Oh no…” she whispered.

“What?” Hotch asked.

“There was a break-in at a lab in New York. last night. One of the items reported missing…” Her fingers moved rapidly as she pulled up the list. “Several vials of thallium sulfate. Highly toxic, fatal in small doses.”

“Wait,” Emily said, her face pale. “That’s the same poison Maeve’s stalker threatened to use, isn’t it?”

Spencer barely heard her. His mind was spiraling — the poem, the poison, the threat.

Retrace the steps or find her dead.

“Spencer?” JJ’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I need some air,” he mumbled, pushing back his chair.

The corridor outside the bullpen felt too bright, too sterile. Spencer leaned against the wall, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs.

“You’re not okay,” JJ’s voice said softly.

He didn’t turn. “I just… need a minute.”

“You’ve been quiet since this morning,” JJ pressed. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I told you everything I know,” he lied.

JJ didn’t buy it — he could feel her gaze on him, sharp and unwavering.

“Spencer…”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. His voice cracked, betraying him.

JJ stepped closer, lowering her voice. “If this isn’t about Maeve…”

“It’s not,” Spencer admitted before he could stop himself. His breath hitched. “It’s not about Maeve.”

JJ’s expression softened. “Then who?”

Spencer closed his eyes. He could see her face — soft eyes, that satisfied smile, the way her hand lingered just a second too long when she passed him a book.

“Her name’s y/n,” he said quietly.

JJ blinked. “y/n?”

“She was… someone I knew years ago. Before Maeve.” His throat tightened. “I haven’t seen her in years, but…” He shook his head. “The poem — the way it references a ‘girl who smiled with eyes so bright.’ That’s her. She used to say that I —” He stopped, his voice breaking.

“You think the unsub’s targeting her?”

Spencer nodded. “I think they know about her. And if they’ve been watching me…”

JJ’s face hardened. “We need to find her. Now.”

Spencer knew she was right, but something cold coiled in his chest — the kind of dread that gnawed at the edges of logic.

Because whoever had written that poem didn’t just know about you.

They knew about him.

JJ and Spencer reentered the conference room, their faces shadowed with unease. The tension in the room deepened as they sat down.

“This…” JJ began softly, her voice unsteady. “This isn’t about Maeve.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence felt like a crack in the foundation — thin, fragile, and threatening to split wide open.

Hotch’s gaze sharpened. “Who is it about?” His tone was stern, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.

Spencer swallowed hard, his fingers twisting together. “Her name is Y/N.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like glass. “I knew her years ago… before Maeve.”

Emily’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered,” Spencer said quickly, guilt bleeding into his voice. “I haven’t seen her in years. I thought she was safe… that she’d moved on.” He paused, voice breaking. “I thought I’d moved on.”

“But the poem,” JJ pressed gently, “it’s about her?”

Spencer gave a shaky nod. “That line — ‘The girl who smiled with eyes so bright’ — that’s her.” His voice softened as if the memory itself had a heartbeat. “She always said…”

The room was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t tense — it was heavy.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer now. “Why would someone go after her?”

Spencer let out a long breath, reaching down to his bag. The zipper hissed as he pulled it open, his hand disappearing inside. When he brought it back up, he was holding a sleek black hard drive.

“What’s that?” Garcia asked, her curiosity tempered with concern.

Spencer stared at the device for a moment, as if gathering the strength to hand it over. “It’s…everything.” He slid it across the table to Garcia. “Every memory I have of her.”

Penelope’s fingers curled around the hard drive, her colorful nails stark against the black plastic. “Everything?” she repeated softly.

“I started keeping track after we lost touch,” Spencer admitted. “Photos, videos… voicemails.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to forget her. Not again.”

“Forget her?” Emily asked, her gaze narrowing.

Spencer looked down at his hands, his fingers tightly intertwined. “I met her when I was still a rookie with the Bureau,” he explained. “We… we kept things quiet. She wasn’t in law enforcement, and I didn’t want her to get caught up in what I was doing. But then…” He faltered. “There was a case — a stalker who fixated on me. He started following Y/N too.”

“Wait,” Morgan cut in, voice sharp. “You had a stalker back then?”

“I never told anyone,” Spencer said quickly. “We weren’t public. Nobody knew about us — except him.” His eyes flicked back to the hard drive. “I thought if I cut ties with her… if I made her think I didn’t care… she’d be safer.”

“You let her believe you didn’t love her?” JJ asked softly.

Spencer’s voice cracked. “I had to.”

“Did it work?” Rossi asked.

“For a while,” Spencer said quietly. “The stalker went dormant, and Y/N disappeared from my life.” His voice wavered. “I thought she was safe.”

Hotch leaned forward. “But now you think that same stalker is back?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer admitted. “But this letter… the way it’s written… it’s personal. Someone’s been watching me long enough to know about her. And if they know about her…” He trailed off, his chest tightening.

“We’ll find her,” JJ promised firmly.

“I just…” Spencer shook his head, his fingers curling into his palm. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I do,” Garcia said gently. “This?” She held up the hard drive. “This is a map — memories, places, dates. If someone’s been following her or tracking you, I’ll find the connection here. I think it’s best we all take a look.”

Spencer managed a faint smile, though his eyes were still troubled. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Spence,” JJ said softly. “What was she like?”

His expression softened, memories flickering behind his eyes. “She was… kind,” he said quietly. “And patient — God, she was patient with me.” He chuckled softly, just for a second. “She had this laugh — this really loud, almost embarrassing laugh — but I loved it.” His smile faded. “She made everything… brighter.”

“You loved her,” JJ said gently.

Spencer exhaled shakily. “I do.”

For the first time in years, he let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — she still loved him too.

The team gathered closer as Penelope carefully plugged the hard drive into her computer. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of her system booting up the device. Spencer’s fingers drummed anxiously against the table, his eyes locked on the screen as folders began to populate the display. Each folder was meticulously labeled.

“You really kept everything,” Derek murmured, her voice soft with surprise.

“I couldn’t let myself forget,” Spencer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Alright, sugar,” Penelope said carefully, scrolling to the Videos folder. “Where should I start?”

“Anywhere,” Spencer said tightly. “I just… I couldn’t pick…”

Penelope clicked on a file labeled “Bookstore - November 17” and the screen filled with a grainy but warm video.

The camera wobbled at first before settling. The angle suggested Spencer had set it on a nearby shelf. The room was dimly lit — a small, cozy bookstore with stacks of novels lining the walls.

You appeared in the frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor between two shelves, a book balanced on your knee.

“Spencer,” you called teasingly, barely glancing up from your page. “Are you filming me again?”

“You always read out loud when you think no one’s listening,” Spencer’s voice answered from behind the camera.

“That’s because I think no one’s listening,” you shot back with a laugh. “Now come sit down.”

The camera shook as Spencer joined you on the floor, his arm barely visible in the corner of the screen.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” you said proudly, tapping the book’s worn cover. “I wanted to understand what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

“You could’ve just asked me,” Spencer teased.

“Yeah,” you said with a grin, “but this way I get to imagine you in a ridiculous hat and smoking a pipe.”

You both laughed — warm and unguarded. The kind of laughter Spencer hadn’t let himself remember in a long time.

The video ended, and the room fell silent.

Spencer swallowed hard, his chest tight. “Play another,” he said softly.

Penelope clicked on a second file titled “Movie Night - March 3.”

This time, you were curled up on Spencer’s couch, clutching a blanket to your chest. Spencer’s voice, from behind the camera again, spoke up.

“It’s just a horror movie,” he teased.

“You say that like you’re not the one who jumped during the last scene,” you shot back, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I did not jump,” Spencer protested.

“Oh please,” you giggled, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. “You’re the genius — shouldn’t you know when a jump scare’s coming?”

The camera wobbled as Spencer sat beside you. “Maybe I just like the excuse to sit closer to you.”

The playful grin on your face softened. “You don’t need an excuse.”

The video faded to black.

“That’s adorable,” Garcia whispered, her voice unusually soft.

“Play one more,” Spencer said, his voice tight. “Please.”

