#i feel rough ™ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rosesaints · 23 days ago

Text

bullseye.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you survived yelena’s cross-examination, bob’s toaster theories, and the world’s most excruciating elevator ride. now you’re just trying to cook dinner without burning the building down. bucky comes home smelling like smoke and salvation, you’re in an apron, looking like everything bucky could ever possibly want, and bob—sweet, oblivious bob—gets back to the watchtower a little too early. oops. word count: 8.1k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, oral (f! receiving), fingering, marking kink, bucky being possessive, rough sex, kitchen sex, sex on the counter, licking and kissing everywhere, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bucky begging you for more, service top bucky, soft dom, dom/sub undertones, getting caught (again... these freaks), elevator make-outs, size kink series masterlist!

You’ve never met anyone else quite like Bob.

Bob is the sort of person who knocks before entering an empty room. Who once paused a movie to apologize to the fictional cat that dies offscreen. Who calls Ava “buddy” with such sincere fondness that she pretends not to like it but never tells him to stop. He says “thank you” to the automated coffee machine and sometimes—sometimes—you catch him giving the laundry detergent bottle a little encouraging pat like it’s done a good job.

He’s sweet. You love him. You worry about him.

Especially after everything with the Void.

That’s the shadow that trails behind him—the capital-V Void thing. He doesn’t talk about it, not really, but you can feel it sometimes, this old weight pressing behind his smiles. He’s gentle in that careful, self-correcting way people are after they’ve scared themselves. After they’ve looked at the inside of their own soul and gone, Oh. That’s in there? Better not touch anything sharp.

He’s not reclusive, exactly. He wants to be around people. He laughs at John’s terrible jokes. He watches baking videos with Alexei and calls the contestants “brave.” He brings back an extra donut from every mission run and always says, “In case someone’s having a rough day,” like it’s a reasonable, universal kindness and not a tiny love letter in powdered sugar.

And yet, despite all this warmth, all this kindness—you’ve come to realize, with increasing dread, that Bob is quite possibly the most oblivious man alive.

Not in a malicious way. Not even in a clueless, frat-boy way. Just in the floating, serene way of someone who truly believes the best of people. Who sees two extremely sweaty and flustered teammates standing six inches apart in a suspiciously fogged-up elevator and genuinely thinks: they probably just did cardio.

Which is a problem.

Because you and Bucky are not subtle.

You're trying, obviously. In the aftermath of The Yelena Incident™, your life had sort of… spiraled into mild servitude.

By the time you stumbled out of the car after your activities in the parking garage, one shoe half-on, bra clasp still dangling somewhere in the ether of your shame, Yelena was already halfway up the stairs, shaking her head like God herself has disappointed her.

“Yelena—wait—” you call, stumbling after her.

“No,” she says over her shoulder, voice icy and doom-soaked. “I do not want to hear your love noises in Dolby Surround while I go to refill my chamomile.”

You chase her up three flights like a contestant on a reality show called So You Think You Can Apologize, and find her in the kitchen, arms crossed, wooden spoon in hand, wielding it like it’s legally registered.

She’s staring at you with the expression of a war general who’s just discovered betrayal in her ranks. “I am not mad,” she says. “I am deeply disappointed.”

You open your mouth to speak.

“And also mad,” she snaps. “What the fuck, dude?!”

“I—it was late! And private!”

“In what universe is the Watchtower basement private? I have knives in the floorboards more subtle than that.”

You gesture vaguely toward the ceiling. “We were careful.”

“He was moaning like he was cuntstruck.”

You pause. “That’s not a word.”

“It is now. I invented it to describe him.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, which is the understatement of the year. You’re still adjusting your shirt.

Yelena steps forward, spoon raised. “If I have to scrub sin out of upholstery, you will not survive the week.”

You drop to your knees. Not metaphorically. You actually drop. “I’ll do anything. Literally anything. Just please don’t tell Ava. Or Alexei. Or—God forbid—Walker. He will never let me live it down.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Anything?”

You nod. Desperate. Humiliated. Already mentally calculating how many hours of Watchtower labor are equivalent to absolution.

She thinks for a moment. Considers. Then points the spoon at your forehead. “Again—you will bring me one rotisserie chicken. From the good place. No substitutions.”

You scramble up. “Done.”

“And dessert.”

“Double done.”

“No raisins.”

“Yelena, I would die before bringing you a raisin cookie.”

She squints at you. A long pause. Then, finally: “Good. I will decide your punishment tier after I taste the chicken.”

Now, every Thursday, you sample her cooking. “Taste this,” she says, thrusting a spoon into your face.

You oblige.

“No, again. Is it too much fennel? Say it.”

You do the laundry. You handle trash duty. You avoid eye contact with Ava just in case she’s heard things. You’ve also started casually volunteering for missions just to put distance between yourself and Yelena’s increasingly psychological brand of war crimes. She hasn’t told anyone. Which, honestly, is scarier. She’s holding the secret like she’s fermenting it.