Penelope hesitated before opening the folder marked “Voicemails.” The file names were organized by date, and Penelope scrolled down until she found one titled “Last Voicemail.”

“Spence…” JJ said quietly.

“I need to hear it,” Spencer insisted.

Penelope clicked play.

“Hey, Spence!” Your voice burst through the speakers, light and full of energy. “I know you’re probably knee-deep in some criminal mastermind’s twisted head right now, but I just wanted to say I miss you. Oh, and…”

There was a pause, followed by muffled shuffling.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready!” Your voice returned, playful now. “I have something important to tell you…”

Another voice — Spencer’s voice — cut in faintly from the background.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Recording your new voicemail greeting, obviously,” you teased. “Come on, it’ll make you smile when you check your messages.”

There was more muffled laughter, then you continued in your most dramatic voice:

“Hello! You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s probably off being a genius right now, so please leave a message — and don’t forget to ask about statistics, he loves that.”

“I do not love that,” Spencer’s voice mumbled in the background.

You burst out laughing. “Okay, love you, nerd. Call me back.”

The voicemail ended with a beep.

Spencer pressed his hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the screen. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. The warmth of your voice — your laugh — it felt so close yet impossibly far away.

“You still have her number?” Morgan asked softly.

Spencer blinked, his hand slowly lowering. “I… yeah.”

“Try calling her,” JJ encouraged.

Spencer hesitated, but then slowly reached for his phone. His fingers hovered over the contact button — Y/N — for a moment before he pressed Call.

The room was so quiet you could hear the faint buzzing as the line rang once… twice…

Then came your voice — that same playful greeting that spilled from the speakers moments before:

“Hello! You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s probably off being a genius right now, so please leave a message — and don’t forget to ask about his statistics, he loves that…”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I do not love that,” his own voice muttered faintly from the recording.

“Okay, love you, nerd. Call me back.”

The voicemail beeped. Spencer just sat there, phone still pressed to his ear. His voice shook when he finally spoke.

“Y/N… it’s me.” His voice cracked. “If… if you get this, please — please call me back. I just need to know you’re safe.”

He ended the call and set his phone down, his fingers trembling.

“We’ll find her,” JJ promised again, her hand squeezing his arm.

Spencer didn’t look up. His gaze remained locked on the screen, still frozen on your face — smiling, warm, and so painfully alive.

“The invitation… it looks like a wedding invitation…” Emily mused, holding it to the light.

“Yeah or a funeral if we don’t hurry. Wheels up in 10.” Hotch announced, walking out quickly.

The BAU’s jet cruised steadily through the sky, but Spencer couldn’t seem to sit still. He shifted in his seat, eyes flickering from the case file on the table to the phone resting in his lap — still silent. The unanswered call gnawed at him.

Across from him, Rossi watched quietly, fingers curled around his coffee mug. Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied Spencer.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Derek said finally, breaking the silence.

“What thing?” Spencer asked distractedly, still glancing at his phone.

“That thing where you’re in your head so deep you might as well start charging rent,” Derek teased, but his tone was softer than usual.

Spencer sighed and set his phone down. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admitted.

“Good,” Rossi said simply, setting his mug down with a quiet clink.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Derek chimed in. “If this guy’s targeting her, we need to know everything about her — who she is, what she cares about, what makes her stand out. That’s how we build the profile.”

“I know,” Spencer murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of the file. “It’s just… I don’t know what’s relevant.”

“Then start from the beginning,” Rossi encouraged. “Tell us about her.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, unsure where to start. But once the memories began to surface, they spilled out like water breaking through a dam.

“She’s… different from me,” Spencer said softly. “Where I overthink everything, she’s spontaneous. She’s the type of person who’ll pull over just because she spotted a cute bakery and decided we had to try it.” He smiled faintly. “She doesn’t need a reason to be happy — she just… is.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty taken with her,” Derek said with a knowing grin.

Spencer’s smile widened. “I was — I mean… I still am.”

He glanced down at his phone again, hoping for a missed call, a message — anything.

“She loves color,” Spencer continued, his voice softer now. “Her whole apartment had these soft pastel accents — blankets, mugs, flowers… all delicate and warm. She always wore perfume that smelled like vanilla. You could walk in and just know you were in her space.”

Derek chuckled. “I can’t picture you in a pink room.”

Spencer’s smile turned wistful. “It didn’t matter. Anywhere was fine with her.”

“She sounds like she grounded you,” Rossi said.

“She did,” Spencer nodded. “And… she has this dream — one that always seemed so simple, but it meant everything to her.” He paused. “She wanted this little white house — nothing fancy, just something cozy — with a white picket fence and a big backyard. She wanted dogs — at least two, maybe three.” He chuckled softly. “She even had names picked out.”

Rossi smiled. “A dreamer.”

“She’s always been like that,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but warm. “She believed in fairytales — the real kind, where everything works out in the end.”

“You think she’d still go for that?” Derek asked. “The house, the dogs?”

“I know she would,” Spencer said with certainty. “Even when things were hard, she never stopped believing in that life — in finding comfort and love wherever she could.”

“Did she have a favorite place?” Rossi asked. “Somewhere she’d feel safe?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, his brow furrowing in thought. “She loved this café — Mason’s Corner. She used to sit in the back corner with her headphones on, sipping iced coffee and writing in her journal. She’d lose track of time there.”

“Sounds like someone who chases the simple things,” Rossi noted.

“She does,” Spencer said softly. “She doesn’t need much to be happy — just a good book, an iced coffee, and somewhere quiet to think.”

Derek’s expression softened. “That’s what makes her special, man — that’s the stuff that sticks out. Whoever’s watching her isn’t just targeting her because of you… they know her. The way she thinks, what she wants. Everything you just told us — that’s what’s going to help us find her.”

Spencer looked down at his phone again, the screen still dark.

“I just hope she still believes in happy endings,” he whispered.

1K notes · View notes

cutehoons02 · 2 months ago

Text

Truth or Dare is a dangerous game

Harry Potter series

*pairing: pervy popolar gryffindor Heeseung x shy ravenclaw Girl

*trope: grumpy girl x sunshine boy

*synopsis: In a hidden corner of Hogwarts, amidst laughter and tension, the shy and cynical Y/n, a brilliant Ravenclaw, finds herself trapped in a dangerous and seductive game. A chance encounter with Heeseung, the charismatic captain of Gryffindor’s Quiddich, would trigger a series of events that will involve her in a network of seduction and mystery. It all begins during an evening of "Magic Truth and Obligation", when Y/n, to avoid the humiliation of refusing an obligation, ends up being forced to spend ten minutes in a room with Heeseung, Despite her armor of cynicism and coldness, Y/n is irresistibly attracted to him, discovering new sides of herself that she never thought she would know and maybe those 10 minutes will last for hours…

*tags: A lot of tension, Hee is a bit of a clown and loves to tease you and make fun of you, you have had a crush on him for years, magic "truth and obligation" game, lots of kisses, pacifiers, dirty words, fake innocent girl, needy hee, needy girl, unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) fingering, male masturbation, small discussion and statement +18

9.7k (🫂)

(English is not my native language)

The familiar scent of aged parchment, ink, and slightly burnt potions lingered in the library air. You were seated at your usual spot — second floor, third column on the left — hunched over a yellowed scroll, your brows furrowed as you tried to grasp the secondary reaction of burlap essence with Veritaserum.

In front of you sat Sunghoon, Ravenclaw's leader and your friend since day one, meticulously underlining formulas with almost obsessive precision.

Sunghoon was cold with the world, yes, but with you, he'd always had a warm heart — though buried deep beneath layers of sarcasm and sharp retorts. He'd softened around the edges ever since he started dating T/L, the temperamental Slytherin with the charm of a scalpel, but really, he’d just become less awkward. His affection for you remained untouched, loyal, quiet but constant — like a protective charm humming in the background.

More than three hours had passed. Your eyes burned, and the silence was almost comforting… until the walking disaster with a broom on his shoulder made his grand entrance.

A murmur among the shelves. A thud. An explosion of Quidditch bags, flying scrolls, and a voice far too familiar.

-For Morgana’s sake, Heeseung! Are you a Captain or a drunk Muggle?-

snapped Sunghoon, jolting upright, goose feathers scattered across the table.

“Hoonie, relax. That was all calculated,” laughed Lee Heeseung, emerging from behind the shelves like he’d just walked off a battlefield.

Heeseung was a sight in crimson, gold, and black robes, hair tousled by the wind, hands still dusty from the broom. His golden eyes locked onto Hoon with a mischievous gleam.

“Just wanted to make sure you still remembered how to feel once in a while.”

He winked.

-Yeah? I’m feeling the urge to strangle you right now,-

Hoon shot back, though the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed his fondness.

Their exchange was so natural it briefly swept you away… until Heeseung’s gaze landed on you.

And then it happened — like it always did.

His eyes curved into that signature golden crescent, and a grin unfurled across his face like a cursed charm.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my Queen of Rules.”

The nickname was his. Annoyingly affectionate. He always said it in that tone that made you want to hit him with a permanent Silencing Charm.

You rolled your eyes in response, feigning indifference.

But inside? Inside, you were a mess of misfired potions.

Lee Heeseung had been your crush for years. Since before he became Gryffindor Captain, before he learned to smile so recklessly, before you realized how impossible it was to be near him without wanting to touch him.

And now he was standing right there, in front of your table, with that damn smile and that spark in his eyes.

“Lost, or just here to learn how to live a little?”

he said, leaning on the table casually, way too close for your nerves.

And as always, you looked for the quickest way out. Too bad that, deep down, you always stayed.

You didn’t reply. Instead, you shot a pleading glance at Sunghoon, begging him silently to intervene.

But he… chuckled, utterly merciless, and returned to his parchment-like nothing had happened.

Traitor.

Heeseung, of course, took your hesitation as an unspoken invitation. He grabbed a spare chair, dragged it up next to yours with that “anywhere I stand is mine” attitude, and sat down so close your arm brushed his.

You slowly turned to face him, your eyes quietly scanning his face.

Red hair, though you could see the dark roots peeking through — as if the dye itself was losing patience. His eyes, deer-like and warm brown, always looked like they were about to laugh at something only he understood.

His nose, marked by a slight bump — a proud souvenir from a Quidditch clash — gave his rogue-ish face a bit of edge and his lips�� Merlin, his lips were made to be kissed.

They’d kissed too many girls, in your opinion — not that you knew for sure, but you’d heard him laugh too many times with someone in the corridor outside the dorms.

Under his carelessly worn robes, his shoulders were broad and his chest solid. When he leaned on his knees to talk to you, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over his arms with lazy confidence.

He was magical but looked more like he’d stepped out of a Muggle magazine: rolled-up jeans, a chain around his neck, sleeves pushed up.

And that damn confidence.

“Why are you so close?” you finally asked, your tone neutral but edged. “There’s plenty of empty seats.”

He leaned in even closer. His face was now just inches from yours.

He closed his eyes for a second, and inhaled slowly—dramatically.

“Vanilla… honey… cookie?”

You froze.

Not only was that your scent, but he knew about your obsession with Madam Cookies’ sweets. It was a weakness you tried to hide—one he had just used as a weapon.

“If you don’t like my perfume, you’re free to leave,” you shot back, not breaking eye contact.

Heeseung clutched his chest like you’d wounded him.

“Right in the heart. You can’t be this cruel to me, Your Highness.”

You rolled your eyes again. That nickname got on your nerves.

And yet… deep down, it made you smile. Though you’d never admit it—not to him.

“Hoon… how do you even tolerate him?” you asked, eyes still locked on that shameless grin.

-It was a childhood spell gone wrong. Like a blood bond, but worse,-

Sunghoon replied flatly, not even looking up as he kept writing.

“Love you too, buddy,” Hee murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder—for just a second too long.

You pulled away, heart pounding. And then, as if nothing had happened, came the real trap question.

“Hey… this Saturday. Are you free?” You eyed him suspiciously.

“Is that a trick question?” He laughed—that laugh. The deep one that made your insides hum, even when you didn’t want them to.

“Nope. I just wanna see you live a little without a wand stuck up your ass, that’s all.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Wow. How romantic.”

“I’m serious. There’s the secret Prefects’ party. I convinced Hoon to come—though I’m probably gonna have to spike his pumpkin juice to get him to dance.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes and grunted something like,

-I’ve never been drunk enough to find one of your plans appealing.-

“Come on, Y/n,” Heeseung pushed, that spark in his eyes lighting up again,

“You owe me at least one night of trying not to hate me.”

You looked at Sunghoon with a questioning expression, almost hoping for a last-minute escape route.

-I’m going with T/L,- he said calmly. -You can come with us. L/T, Heeseung’s sister, will probably be there too… You’ll get along.-

You nodded, trying to mask the quickening rhythm of your heart—and right then, Heeseung leaned in toward you.

Once again, he invaded your personal space. No permission. As always.

“So… is that a yes?”

His eyes sparkled, his voice low, amused, but sharply attentive.

You clenched your hands beneath your skirt to steady the trembling.

“I’ll be there.”

The grin that spread across his face promised absolutely nothing good.

That Ravenclaw’s too good at hiding. But I’ve seen her. The way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. The way she bites her lip when I get close...

She’s not just shy. She’s sharp. A weapon wrapped in velvet. And I want to be the one who opens her.

Saturday. That party. She won’t run. And if she does... I’ll chase her. Heeseung thought.

Three days later, you were in your room—your bed a war zone of rejected outfits and runaway socks. You stared at your wardrobe like it was supposed to give you an answer.

Then, a sharp knock on the window. An owl. You immediately recognized the elegant handwriting: L/T Lee.

You opened the letter with a curious smile. Inside, along with the message, was a moving photo.

L/T striking a pose: a tiny black skirt (and it was literally freezing outside), no tights, a skin-tight top showing off every curve, and makeup that basically screamed look at me—or regret it forever.

"I knew you'd be coming too! Send me your outfit, I wanna see! Can't wait to spend the night with you."

Signed with a floating little heart.

You smiled, cheeks a little flushed, and snapped a mirror selfie.

Black skirt, but with sheer black tights—for dignity and survival. A soft, slightly fitted gray sweater embroidered with a tiny blue raven over the heart. Hair down, sleek, flawless. Makeup? Light. But anyone who looked closely would see the work behind it.

Seconds later, L/T replied:

"Babe, you look adorable. But trust me—after tonight, you won’t just be ‘adorable’ anymore. Get ready."

You’d been frozen in front of the mirror for ten minutes. Your lower lip suffering under your teeth, your mind full of scenes you didn’t want to imagine… but did anyway.

“It’s just a party… right? Just a party.”

Then—someone knocked.

You opened the door to find Sunghoon, dressed to perfection, letting out a soft whistle like you were a freshly brewed potion.

-Wow, Y/n. Gryffindor’s not ready for this.-

You gave a shy, embarrassed smile. But it was nothing compared to what happened next.

T/L appeared behind him. The Slytherin girl gave you a head-to-toe scan with those sharp, flawless eyes, then crossed her arms.

'And who exactly are you trying to impress, little Raven?'

You lowered your gaze. “No one.”

But Hoon chuckled.

“Mmmh… I’d say a certain redhead who plays Quidditch and calls you ‘Your Highness.’”

T/L turned to you with a wicked little smirk.

'Oh. Heeseung Lee, huh?'

You didn’t answer. What was the point?

'Come here,' T/L said firmly, pulling you gently by the arm. 'I’ve got you. Just a little more lipstick… a touch of mystery… and we’ll see if that Gryffindor can keep his distance. Just a dab on the lips, trust me…'

T/L was chasing you around with a bordeaux lip pencil in hand, and your expression screamed Golden Snitch on the run.

“I told you no. And if you put that red lipstick on me, I swear I’ll disapparate.”

The Slytherin rolled her eyes dramatically, but finally settled for the bordeaux—it brought out the color of your lips in a subtle, elegant way. Sensual, but not too loud. The result still made you feel… different. Bolder. More like a woman.

You all rushed down the stairs together, racing through corridors still glowing with floating torches. When Hoon raised a hand to shush you, your heart skipped a beat. There were professors just around the corner.