“Bucky was humming again today,” she says, dicing onions with a frankly surgical level of aggression. “You are poisoning his mind with joy.”

You blink. “He was humming?”

“ABBA,” she says grimly. “There is something wrong.”

And then looks at you like you’re the one she has to put down for behavioral reconditioning.

You swore since then that you’d be careful. Discreet. Professional. Normal.

(And for the record, you have been trying. You’ve limited your shared hallway loitering. You no longer sit right next to him during team movie nights. You don’t sneak kisses between mission briefings or press your forehead to his in the kitchen when you think no one’s looking. You’ve stopped—mostly—leaving your stuff in his room. You even agreed to text instead of just showing up at the gym during his 4 a.m. boxing therapy.)

But Bucky… Bucky is a problem.

Because where you’ve gone tactical, he’s gone feral.

In quiet, emotionally repressed ways, of course. He’s still Bucky. He still folds his laundry with military precision and talks like he’s afraid of being too much in front of anyone who isn’t you. But the man is yearning. Openly. Apologetically. Like he feels bad about dragging you into this mess, but not bad enough to stop looking at you like you’re the last safe place in the world.

You’ll be doing completely normal things—loading the dishwasher, taking field notes, trying to remember if you left your clothes in the communal washer for too long—and then you’ll catch him staring.

Not in the casual, distracted way most people look at their partners.

No. He looks at you like he’s picturing a life together. Like the mere existence of space between your bodies is offensive to his soul. Like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth just so he can sketch it in the margins of his strategy notes later like a war-scarred high schooler with a crush.

And worse—worse—is the tenderness.

How he brings you an extra water bottle before every mission and never says it out loud, just leaves it near your station like it appeared there by divine intervention. The way his hand finds yours under the table sometimes, out of nowhere, like he just needs to touch you for a second or he’ll combust.

You’ll be in the Watchtower gym, standing three feet apart during a sparring session, and you’ll feel his eyes on you. Not assessing. Not tactical.

Hungry.

And you’ll say, flustered and out of breath, “We agreed, remember?”

And he’ll nod. He’ll say, “I know. I know, sweetheart, I just—fuck, you looked really good throwing that last punch.”

You’ll narrow your eyes. “Don’t say that while I’m trying to elbow you in the face.”

And he’ll grin. “Too late.”

Or worse, he won’t say anything at all. He’ll just smile, soft and stunned, and reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it doesn’t completely undo you every time he does it.

And then you’ll have to pretend like nothing is happening. Like you’re not made of static. Like your entire body doesn’t lean toward him when he’s near, like a plant toward sunlight.

But he doesn’t make it easy. No. He follows you with his gaze when you leave rooms. He brushes past you in hallways like you’re magnetic. And every time he does that thumb-on-your-cheek thing—just the pad of it, feather-light, reverent—you find yourself tilting into it like a goddamn fool.

You’d be mad if it weren’t so achingly gentle. If it weren’t so clear how much he means it.

That’s the problem. It’s not just lust. It’s not just stolen kisses and backseat fondling and the horrible joy of being touched like you’re not a liability.

It’s that every time he looks at you like that, it says mine.

And every time, your heart says yes.

And well—Bob? Bob walks into all of it like he’s entering a Hallmark movie with zero subtext.

It's a little after a mission when something finally gives out.

You smell like sweat and gunpowder and three kinds of smoke—maybe four. Something chemical, something burnt, something forest-fire adjacent, and something that might’ve been hot dogs at one point. Bucky smells worse. Like scorched leather and bad decisions. The elevator smells worst. Like mission aftermath and team morale circling the drain.

You’re crammed into the back corner, shoulder to shoulder with a national liability turned New York's most tragic thirst trap, trying very hard not to lean into him even though your knees are buckling and the floor of the Watchtower elevator feels like it's vibrating at a frequency specifically tuned to your exhaustion.

Bob stayed behind to “oversee tower operations,” which is polite for “make soup and alphabetize the emergency contact board by astrological sign.” He's the only one with self-preservation.

Yelena is chewing gum like it personally wronged her. She’s leaning one shoulder against the elevator wall and scrolling through a folder titled “Fun Homicide Shit :)” with the kind of casual detachment only a former child assassin can muster.

Walker is manspreading like the ride is a performance piece. One boot braced wide, one elbow planted across the back railing like he’s getting ready to deliver a TED Talk about how heroism starts in the glutes. He hasn’t stopped adjusting his collar since they pulled you all out of the field. It is his sixth time today trying to flirt with Ava and his sixth time getting shut down.

Ava is slouched against the other corner, hood up, headphones in, pointedly staring at the elevator ceiling like she can’t believe she once almost died and came back for this. She looks cool. Unbothered. You saw her take a bullet and keep going two hours ago. Now she looks like the only thing she wants to fight is whoever designed these cheap overhead lights.

And Alexei—Alexei is talking. Which is the first warning sign of any truly cursed group dynamic.

“I am telling you,” he says, waving one arm wide and nearly clocking Bucky in the face, “there is no need for tactical sunglasses. Why are we hiding the eyes? The eyes are the windows to the soul! You want to intimidate someone? Let them see your anguish.”

“I want to take a nap,” mutters Yelena, deadpan.

“You’re just mad I looked better in them.”

“You looked like someone got kicked out of a Blade reboot.”

“I was Blade.”

“Sure. And I’m Anne Hathaway.”

Alexei beams. “You are very talented. Also I loved you in Princess Diaries.”

Yelena doesn’t even blink. “I’m going to kill you with a pencil.”

You, meanwhile, are watching Bucky attempt to pinkie flirt.

He tries it once. Just a brush. You ignore him.

He tries it again—more intentional this time. Like, hello. hi. remember how we’re in love?

You shift, just slightly. Glance around. Walker is making intense eye contact with his reflection. Ava’s got her eyes closed. Alexei and Yelena are halfway to another full-blown philosophical debate about murder. You’re safe. Technically.

You nudge back.

Bucky catches it like he’s been waiting all day. Loops his pinkie around yours like it's the last thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

It’s insufferably tender.

You look over, give him your best seriously? face. He meets it with wide-eyed innocence, the absolute bastard.

The elevator shudders. You sigh. You’re leaking sweat from places you didn’t know had glands. Your sports bra is doing something illegal. You feel like a half-drowned sock puppet and you know your eyeliner melted off somewhere over Eastern Europe.

And yet.

Bucky is looking at you like you hung the moon. Like this post-mission, semi-feral, possibly concussed version of you is the best thing he’s seen all week. You whisper, “I literally smell like fear.”

He leans in. Barely. A breath. “You smell like you made it back.”

You blink. Your throat goes tight. That’s not fair.

And then—ding.

The elevator halts.

Ava’s the first one out. Doesn’t even look back. She’s a blur of black hoodie and disdain.

Walker follows. He takes one last moment to adjust his jacket like a man about to deliver a keynote speech at AlphaCon. Then he disappears.

Yelena and Alexei linger just long enough for Alexei to get punched in the gut with a combat boot.

“Gentle touch, my little cucumber!” he wheezes, grinning as she drags him out by the shoulder.

And then the doors close again.

Just you and Bucky.

Still holding pinkies. Still acting like horny Victorian ghosts. He turns his head slightly. “You know,” he says softly, “I was gonna behave.”

You snort. “You were never gonna behave.”

He raises your hand—linked fingers and all—and presses a kiss to your knuckle. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s claiming territory.

“Not with you standing there looking like that.”

“Like what? Like a post-apocalyptic trash panda?”

He smiles, close enough for you to feel it. “Like you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens. Your knees wobble. You might cry, or kiss him, or both. He’s crowding into your space now, a wall of heat and soft danger, and your heart is making actual whimpering noises. He cups your jaw with the hand that used to hold guns shakily. Cradles your face like you’re breakable. You don’t move.

He leans in and kisses you.

Not soft. Not sweet. Not the kind of kiss you’d offer in the hallway of a federal building with camera sensors tucked discreetly behind ceiling panels.

It’s filthy.

He kisses you like he’s losing something. Like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you. Like you’re the only solid thing in a world that’s always pulling out from under him.

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat—a half-whimper, half-gasp—and that’s all it takes. His hand fists in the fabric of your jacket like he can’t decide if he’s trying to pull you closer or keep himself upright. Your back hits the elevator wall with a low thud, but you don’t care. You barely notice. You’re too busy clawing at the front of his shirt like you can feel the heat of his skin through the tactical mesh.

His other hand slides down, palm bracing against your waist, then hips, fingers tightening like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you in his grip. He kisses like a man on borrowed time. Like he’s been starving for weeks and just remembered how food tastes.

Your lips part and his tongue slips in, shameless, and you make a sound that absolutely should not be allowed in this kind of facility.

He groans—quiet, guttural, wrecked. The kind of sound that makes you feel hunted. Worshipped. Something in between. His hand slides under your shirt, warm and callused and unforgiving, fingers dragging up over your ribs like he needs the reassurance of skin. Of you. Of real.

You pull away just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed to his, panting, lips swollen, your pulse rattling like a live wire between your teeth.

“This is so wildly inappropriate,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

“Uh-huh,” he says, immediately diving back in.

Your mouths crash again, sloppier this time. Needier. His teeth catch on your bottom lip and you gasp, and then you’re both just gone.

This is not a kiss.

It’s a breakdown.