But with a snap of his fingers, Sunghoon’s invisibility spell wrapped around you like a cloak.

“Thanks, Hoon. I really didn’t feel like polishing Snape’s cauldrons tonight…”

After ten minutes of tunnels, hidden staircases, and whispering wall-passages, you finally made it to the catacombs under the school. There, the stone walls opened into an enchanted hall bathed in floating lights—amethyst and green. The music was loud, and the air pulsed with magic, sweat, and adrenaline.

Witches and wizards were everywhere: Drinking from enchanted goblets that changed flavor with every sip. Casting light and illusion spells that sparkled in midair. Dancing like tomorrow didn’t exist.

You stuck close to T/L, trying not to be swallowed by the chaos, but of course she nudged you with her elbow.

'You look so cute… but I’m waiting for the moment he sees you.'

“Who?” you asked, feigning innocence, scanning the room.

'Don’t play dumb… him. Your Quidditch boy.'

You stepped into a smaller lounge space, separated from the main room by a golden curtain. Inside were Jay, Jake, Sunoo, Jungwon, Niki—all sprawled across floating sofas, drifting incense, and bottles of magical liquor that changed color with every laugh.

And then, of course… Heeseung.

He was leaned back on a dark couch, talking to a Slytherin girl—sleek hair, feline eyes, legs that went on forever—and you immediately looked away. A sharp sting of jealousy twisted in your stomach.

Pathetic. He’s not yours.

Before you could even look for a wall to melt into, a familiar, high-pitched voice cut through the music:

<Y/N!!>

L/T Lee, Heeseung’s sister, came flying toward you and threw her arms around your neck.

<MERLIN, look at you! Did you come here to hex him or seduce him?!>

She gave your hips a playful smack, a mischievous grin on her face.

T/L giggled from where she was leaning on Hoon, and in that moment—right as his sister said your name—Heeseung looked up.

At first, it was just to follow the voice. But then… He saw you.

And he nearly choked on his drink.

Oh. My. Bloody. Merlin. Is that her? That’s Y/n? What the hell is she wearing?!

Black tights. Short skirt. That sweater clings to her chest like it was made to torture me. And the lipstick—bloody hell, her lips are tinted too.

I shouldn’t stare. But I can’t not stare. If she looks at me right now, I swear to—

The Slytherin girl next to him said something, but Heeseung didn’t even hear it. His eyes were locked on you, as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, legs crossed in that shy way of yours. Adorable enough to drive me mad. Hot enough to make me lose my damn mind, he thought, licking his lower lip.

With Heeseung’s sister at your side, you walked up to the floating bar—bottles drifting midair, pouring themselves into glasses, mixing magical drinks that shifted color and taste depending on the drinker’s mood.

<Listen, Queenie… you might wanna loosen up. It’s gonna be a long night.>

L/T handed you a clear glass with a pale pink liquid that shimmered ever so slightly. You muttered something like, “I don’t drink things that sparkle,” but took a small sip anyway.

It tasted like peach, spice… and impending trouble.

Then it happened—cheers, whistles, a loud roar from the crowd. You turned around sharply.

Jake, the most unhinged of the Gryffindors, was standing wobbly on a table with his arms spread wide, shouting:

“Everyone sit! Circle up! Magical Truth or Dare—no excuses!”

You looked around for Sunghoon, but he was already plopping down with a smirk that said he was thriving in the chaos. You shot him a death glare.

L/T grabbed your elbow excitedly and tugged you down next to her, plopping herself into the circle with a satisfied grin. Then she rested her head on your shoulder.

And you thought: The Lees. Always touching. Always in your space. Always... so much.

But for once, you didn’t push her away.

Jake made a golden bottle float to the center of the circle—it crackled softly with electric sparks—and he cleared his throat with dramatic flair before announcing:

✨ 𝑹𝑼𝑳𝑬𝑺 𝑶𝑭 “𝑴𝑨𝑮𝑰𝑪𝑨𝑳 𝑻𝑹𝑼𝑻𝑯 𝑶𝑹 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑬” ✨

Whoever spins the bottle can’t skip the next round. If you hesitate, the bottle will flick you on the forehead. (Yes, it hurts.)

If you choose Truth, a revelation charm will track your heartbeat and emotions. If you lie, you’ll be sprayed with a reeking potion in front of everyone.

If you choose Dare, the task will be magically bound. You have to do it. Or else, your wand will quack like a duck every time you cast a spell—for 24 hours.

Every three rounds, the bottle triggers a "Spicy Strike": an extra bold truth or dare, chosen by the previous player.

Touching the bottle with your hands is forbidden. Magic or your tongue only. (Yes, you read that right.)

A wave of gasps and scandalous laughter swept the room—especially at the last rule.

“Jake, you’re sick!” Sunoo laughed.

“Did you come up with this or was it Fred and George Weasley?” Niki asked, swirling his drink.

Jake just shrugged, grinning proudly. “I perfected it. With a sexy twist.”

Then he gave the bottle a flick of his wand.

It spun. And spun. And spun... Until it stopped.

Right in front of his cousin—a red-faced Gryffindor, stunning but pissed.

“Truth or Dare, cousin dearest?” Jake asked, wearing his usual devilish smirk.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Not one of the options,” Jake laughed.

The whole circle erupted with laughter.

And as the night kicked off—filled with teasing, giggles, and glances hotter than firewhisky—you were already looking for an escape route.

You felt exposed. Out of your comfort zone. Too much. And yet, deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before the bottle pointed at you.

And you knew exactly who was silently wishing for that to happen.

Lee Heeseung.

And his gaze was already on you—like a promise you didn’t want to keep... And Merlin, how badly you wanted to.

The bottle had already done its show. Five spins. Five laughs. Five tiny disasters.

The last Spicy Strike had landed on Jay, forcing him—by magical dare—to kiss Jake’s cousin on the cheek… and then bite her ear while whispering a line that only a charming bastard would dare say.

Too bad Jake’s cousin was a Gryffindor. And Jay? A Slytherin. Explosive combo.

And the line?

“You’re the perfect distraction from my next disaster.” Then he winked.

Screams. Whistles. A drink spilled. The scent of chaos in the air.

Now, it was Hoon’s girlfriend’s turn—Slytherin queen, eyeliner sharp as a blade, tongue even sharper. The bottle spun and stopped right in front of you.

The room exploded in cheers and giggles. Jungwon raised his hands and said:

“Hey, be gentle, yeah? Our little Ravenclaw’s delicate.” (He said it playfully, but his gaze was protective.)

Sunghoon whispered something to his girlfriend, likely shielding you, and she rolled her eyes before glancing your way. Then—she looked at Heeseung.

He was already toying with the rim of his glass, eyes peering over the edge, that damn smirk of his screaming “I know you're screwed… and I like it.”

'Little Raven,' she purred, voice smooth like velvet but laced with menace, 'It’s your turn. Spicy Strike! Dare... or extra spicy Truth?'

You stiffened. Everyone was staring. You dropped your gaze.

“...Extra spicy Truth,” you muttered—more to yourself than anyone else.

She smiled like a cat staring at a trapped mouse.

'Good. Then tell me…' She let the silence build, everyone leaning in. The lights were low. The candle flames flickered.

'Have you ever... fantasized about someone while touching yourself? And if so… whose name did you moan while your fingers were buried between your thighs, teasing your clit?'

Silence. Deafening.

Your cheeks erupted in heat. Your eyes widened. You could not answer that.

“I… no… I mean, I don’t want to answer…”

-Oh come on!- Jake laughed. -That’s a tame one! The punishment’s worse if you lie!-

Tame? Sure, maybe for him. But for you? It was nuclear.

And the punishment? You didn’t even want to know. Jake might have puppy energy, but deep down he was a demon dressed like Prince Charming.

'Come on, Raven girl,' Sunghoon’s girlfriend murmured, leaning in close, 'You don’t want to unleash the Quacking Wand…'

A chill ran down your spine. You clenched your lips—then, in the smallest voice, as if whispering could somehow make it less real, you breathed:

“...Heeseung.” One beat of silence. Then— Screams. Whistles. Applause. Someone spit out their drink.

Heeseung’s sister shrieked,

<I knew it!> Hoon’s girlfriend was laughing so hard she was folded over.

Jungwon gave you a look—half amused, half shook. Sunghoon covered his mouth, stunned that you’d not only said heeseung name... but that you even survived a magical truth round.

But you? You didn’t see any of them anymore.

Only him.

The game continued. The bottle spun. Laughter, awkward moments, some suggestive jokes, and then, once again, Jake made it spin—but this time, he muttered a spell under his breath. The bottle gleamed for a split second—just enough to be noticed—and stopped on Heeseung. 'Dare or Truth, big brother?' Jake asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. Heeseung smiled, relaxed, confident. “Truth? You already know them all. Dare.” Jake slowly turned towards you, then back at Heeseung with a wicked grin. 'Tell everyone… who’s the most beautiful girl at the party, and who would you spend ten minutes with in the Room of Dark Desires.' An explosion of noise. Whistles. Someone yelled “HOT!” and a bottle spilled. The atmosphere shifted instantly. You? You didn’t even look at him. You avoided him as if your gaze might summon him, but deep down… deep inside your heart, it rang out like a damn battle.

One part of you wanted to run away. The other screamed: Choose me. Choose me. But what if he said someone else’s name? Your heart would shatter. Jealousy. Anger. Humiliation. Heeseung looked up at Jake. “Are you kidding me?” Jake shrugged, satisfied. 'I’m serious. It’s the rule. No shortcuts, Captain.' Heeseung sighed, running a hand through his red hair, making it messier. He looked around. Everyone was staring, then his eyes locked onto yours, slow and deliberate.

“The most beautiful?” He turned fully towards you. He studied you, from the edge of your black skirt, to the stockings, to the raven embroidered on your sweater. Then his eyes—those eyes that couldn’t tear themselves away from yours. “Her.” His voice was clear. Firm. “The Ravenclaw with the iceberg look… and fire under her skin.” You... stopped breathing, and Jake whistled. The girls screamed. Heeseung’s sister turned towards you with wide eyes and a grin that said “I knew it!” But he wasn’t finished. He leaned back, relaxed, and with a grin that made your knees tremble, he added: “And who would I spend ten minutes with in the Room of Desires?” He paused, then licked his lips just enough to be noticed, never taking his eyes off you. “With her. Always her.”

Silence. Then chaos. But you… you were frozen. Hands gripping your knees. Heart pounding against your ribs. Eyes glued to his. Heeseung wasn’t joking. You could tell by the way he didn’t laugh anymore. He wasn’t teasing. He was looking at you like he’d already decided that tonight, you’d be his.

Heeseung slowly rose from the couch, his empty glass left abandoned on the table as if it no longer mattered. He approached you, his steps slow and sure, seeming to echo louder than the screams around you. When he was right in front of you, he extended his hand. Two silver rings, one on his index and one on his middle finger. His skin was warmer than yours, rougher. His hand was large. Definitely too large for yours.

You glanced at his sister, who winked at you. Sunghoon gave a thumbs-up. T/l blew you a kiss with a mischievous little witchy grin. You gripped Heeseung’s hand, and he chuckled softly. “Oh. So the cold Ravenclaw knows how to hold hands…”

You walked towards the door, and as you passed Jake, you shot him a death glare. “Ten minutes. Not one more.” Jake made the promise sign with his fingers, but as soon as you turned around, he shared a knowing glance with the others. 'What about... the whole night?' He said quietly, but not too quietly. Sunghoon: “No. No, Jake. Come on.” Jungwon: “Are you guys insane?” Heeseung’s sister: “Do it, they need it. Trust me.” T/l: “It’s the only way to stop being shy and, you know, get to know each other.”

Voices overlapped, laughter, shouts. Jake raised his wand, murmured an ancient spell, and a magical timer appeared on the door: "10 HOURS" The door clicked shut, and neither of you heard a thing.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was different. Dim, almost red light, floating candles, and a faint Muggle jazz tune playing in the background. In the center… an enormous bed, with black and gold sheets. Heeseung was already sitting on the edge, legs spread apart, one hand propping him up. His eyes were on you, and he wasn’t sparing you a single thing. You stood frozen in front of the door, back rigid, hands clenched into fists inside your skirt, eyes cast down. You muttered something between your teeth, more to yourself than to him: “Why the hell did I agree... idiot, idiot…”

Heeseung chuckled, tilting his head to the side. “Did you just call yourself an idiot or me?” His tone was playful, but beneath it, there was that low note, the kind of voice that seeps into your bones.

You looked up to scorch him with a glare. He was staring at you. His gaze was like a caress you hadn’t asked for... but you desperately wanted. “Look, if you’re regretting it, we can just talk…” He smiled. Slowly. Bastard. Beautiful. “Or… we can make these ten minutes interesting. You know… not to waste time, or…” He stood up and after a couple of steps, his hand brushed lightly against the fabric of your sweater. “You were just waiting for this.”

You raised your eyes, meeting his with an expression somewhere between anger and frustration. You responded, sharply: “I only agreed because I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone. Not that you’d be capable of understanding…”

Heeseung leaned in slightly towards you, his warm breath grazing your skin as he whispered, with a smile that promised nothing good: “You’re lying badly, Ravenclaw. For someone who’s one of the most talented witches of the new generation, you sure seem… inexperienced.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but you had no intention of showing him how deeply his words affected you. But he didn’t stop. He sniffed the air around you, his gaze becoming more penetrating. “You know…” he said, his tone almost affectionate, but laced with a certain cruelty, “I bought the same perfume as you, the one you wore the day I saw you at the Prefects' pool. I’ll never forget that moment.”

Your eyes widened, but you couldn’t say anything, only a quiet murmur barely escaping your lips. “Don’t say anything, Ravenclaw. I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong…” He smiled a triumphant smile.

“Even though I wear the same perfume, it’s never the same when it comes from your skin…” Before you could react, Heeseung caught you off guard. He moved slowly towards your neck, and with a small kiss, a gesture as sweet as it was dangerous, his tongue slid along your skin in a subtly erotic movement. A muffled moan escaped you when you felt his warm skin enveloping you. You felt fragile, and your mind was beginning to falter. You clenched your hands beneath your skirt, but it wasn’t enough. Every part of you was in turmoil.

“You can’t run from me, Ravenclaw…” he said, his voice holding no room for escape, as his hands moved closer to you. He took your small hands and placed them against his chest. His heartbeat was racing, and you could feel it through the fabric. He made you feel how alive he was, how his presence was overwhelming you. Every inch of him was invading your space. Another kiss, deeper, more insistent, and then, while his breath brushed against you, his mouth lowered to your neck, leaving small hickeys that made you tremble. You could feel his heat against you, every movement, every gesture, as if he was playing with you. Every word he whispered, every touch, felt like a challenge.

“Say my name,” he told you, his voice lower, darker, as his hands began to slide down your body. When you finally moaned, in a whisper, his name escaped your lips: “Hee…” A triumphant smile spread across his face as he degraded you sweetly: “You’re so easy to confuse, Ravenclaw. It’s almost… fun.”

His words were like a whip strike, but also like a warm embrace, putting you in a dilemma. You didn’t know what to do anymore.