It’s the unraveling of restraint, the proof of every missed second, every stolen glance, every time you had to pretend that his fingers brushing yours didn’t feel like the whole world tilting. He presses his thigh between yours and you grind down on it, automatic, helpless, like your body’s decided survival depends on contact.

He’s breathing hard now, panting against your jaw, and you can feel his pulse everywhere—under your hands, against your chest, beating like it’s synced to yours. His lips drag down your neck, hot and desperate, and your knees actually buckle.

“Buck,” you whisper.

“Say my name again,” he says, voice guttural, mouth still against your throat.

You do. You say it like a prayer. Like a curse. He groans again, one of those deep-chested sounds that makes your stomach clench and your hips stutter against his.

And then—

ding.

You freeze. Both of you do.

The elevator doors start to slide.

Bucky leaps back like he’s been shot. Your shirt’s rumpled. His hair is a mess. Your mouth is wet and your face is flushed, and you’re both panting like you just ran a mile with a bomb strapped to your chest.

The doors open.

Bob steps in, holding a tupperware of soup like it’s a sacred artifact. He's wearing socks with cartoon avocados on them. His smile could power a small city.

You and Bucky stand there. Utterly wrecked. One breath away from damnation.

“Oh, hey!” he says brightly. “You guys smell like... fire? That’s fun.”

You hastily wipe your mouth like you’ve been doing literally anything else besides giving your ex-assassin boyfriend the make-out of your lives in a government elevator.

Bob hits the button for the common floor and beams. “I brought extra spoons.”

You consider launching yourself through the roof. Bucky visibly swallows a laugh.

Bob just hums to himself, completely unbothered, and says, “So what movie are we thinking tonight, guys? Paddington 2 again?”

Bucky just gives you a side-eye, and mouths later.

You're going to die here. And it’s going to be his fault.

The next morning, when you walk into the kitchen still wearing Bucky’s t-shirt—slouchy, faded, tragically identifiable—you feel a familiar jolt of terror crackle down your spine.

Bob is already there.

He’s perched at the counter like a man waiting for his toaster to open up about its feelings. Bowl of cereal untouched. Hair sticking up slightly like he’s been awake since five. Wearing one of his many “Be Kind” t-shirts in Comic Sans font and mismatched socks (ducks and the planet Saturn).

The worst part?

He looks happy.

Which is how you know something bad is about to happen.

“Morning,” you say carefully, like you’re approaching a toddler with a loaded Nerf gun. You’re not trying to startle him. Just blend in. Be calm. Normal. Shirt? What shirt? Could be anyone’s. Totally generic. Never mind that it says “REP. JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES — New York’s 9th District” and smells like cedarwood, gun oil, and Bucky's neck.

“Hey,” Bob says brightly, swiveling slightly to look at you. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Do you think the toaster knows when it’s being watched?”

You blink.

“I—what?”

He turns back to it, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I just think it’s weird how sometimes it takes way longer. Like, the same setting. But it’s different every time. You think it’s a confidence thing?”

You stare at him. This is your punishment. Bucky made good on his promise of "later." This is divine retribution for letting Bucky mark you up like a Renaissance fresco in his bed last night. You tug the hem of his shirt down subtly—though it’s not much use. Your thighs are on full display and the side of your neck looks like you lost a fight with an octopus. An extremely horny octopus.

As nonchalantly as you can muster, you make a noncommittal noise and inch toward the coffee. Maybe if you move slowly enough, you won’t set off his latent observation skills. Maybe you can get out of this conversation without—

“Oh, another thing,” he says suddenly, like he’s remembering something vitally important. “Bucky made those cookies again last week. The shortbread ones. Did he use the almond extract this time? I thought I tasted almond.”

Your hand twitches on the coffee pot. You force a smile. “Maybe.”

Bob nods, satisfied. “They were really good. You should tell him that. I feel like he listens to you.”

Oh my God.

“Yeah,” you say faintly. “I’ll do that.”

There’s a long pause. You spoon coffee grounds into the machine with trembling hands, trying not to think about the fact that your bra is currently somewhere on Bucky’s floor and it's… getting awfully cold.

Bob’s staring off now. Not at anything in particular. Just… into the middle distance, like he’s having a staring contest with the multiverse.

Then, softly—too softly—he says, “Do you think people know when they’re safe?”

You freeze, one hand hovering over the ‘brew’ button.

“Safe?” you repeat.

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Like… when they’re around someone who makes them feel okay. Even if everything else isn’t. Like the person is a... blanket. Or soup.”

Your brain short-circuits. Because, on one hand—wow. That’s beautiful. And heartbreaking. And strangely poetic, especially from someone who once got locked in the pantry trying to organize the rice alphabetically.

On the other hand, you are standing in front of him wearing a shirt that absolutely does not belong to you, with a constellation of visible hickies across your collarbone like you’ve been attacked by a very determined vampire. You can still feel Bucky’s teeth in your skin if you think too hard about it.

Your heart stumbles.

But before you can answer, he grins and adds brightly, “Anyway, I washed your Avengers mug for you! It had, like, a weird honey ring around the inside. But no judgment!”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Bob.”

He looks up, eyes guileless and wide, cheeks puffed slightly from the cereal.

“You are the most emotionally dangerous person I know.”

He beams. Beams.

“Thank you!”

And the worst part—the actual worst part—is that he means it. He means it like it’s the highest compliment you could give him. Like you just told him he reminds you of golden hour or warm bread. You sip your coffee. You don’t correct him.

Instead, you pull the collar of your shirt higher, glance at the toaster—still untouched—and mutter, “You should say something encouraging. I think it’s scared.”

Bob turns to it solemnly and pats the counter.

“You’re doing great, buddy,” he whispers. “Take your time.”

You walk out of the kitchen with coffee, a pounding heart, and the crushing knowledge that Bob might never figure it out. But if he does—if he ever connects the dots—you're done for.

A couple nights later, you are, technically, in a mission pre-brief.

This would imply focus. Discipline. Mental engagement with the subject matter. And you are listening—sort of. The words are wording. The hologram is glowing. The seating is semi-circular, very official. Alexei has already spilled protein shake on his briefing packet and Yelena has already judged him for it.

But your attention? Tragically and completely fixed on Bucky. Because you’ve finally got a window of time. A rare, golden, New Avengers-less window of time.

Yelena narrows her eyes. “You are too excited.”

You grin. “I’m always excited about watching the Tower. So many fire safety drills.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yelena, you’ll be leading Team Two with Ava. Alexei’s on recon. Walker, stay away from anything flammable. Or mechanical. Or sharp.”

“I’m starting to feel targeted,” Walker says, not incorrectly.

“You are,” Bucky says. “Brief’s over in five. Load up.”

The room begins to shuffle. Folders close. Ava disappears without a sound like some kind of vengeful specter. Walker immediately opens his phone and starts drafting a tweet. Alexei reaches for a third protein bar. Bob, bless him, is in the city today. Something about finally getting the full "New Yorker" experience.

You stay in your chair, waiting until they’re mostly gone.

And Bucky glances back. That look again. That unbearable, quiet knowing.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he says low, just for you.

And you flush. Just slightly. But enough.

Yelena, from the doorway, calls, “Bring back rotisserie this time. I want proof of life. And marinade.” You flip her off without turning around.

And when Bucky finally exits—calm, confident, the living embodiment of every one of your worst ideas—you can’t help but grin.

Because he’s yours. He’ll be back by sunset. And tonight? Tonight, he’s not briefing anyone but you.

You don't know why—but it feels like everything always leads back to the kitchen for the two of you.

It’s not the first time you’ve cooked for him. Not even the fifth. But something about tonight feels more fragile. Like if you name it out loud, it’ll vanish. You don’t have a word for it, but you think maybe it’s just stillness. The kind that only shows up after the noise has passed.

And right now, it’s just you, in the kitchen, trying not to screw up a meal that reminds him of a version of himself long buried.

A version that once stood barefoot on cold tile in a one-bedroom apartment in Bucharest, six years old and all elbows, scolded in sharp Romanian by his mother for eating the bread crusts while the stew was still on the stove. A recipe that came from her own mother, who brought it from Tulcea in a suitcase with one working zipper and a handful of Orthodox icons. A recipe that predates wars. That survived immigration, and hunger, and a son who wouldn’t stay dead.

You never asked him for it. He wouldn’t have known how to share it, not in words. But months ago, at a crowded potluck for OXE employees, you watched his face soften around a mouthful of something unfamiliar to everyone else. A glint in his eye, unguarded, like a ghost had brushed past him and nodded hello.

And you stored the moment like a treasure. You hunted down recipes. You read cooking blogs in translated Romanian. You asked quietly, once, in bed, whether his mother used smoked paprika or sweet. His answer was just a sleepy murmur — “both” — and you tucked it away.

You want to give him something that says: I paid attention. I know where you come from, and I love that place too, even if I’ve only touched it through you.

You’re elbow-deep in your own kitchen disaster. One burner going too hot, another stubbornly cold. The parsley's still in the grocery bag by the sink, untouched. You can’t even remember why you set the timer, but it’s blinking zeroes in judgment.

And then suddenly—he’s there.

You flinch slightly when you feel him behind you. Not out of fear. Just startled, because it’s him. Home. Already. And you meant to be ready — hair brushed, table set, sauce stirred with calm domestic competence instead of this half-panicked whirlwind of oil splatters and forgotten herbs.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets two mismatched plates at the table, quiet and unceremonious, like slipping into rhythm with you is something he can do in his sleep. Like he's always known this place by heart.