Your hands were still resting on his chest, warm beneath the light fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat was strong, urgent, almost unsettling in its sincerity. Heeseung’s gaze was low, fixed on your lips, then slowly traveled up to your eyes, his pupils slightly dilated. “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Ravenclaw?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his lips barely brushing your skin. “You always act so composed, so superior to everything. But underneath those tight sweaters and those sharp responses… you’re just a girl who needs to be seen, touched… kissed.” You felt your heart pounding in your chest. You’d never been good at handling moments like this. Strong emotions made you uncomfortable, and with him… with him, it was even worse. “You have a terrible imagination, Lee Heeseung,” you muttered, trying to hide the tremor in your voice. But your hand was still on his chest. Still there. He chuckled low, amused. “If only you knew how many wrong thoughts I have about you when I see you walking down the hallways in those knee-high boots with that ‘don’t touch me’ look. You’re so prim and proper… but under that armor, baby, you’re almost trembling.” He took you by the waist with disarming gentleness, and slowly his fingers slid under the edge of your sweater. His hands were warm against your cold skin, and you jumped slightly at the touch. “Cold,” he whispered, smiling. “Let me take care of you… I’ll warm you up tonight.” “Merlin, you’re awful.” You shot him a mock annoyed glance, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. “Aweful? No, Ravenclaw. I’m exactly what you’ve been wanting for months. And you know it.” His voice lowered, almost a sweet growl, and he brushed his lips against your neck. A kiss. Then another. A hickey. A slow lick. “You always smell like vanilla, honey, and cookies…” he murmured against your skin. “And I still remember the first time I saw you in the Prefects’ pool.” Your breathing became more irregular. You felt your heart galloping. His hands were large, confident, warm. His presence was overwhelming, almost consuming. Then, without another word, he kissed you.

It was a slow, carnal kiss, almost reverent at first. His lips moved on yours as if savoring a sweet he’d long desired. But then it grew more intense. Deeper. He took your bottom lip between his teeth and gently bit down, and you moaned his name. A whisper. A plea. “Hee…”

He smiled against your lips. “I knew you called me that when you thought about me. It’s so cute… so damn sexy coming from your shy little mouth.”

One of his hands slipped between your back and your clothes, holding you gently. The other slid up your side, as if trying to memorize every inch of your skin. “You know,” he murmured in your ear, “I can’t even look at you anymore without imagining how you’d react if I pinned you against a wall and whispered all the things I want to do to you… and only you.”

“Heeseung…” you faltered. Your voice was weak, your mind in chaos.

“Just tell me one thing,” he cut in. “Do you want me to stop?”

A tense silence. Your breath was uneven. Your hands still rested on his chest. Then, in a soft voice, your gaze low but firm, you whispered: “No… but only if you promise to be gentle.”

Heeseung smiled—one of those smiles that was both victorious and tender. “With you? Always. But don’t expect me to resist you for long, my little Ravenclaw.”

The only sound was your shared breathing—heavy, tangled with your quickened heartbeats. Your fingers were still laced behind Heeseung’s neck, his eyes low, lips flushed and slightly swollen. He looked down at you, legs spread, his gaze clouded with raw desire, but there was something deeper too—like he was studying every reaction you made.

“I saw you tremble when I kissed you there,” he whispered, brushing your neck with his nose, then his lips. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this, little Ravenclaw… your body speaks a lot louder than that sharp tongue of yours.”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely audible. “Heeseung… it was only supposed to be ten minutes…”

He chuckled, his voice scraping low and rough. “And who cares about ten minutes?” he said, voice husky. “I want you all night.”

He lifted you effortlessly and settled you on his muscular thighs. Instinctively, you tried to slide off, embarrassed—but his hand, the one with the rings, firmly stopped you at your waist. “Don’t even think about running,” he murmured, pushing you forward just slightly, letting you feel all the tension beneath you. “Stay right here, Ravenclaw… you’re too cute when you’re flustered.”

His fingers slid under the hem of your skirt, grazing the fabric of your stockings. You shivered, eyes wide, hands trembling on his shoulders.

“H-Hee… I…”

“Shhh,” he hushed you with a soft kiss on your cheek—a gesture far more chaste than the fire in his hands. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you since that day in the Prefects’ pool? You were wearing that damn midnight blue swimsuit… and I could only think of you. You, and how much I wanted you to be mine. No excuses. No fake teasing. Just you and me.”

Your body started moving on its own, pulled by the tangled mess of curiosity and desire that Heeseung had always made you feel.

“I don’t know what I’m doing…” you murmured against his shoulder.

He took your face gently between his hands, thumbs brushing your flushed cheekbones. “I know,” he whispered. “But don’t worry. Let me take care of it.”

Heeseung took the sweater in his hands, touching the texture with his fingers. He pulled him slowly upwards, without taking his eyes off you. You lowered your eyes to his hands. They were big, warm, slightly calloused. Hands that knew exactly what they wanted you nodded. Silent, but full of consent. He smiled. “You're a good girl.” “I am...” you whispered, in a low voice, as you raised your arms to let your sweater slip off. When the cloth fell to the floor, Heeseung stood motionless for a moment. Underneath, you were wearing a dark blue bra, with white lace details. Elegant, simple. But on you ... it was pure curse.

” Christ, " he said quietly, almost with adoration. He stroked your bare side, climbing slowly. " You really are a stylish little corvette, huh?” Then he added in a softer tone. " Perfect. So perfect.” Your breasts moved slightly with each breath. A little uncovered, pushed forward, the white lace highlighted the softness of the skin. Heeseung leaned over. He kissed you one bend, then the other. And then she gently sucked you a breast flap, leaving a wet kiss on the hot skin. Her red hair tickled her skin and you laughed quietly, surprised, touching the back of his head with your fingers. “You tickle me yourself, " you whispered, blushing. He looked up, his dark eyes shining. “Don't look away. Watch me adore you.”

A slow kiss, then another, the lips closing around the softness of your breasts, moist, firm, you bite off a lip so as not to moan too loudly. I looked away, instinctively. Heeseung immediately noticed her.

“Hey.” He took your face with one hand, gently forcing her to go back and look at it. “Don't be ashamed. You are very beautiful and mine” he kissed your exposed skin, then pulled back slightly, lowering his gaze to the center of his chest. "But now” Hands already on the bra hook. “Now I want to see you all. With nothing. Just you. Just me. And the way you tremble under my hands.” The click of the bra opening seemed to ring out in the room like a forbidden spell. Heeseung slid it slowly down from your shoulders, and when the tissue fell to the ground, your breasts bounced slightly, free, swollen, tense under the repressed desire.

He bit his lip and giggled quietly, with that bloody arrogant Gryffindor smile. "Shit ... look at that beauty. Do you have any idea how much I imagined you like that?” you were red to the ears, you lured him, hands in his messy red hair, and he immediately sank his mouth to one of his nipples, sucking slow, deep.

His tongue played with the outstretched bud while his other hand slipped under the skirt, barely touching the elastic of the black stockings you were wearing, invisible to everyone ... except her attentive eyes. "These stockings ..." he whispered against the skin, — “they are another fucking provocation, you know?” The fingers began to move lower, touching the thin fabric of your underwear, passing over the clitoris with firm but slow movements, as if he knew exactly where to hit you to drive you crazy. “So wet for me... and I thought you were all books and sarcasm. You're the dirtiest Ravenclaw I've ever touched.”

"H-Heeseung..." you groaned, the body shaking under his hands. Your mind still struggled between lucidity and abandonment, between cynical rationality and that desire that you could no longer deny but when you felt the nipple pulled between your teeth, slowly but forcefully enough to make your back vibrate, you screamed its name.

"Seungie!” He laughed, satisfied, letting go of the bud with a thread of burr that still connected it to his tongue. He licked the drop off, then looked at you with an expression so focused that it seemed hypnotic. “You drive me crazy. These boobs are a drug. I swear one day I'll fuck them with my cock, and you'll pray you don't come right away.”

You looked at him with big eyes, half-open lips. “You're sick ... " you said, trying to sound stern, but your voice trembled. “And you are my secret little prefect, the one who admonishes me while she gets her tits sucked with her legs spread out, " he chuckled, lifting you up with ease, laying you on the bed, her hair strewn on the pillow, her bra thrown to the floor, her breasts still scarred by her bites, and her skirt pulled up almost to her waist.

He leaned over you, his dark eyes devouring you. “Now ... I want to hear how good you are with your mouth, Ravenclaw.” Heeseung's black shirt slid down from his broad shoulders with almost theatrical slowness. Underneath he had nothing, just warm, smooth skin, dotted with a few moles and barely marked by the well-defined muscles and in the middle of his chest, a thin silver chain. The pendant was simple, black and matte, but perfect on him; you brushed it with your fingers. “It's beautiful... " you muttered He smiled, barely tilting his head towards his touch. “The necklace or the boy underneath?” The voice was velvety, but playful, full of understatement. You looked up, feigning a mock Ravenclaw professor grimace. “Shut up. Don't spoil the moment.” Heeseung burst out laughing, running a hand through his matted red hair. “Can I ... kiss you?” you asked, in a low voice, hinting at my chest. He dropped on the mattress with his arms behind his head, his smile still on his lips.