Then his hand finds your waist. Warm. Steady. Real.

“You’re back,” you say, breath catching a little. A stupid thing to say, but it’s the only thing your mouth remembers how to do.

He hums low in your ear. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.”

“I forgot the parsley,” you admit, like it’s a confession. “I got distracted—trying not to kill the garlic and then the timer went off and—God, I don’t even know what this is anymore—”

“Hey,” he says, voice low, the kind of voice that moves through you like warm water. “It’s okay. I like it like this.”

You don’t turn around. Just blink at the sauce. “Like what? Mildly chaotic and herb-deficient?”

His lips brush your temple. “Messy. Real.”

You exhale through a half-laugh, half-grumble. “If you say ‘because I’m messy too,’ I’m actually kicking you out. Dirty boots and all.”

He snorts. The sound of someone unwinding at the edges. “No. But I might say, ‘because it tastes like something you made just for me,’ and then you’d have to marry me.”

Your breath catches. He says it like a joke. Mostly. Probably.

You reach down and tug at the frayed hem of your apron instead. “I’ve had this since college. Bought it because the pattern was ironic. Now it’s just covered in sauce stains and emotional baggage.”

“I like it,” he says simply.

“You like everything,” you mutter, a little helpless.

“Not true,” he murmurs. “I don’t like Walker’s new cologne.”

That earns a snort from you. Relief loosens your shoulders.

“But I love this,” he adds, quieter now. “You. The kitchen. The fact that your spoon drawer is a lawless hellscape.”

“It builds character,” you mumble.

“Exactly,” he says, and then, after a beat: “I missed you all day.”

And there it is. The thing that levels you faster than burnt garlic ever could. You close your eyes. Feel the shape of him against your back — broad and solid, fatigue-worn and steady. He’s not wearing his tac gear anymore. Just a soft shirt and socks and the weight of someone who came back from somewhere hard and decided, again, to keep coming back to you.

Dinner is simple. Sarmale, not quite textbook, but warm and familiar. A little too much tomato, not enough bay leaf. But he eats it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Like it’s a secret passed down, just for him. Like it’s proof.

At one point, he stops chewing just to look at you.

“What?” you ask, lips twitching.

He shrugs. “Just like seeing you. Like this.”

You glance down. Sauce-smeared apron. No bra. Hair a disaster. “If ‘like this’ is code for feral house gremlin—”

“It’s code for mine.”

Your chest tightens. Not from panic. From something else. Something quieter, more dangerous. The dangerous thing that your heart does everytime the word "mine" escapes from his lips.

“You’ve got really weird taste then,” you whisper.

“Andn you’ve got great hands,” he replies. “Even when they’re holding a spoon instead of a weapon.”

You don’t know how he does that — makes softness sound like strength. Makes you feel like you’re not failing by being tender.

After dinner, you clear the plates. He insists on doing the dishes, and you let him, mostly because you like the way he hums while he works. Like he’s memorizing the rhythm of a life he never thought he’d get to live. You wipe the counter beside him. He flicks soap at you.

You flick back.

It escalates. You’re both too tired to keep score, but the water on your shirt says you lost. Or maybe you won.

“You started it,” he grins.

“You’re a menace,” you shoot back, breathless with laughter.

He dries the last fork. Sets it carefully in the drawer. You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped.

The kiss is inevitable. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just earned.

It lingers.

You taste the salt from dinner, the faintest hint of mint on his breath, the ache he doesn't say aloud.

He groans quietly, a ragged little sound in the back of his throat, and it shoots straight down your spine. He breaks the kiss for half a second, his forehead pressed to yours, and mutters, voice shredded and wrecked and low:

“Been thinking about this the whole mission.”

You can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. There’s a knot behind your ribs and it’s tight and urgent and full of too many days of not touching.

His lips find yours again, messier now, faster. Like restraint’s something he only vaguely remembers. His mouth moves like he wants to memorize you. Like he's starving.

One hand slips down to your waist, gripping firm, dragging you in with a quiet urgency that leaves no room for confusion. You end up caged between the counter and his body, and it’s not a bad place to die.

“I missed your mouth,” he murmurs between kisses, and it’s so much—too much—but also not enough. “You got no idea how many nights I fell asleep thinking about this. About you, standing here. Smelling like onions and rosemary. Looking like home.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower—down your throat, slow and tasting—and your knees go a little weak.

“You always smell like this,” he says, a little hoarse, like it's a revelation. “Like something sweet that got burnt a little.”

His hand's on your lower back now, sliding up under your shirt like he's asking, not taking. Like he wants to feel your skin, not just hold it. His fingers press into you like he’s learning your shape all over again.

“I want dessert,” he whispers, biting gently at your earlobe.

You blink, dazed. “There’s, uh—brownies in the oven. Kind of. They might be salvageable.”

His laugh is low, strained, against your throat. “Not what I meant.”

And then he kisses you again, properly, and all the air leaves the room.

It’s rushed now. Bruised and gasping and edged with something deeper than lust. Not just want. Need. You can feel it in the way his hands shake slightly when they run up your sides. In the way he kisses you like he might not get to again.

You push up on your toes, chasing him, and he lets out a broken, breathless, “Fuck—baby, wait,” but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Just rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“You’ve got no idea,” he mutters, voice barely there. “You’ve got no fucking idea what it does to me. Coming back to you. Coming back and finding you like this.”

“Like what?” you whisper, throat dry.

He kisses you again and you swallow the words in your throat, hard and open-mouthed, his hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. You kiss him back like you’re burning. Like it’ll kill you not to.

You drag your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, feel him shudder. He pushes you a little further into the counter, slotting his body against yours, chasing every inch of contact.

“You taste like tomato,” he rasps, biting gently at your lip. “And salt. I fucking love y–it."

You kiss him harder. He groans, like you knocked the air out of him.

Then you pull back just barely—just enough to look him in the eye. His mouth is kiss-swollen, pupils blown, jaw clenched like he’s barely holding on.

“I’m not fragile,” you murmur.

And he says, “I know.” But his voice is so full of awe, like he can’t believe you’re real, like the only way he knows how to worship anything is with his mouth and his hands and the breathless way he says your name in pieces.

“Can I?” he asks, already kissing along your jaw again. “Can I just—God, let me taste you, sweetheart.”

You’re breathless, already nodding, already pulling him in.

But you don’t make it to the bedroom. Not yet.

Because he lifts you—effortless, like you weigh nothing, like his hands were made for this—and sets you on the edge of the counter, your thighs falling open without ceremony. The laminate is cool under your legs, and he’s warm everywhere else: crowding in, pressed between your knees, his palms spread wide on your bare skin like he’s grounding himself there. Like if he doesn't touch you, he’ll float off the fucking earth.

You feel him shift, one hand moving to your waist while the other traces up your spine, patient but burning. The pads of his fingers graze under the hem of the apron and you feel your breath hitch, your stomach contract.

“Could make a man cry, y'know?” he murmurs against your mouth. His voice is wrecked. “In this lil’ apron and all. Straight out of a dream.”

You hum, just barely managing to keep your cool. You try. God, you try. “Innocent dreams, I’m guessing?”

He laughs—soft and feral, the kind that makes you feel like you’re being hunted and adored in equal measure. “Sweetheart,” he says, thumbing along your jaw like he’s memorizing it by pressure alone, and then he kneels. Drops down to the floor. “I don’t have innocent dreams about you anymore."

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. His stubble scrapes your legs and you shudder, eyes fluttering. You can feel him chuckle under his breath, and then your pants, along with your panties off in one fell swoop. And then you're exposed.

For a second, you look down, just as Bucky looks up. His eyes, when he pulls back just enough to look at you, are blown dark and reverent. You see the need in him, and it’s not clean. You're the one undressed on the counter, but the angle makes him look so painfully exposed, the way his lashes flutter.

And then he leans in, the flat of his tongue meeting your folds in earnest, and your mouth falls open in a lewd, lewd moan.

Before Bucky, you'd never met anyone who'd eaten pussy this—this enthusiastically. Like he needs it like oxygen, like he needs it just to exist on a molecular level. He's gripping onto your thighs so tight, scooting you closer and closer to the edge.

His tongue curves and rubs around your clit, your hips jerking with every time he hums or gets sloppy with it, skirting around your folds like he needs to suck up every last drop of you.

This man is so good to you. He's so, so, so fucking good. You don't know if you somehow cured cancer or saved a thousand lives in your last life, but whatever it was, whatever you did, it must have been really fucking special—to end up here, in this kitchen, on the counter, his face pressed against your pussy like it's his salvation.

You come to your first orgasm that night with his name on your lips like a silent scream, holding on to his soft brown hair for dear life, losing yourself in the sensation.

Moments later, he's still sucking you up, like he intends to clean you dry. Distantly, in the haze of your thoughts, you can hear him—his voice striking a chord. Almost as if amazed.

“You’re in me,” he says, thumb skimming your thigh like a benediction. “You get that? You’re in me. You’re every breath, every fuckin’—I can’t sleep without picturing your face. I can’t breathe without wanting you closer.”

You feel your chest stutter, your fingers tangling in his hair. It's so hard to focus—it always is, after your first orgasm but for him—for him, you try your absolute hardest.

“I’d give you everything,” he tells you, reverent now, mouth soft at your legs. The low hum of his voice sends tingles up your spine, and it's like you're hyper-aware of every sensation. His beard brushing against your skin, the tiny little pinpricks, the way his nails are just ever so slightly digging into the plush of your thighs. “If I was a better man, I’d give you the world.”