You stooped slowly, and you began to leave little kisses on his bare chest. Light, almost shy at first. Then more determined. One bite under the collarbone, another further down, on the left side of the chest. His lips drew slow paths on his hot skin, his breath short and hungry. "Do you like...?” you asked him slowly, after a bolder bite. Heeseung moaned low, and stammered something incomprehensible, laughed softly. “What did you say, Seungie?” You looked at him with an innocent air, but your fingers slid down his hips. "I ... christ, Baby" His voice was more hoarse, less confident. A nice change, you made you even closer, slowly kissing him all over the chest, then descending towards the abs, with the tongue leaving an invisible trail and the teeth barely scratching. Heeseung leaned his forearms on the bed to hold himself up, looking at you with increasingly dark eyes. “You know you're beautiful when you fly to Quidditch, don't you?” He raised an eyebrow, giggling. “So you admit that you come to the matches for me?”

you pretended to think, then bowed your head and slowly kissed the skin under his navel. The tongue made a small circle. “…perhaps.” Heeseung moaned again, a choked, pleasure-filled sound, and let slip another babble, this time more disjointed. You looked up and saw that his cheeks were red, flushed to his ears. "Aww,” you whispered, licking a sensitive spot next to his hip bone," is my Gryffindor melting?” He bit his lip, but his smile trembled. "Keep it up... and I don't answer for myself.” you looked at him, with that air still timid but more and more confident. "Maybe that's just what I want...”

You pulled him down slowly. And when they were down enough, Heeseung's erection snapped free, with warm, taut skin and a small shiny mark on the tip. Your eyes opened slightly, not so much because of the size, but because of the instinct with which your body reacted to that sight. "Oh, Io “What's his name?” Heeseung looked at you confused, still a little lost from contact, his chest rising slowly. "Eh ... what? ”

“Your friend here” you replied, barely touching him with your fingers. "All boys give him a name, don't they? You're not going to say that you, the Quidditch champion, didn't baptize him.” He laughed, hoarse, his eyes shining with pleasure. “You're out...” Then he added, tilting his head with a half-grin: “You should choose it. You're the first Ravenclaw who can make him cry with joy." You bit your lip, looked at it from above and whispered: “Then get ready, Seungie ... that I'm about to become your favorite subject.”

"Never done, right?"he asked, touching your cheek with the back of your fingers. you nodded, your voice closed in your throat. "Don't worry. I'll drive you. And you'll be great, little Ravenclaw." Slowly, he took your hand and guided it towards his already swollen, hot erection; you touched him, hesitantly, fingers closing around him with fear. Hee barely winced, then laughed softly. "Don't get too tight... you don't want to kill me. Use your tongue, not your teeth. And remember: breathe with your nose."

You bent down slowly, your lips opened and your eyes turned on him as if you were about to face a forbidden spell. You licked slowly, shy, but hungry to hear him cum inside you and you slowly sucked his cock that slowly pushed more and more inside your beautiful mouth and Hee moaned. "Very good. Well. Turn your tongue around the tip ... mmm yeah, fuck, just like that."you wanted to make him feel good and every time you turned your tongue you sucked him he would squeeze your hair while you took it in your mouth.

"Watch me do it. I want to see those Ravenclaw eyes sucking me." Meanwhile, his other hand slipped under your skirt, finding you wet, hot. "Christ, you're already soaked... It turns you on to suck it, doesn't it? So shy and already dirty to me." His fingers stroked you through your panties, then underneath. Two fingers went in without warning you, slow, deep, curving towards that point that made you tremble and you moaned with your mouth full, tears in your eyes, but it did not stop you.

Heeseung pumped his long fingers inside your vaginal walls and felt how slimy and excited you were about all the overstimulations you were feeling at once, pushing a little more inside your mouth, whispering in your ear: "Look how good you are. My smart little slut. You like it, huh? Let me use you like that. I'll make you feel good while you take everything down my throat." You nodded, panting, as he pumped slowly into his mouth and your fingers moved inside you faster, wet and precise. "Suck it well ... yes... just squeeze a little with your lips now. God, this is what you were born for."

His breathing became heavier. His body trembled. "I'm coming..." he said in a low but rough voice, gently pulling her hair to look at her face. "Do you want me to take him out?" You said no, eyes bright but determined. He moaned slowly, then pushed with the last lick, and came deep into her mouth; you swallowed everything, while his fingers still fucked her slowly, to prolong his pleasure and you screamed from pleasure mind you screamed that you were going to cum and you combined a nice mess between his fingers and his cock while you quartered your excitement between his fingers

You were still shaking, your legs stretched, your throat burned. Its taste was still dripping on your tongue, hot, salty, dirty. And he looked at you from above, lying under you, with a bastard and satisfied smile on his lips. His hands did not stop touching you, stroking your hips, squeezing your breasts, running your thumbs over your still tense nipples. "Christ, baby ..." he whispered in a hoarse voice, "I can't believe you made yourself come only with my tongue in your throat and my seed in your mouth." Blushing, breathing still irregular.

He laughed, one of those bastard captain smiles of his who thought he always had everything under control. And maybe, at that moment, he really had it. "Look how you tremble..." he took you by the side, still making you feel the hard tip of his cock pressing against your wet folds. "You're so wet that I could slip in even if I breathed harder." You groaned slowly, looking down. But he took your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "No no, no eyes down. Watch me tell you how fucking you are when you're so... open. Vulnerable. Mine." Your skin was on fire, your heart went crazy. "Hee..." you muttered, almost pleading.

He kissed you again, with that sweet, perverse heat of his, stirring his tongue to yours as he swayed you flat on his cock, still waiting to come in. He was torturing you. Slowly. Deliberately. "You want me to come in, don't you?» You nodded, breathless. He raised an eyebrow. "Uh uh. With that mouth you did wonders a few minutes ago. Don't think you can get away with a nod. Tell me you want it." The redness rose to your ears. Your heart was beating in your throat. But the voice came out, uncertain but hungry. "I want it... I want your cock inside me. Now.» He smiled, perverse. "So I like you. Very good. But now tell me ... do you want to ride me like a good girl who takes the initiative, or do you want me to fuck you as you deserve, while you are lying and helpless under me?»

"I want you to take me," you answered without hesitation, "I want it to be yours. The first time... I want you to ruin me." His eyes lit up. He lifted you effortlessly, rolled you over on your back, and positioned himself between your wide-open legs.

"My pussy, you're so swollen I could get lost in here." He ran the tip along your intimate lips, barely touching you, making you jerk every time. "Next time though... "you said to him amid the groans, " I want to ride you. I want to drive you as crazy as you are with me.» He stopped, looked at you. "Next time?" He smiled, then sank into you with one blow, deep and red-hot, making you scream his name. "Who the fuck said there will be a next time?"

he whispered with a grin, starting to move inside you with slow but intense blows, as if he wanted to make you feel every single inch. You clasped him with your legs, moaning with each lunge. Tell me again," he ordered, as he took you more forcefully. "Tell me you want me. Tell me you're mine."

"I'm fucking yours, I'm all yours," you yelled, sinking your nails into his back.

Hee's cock began to hammer you with a force that left you breathless. His thrusts were wild, fierce, like he was using you — like you were just a rag doll to fuck until you fell unconscious. And you let him do it. In fact, you wanted it. You were looking for him. Your cunt sucked him with greed, almost hungry, tight around him as if he never wanted to let him go. "Look how you hold me... Christ, you seem made only to make me come..." he growled through his teeth, as he continued to push, deeper and deeper. "A slut for the captain... that's who you are, isn't it?» You gasped, your gaze lost in pleasure, your hands clinging to his sides to guide him, to keep him still inside, stronger, deeper. "Do you like that? Huh? "he continued, with that nickname he only used when he wanted to provoke you. "All dignified in class... and now look how you scream under me.»

His silver necklace dangled between your breasts, frosty, making you shudder every time she touched your sweaty skin. It was the only cold touch in the midst of all that heat, and it drove you crazy. Hee grabbed one of your legs and lifted it firmly, resting it on his shoulder. It penetrated you deeper, into a new, burning angle. When he hit you right there-that very secret spot-you screamed.

"Oh God—! Hee!" He smiled, satisfied, looking at you from above. "I found it, huh? Your sweet spot... your fucking forbidden zone... " he pushed again, accurate, sinking on your G-spot mercilessly. "You are nothing more than a sweet, horny little corvette.» He teased you, but his tone was lustful, low, dirty — and exciting as hell. "You're coming, aren't you?"he whispered to you, as the rhythm increased, the more violent blows, the hand caressing your face as if he wanted to cradle you and torture you together. "Look how you cry for me ... You are so beautiful, with tears in your eyes and pussy begging me."

"S-I'm ... I'm coming..." you stammered, unable to control the trembling body, overwhelmed by the constant stimulation, his touch, his voice, the way he took you. He kissed you hard, then barely broke off to whisper on your lip: "good girl. Come for me. You're mine, all mine. Look how perfect you are when you break under my cock."

And you broke. In a thousand shivers, waves, sobs. The legs shaking, the fingers scratching him as he continued to fuck you even during orgasm, making you feel every drop of pleasure. "My sweet, shameless girl..." he muttered, stroking your hair, his breath heavy, " ... I didn't think you'd be so good. But fuck, I can't stop anymore."

Hee was fucking you with a hunger held for too long. Each blow was a bite on your will, a promise kept halfway between desire and addiction. He clutched your hips with force as he sank into you, long, deep blows, which made you lose your breath. "Where do you want it, little girl"he whispered against your cheek, as he increased the pace, making you jerk under him. "Tell me where you want my cock when I come. On the belly? In the mouth? Or…" You trembled, unable to formulate a sensible answer. Stutter: "D-inside ... I take the pill... I haven't done it in... long."

Hee paused for a moment, looked at you, serious, excited. "Neither do I. Regular tests. Training. I'm clean, baby. And if you tell me you trust..."

"I trust you." He came out with a voice. Sincere. Your. Like it's always been that way. His gaze became warmer, more tender, yet full of the same lust. "Good girl..." he whispered with lascivious sweetness, as his thrusts became more erratic, more hungry. "My little witch ... you know you cast a spell on me, don't you? Why the fuck can't I think of anyone else?" The rhythm became frantic, his breath broken against your skin. "Fuck ..."

One last shot-deep, red-hot-and you felt it. His hot cum filled you in a slow, powerful wave. His hands clasped around you as he moaned your name, panting against your neck. You screamed for the feeling, for the warmth, for the viscous flow that flowed between your thighs while he stayed inside, one more second, one more beat.

"My ... fucking mine..." he whispered, pushing slowly as the last splashes mingled with your pleasure. When you pulled out slowly, you felt an immediate emptiness. A physical void... but also something more. You looked at him, breath still broken, and fear climbed into your throat. You always loved that guy. Even before he became the perfect captain, the idol of Slytherins and Gryffindors, the Quidditch player the newspapers were also talking about. You saw who he really was before everyone else. And now... you had it.

The room was silent, except for your ragged breathing and the soft rustle of sheets against sweaty skin. Hee was getting dressed absentmindedly, his hair a mess and his lips still flushed from your kisses. He had made you put on his shirt — oversized, still soaked in his scent, wrapping around you like a cloak that was too big, too intimate. Too much like him.

You couldn’t even look at him. Every move he made, every sound as he fastened his pants, felt like another blow to your already cracking armor. You bit your lip, then sighed quietly, tears blurring your vision. Turning onto your side, you gave him your back, trying to hold down everything that was rising inside you.

Unaware at first, Hee let out a soft, carefree laugh — that lighthearted, careless chuckle of his. “Merlin, Y/n… I never would've guessed you’d be this good at everything. Lessons, swimming, and… well. In bed too.”

You pulled the covers tighter around you as the tears finally slid down your cheeks, slow and quiet. When he turned and saw you like that, he froze. For a long moment, he didn’t say a word. Then slowly, he sat down beside you and brushed his fingers lightly against your waist.

“Y/n?” His voice was lower now, more real. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. A sob slipped past your lips and you buried your face in the pillow. Hee tensed, then gently tried to turn you over.

“Did I hurt you? Was I… too much?” He sounded genuinely worried, like the thought of having hurt you unsettled him more than anything else.

“No…” you whispered, voice trembling. “It’s not that…”

He looked at you with those big eyes, now filled with confusion and something that looked like fear. He gently cupped your face, warm fingers on your cheek. You met his gaze with tear-filled eyes and trembling lips.

“I want to leave…” you said softly, feeling instantly foolish at how fragile your voice sounded.

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head, softer than you expected.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke barely above a breath: “Because I know that soon you’ll go back to being the same clown. The golden boy. The one who makes everyone laugh, who flirts with every Gryffindor that breathes… and somehow, every time you hook up with a Ravenclaw, it’s always near my room.”

Silence. Then his laugh — low, affectionate, almost amused. It made your fists clench.

“Shit… you’re so fucking beautiful when you’re mad… and jealous, Corvetta.”

You threw a pillow at his face, red with anger and embarrassment.

“Screw you, Hee.”

He laughed again, louder this time, and tossed the pillow back at you. “No, seriously… Are you jealous of them? After what just happened? You really think I could even look at someone else after seeing you like that?”

His voice dropped, more serious now, more intense, as he leaned in closer.

You lowered your gaze, curling deeper under the covers like they could protect you from everything you were feeling. You shook your head slightly, silently.

Hee didn’t say anything. Instead, he lay down behind you, his warm chest pressed gently against your back, his strong arms wrapping around you—not to hold you down, not to claim you, but just to be there. Just to hold you. He could feel you were still crying, your sobs small and quiet, so he started kissing your tears, one by one.

“Shhh… my little raven… it’s okay. Don’t cry like that…” he whispered, pulling you closer. “You’re not alone. Not when I’m here.”

He gently stroked your hair, kissed your forehead, your nose, your damp cheek. Every touch was a silent promise: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Your eyes drifted to the silver necklace hanging from his bare chest, still warm from the love you’d just shared. You reached out and brushed your fingers over it, then held it in your hand, curious. On the back of the small pendant, you saw an inscription: 27/10/97.

“What is it?” you asked softly, your voice hoarse.

Hee smiled, a little shy now. “Don’t laugh at me…” he murmured.

“I won’t. I swear.” You lifted your pinky finger.

He chuckled, linking his with yours. “It’s… my parents’ wedding date. I grew up watching them so in love. I wanted to keep that with me. Like a reminder, y’know?”

You stayed quiet for a moment, touched. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

He gave you that look—half smug, half sweet. “I’ve got plenty of surprises, little raven. Trust me.”

You let out a soft laugh, almost without meaning to. His eyes went wide.

“Wait… did you laugh?” he said, pretending to be shocked. “Did you really just laugh?”

You nodded. “Yeah, dumbass.”

“Well, then I guess I can tell you now…” He paused, looking up like he was thinking hard, then turned serious again. “I wanted to engrave another date, someday.”

You turned toward him. “What date?”

He bit his lip, his tone softer, more sincere. “My wedding date. If… and when that happens.”

Something inside you clenched. Suddenly the tears came back, but this time they were different. Full. Full of emotion, of love, of everything you’d been holding back for too long.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a rare tenderness. “And do you know who I want to engrave it with? You. Because fuck, Y/n… I love you. I love teasing you, I love how you always talk back to me, I love the way you try to act cold but start trembling the second I touch you. I knew you had a crush on me… but I didn’t realize just how much I had one on you.”

You looked at him, lips trembling, and softly, your voice breaking just a little, you whispered: “I love you too, Hee.”

He smiled like he’d been waiting for it. Like he already knew.

“I know.” Then he let out a quiet laugh. “And now that date I want to engrave… I’m really dreaming of it.”

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