“You are,” you whisper. “You’re mine. That’s better.”

His eyes flutter closed like he can’t bear to hear it. "Say it again."

"Mine. All mine, Bucky, I'm—fuck, I'm so fucking lucky I get to call you mine, I'll never—"

You don't get to finish your sentence, words dying in your throat because he's back—back to devouring you whole, mouth relentless and pacing like he never stopped. And you're already so sensitive, to a point where every little suck and pull and tug has you curling your toes, but then—

"Buck, I—I don't know if I can do another one, baby, I'm—my legs are literally shaking."

In response, he just tuts. Shakes his head, like. Hm, "You can take another one. For me?"

"I'll help you, sweetheart. Just let me do all the work."

The moment you nod, the world spins suddenly, and you've been whirled around to face the other side of the counter.

This new angle—it's cruel. You can't see him, that's the worst part, the part that gets pinpricks under your skin. You don't even have to look to know he's smiling, with the way he strokes one globe of your ass so tenderly, so lovingly, despite your vulnerable position.

You go to turn around, to try and get a look at him, and you're rewarded with a tug to your hair.

"Did I say you could turn around?"

The words die in your throat. The heat of his breath fans across your pussy, and you hear it—his sharp inhale. Then he's back like he never left, mouth slotting against where you're dropping.

And oh, you're going insane. There's no other way about it, with the way the flat of his tongue continues its assault on your pussy, everything inside you contracting against his motions.

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks—and it's, holy fuck, the heat, the friction, the suction, all of it—makes you jump forward, yelping. And you probably would've fallen off the counter if it wasn't for the way his grip on your hips goes tighter and he groans into your cunt. His hands squeeze again, like a warning. Don't you dare get away.

And you don't. You lay there, on your stomach, facing the beautiful, beautiful New York City skyline, hands grasping and reaching for nothing—and then it hits, your orgasm, full-force, gushing and overflowing. It's a full body reaction, and you can vaguely register the noise of utensils and a plate, no, several, hitting the floor.

Distantly, you can hear him, swearing under his breath. That low laugh you've learned to simultaneously love and hate.

You stay like that, limp and dazed and mind swimming, while he cleans you up on his tongue with painstaking detail. It's a stark contrast from just moments ago.

Bucky moans from the taste—long and drawn out—licking his way up your body.

From your thighs, to the plush fat of your ass, then up, up, up your spine, so slow that it makes you whine, until he's by your shoulder, and then he's breathing down your neck. His next words almost give you a heart attack.

"Can I get a third one out of you, sweet girl?" He's looking at you in earnest, with so much open affection in his eyes. "Please, I'll make it so good. I can make it so good for you. All you gotta do is lay there and keep looking pretty, please."

You’re gasping, still pinned to the kitchen counter with his hands under your thighs like he’s trying to carve your name into his palms. And you want to answer him—you do. Your legs are shaking. His breath is ragged—he’s so far gone he doesn’t even flinch when one of the bowls gets knocked over.

But then you nod. Against all your better instincts, because you could never, ever, get enough of him. Never get enough of this, ever.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, voice hoarse and reverent, “Please, baby, I need to hear you, use your words—”

The entire kitchen goes still, except for the slow drip of sauce sliding off the edge of the counter and hitting the floor with a tiny, damning splop.

Then—

“Hey guys! I’m back early!”

Bob.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, trying to shove Bucky back, who is absolutely useless right now, still clinging to you like he hasn’t quite accepted that two—no, three orgasms on the counter is absolutely where you guys are stopping for the night.

“I brought souvenirs!” Bob’s voice gets closer. “There was this lady on 48th who hand-paints little figurines of pigeons dressed as firefighters and I thought, wow, that’s New York for ya.”

You’re off the counter in a full-body scramble, nearly wiping out on a pool of soapy water near the sink. Bucky grabs your arm instinctively, probably to stop you from busting your head open, but in doing so knocks the toaster off the counter with a metallic clang.

“Get it together,” you whisper, which makes absolutely no sense because you are covered in tomato sauce and your pants are still off and Bucky has suspicious amounts of shininess covering the lower half of his face. The kitchen is a warzone. There’s a wooden spoon on the ceiling fan. One burner’s somehow on. There’s a belt in the fruit bowl.

Bob walks in mid-step, mid-sentence, bright-eyed and radiating wholesome Floridian joy, then stops cold.

His mouth opens. Then closes.

In his arms: two crumpled souvenir bags, one already halfway on the floor. A tiny plush Statue of Liberty rolls dramatically across the tile.

You make a strangled sound that might be a scream. “Bob, I am begging you, go back outside.”

Bucky finally speaks, voice muffled into your shoulder: “I’m so sorry.”

“It looks like you guys fucked so hard the toaster gave up and killed itself,” Bob says, voice high-pitched with the sincerity of someone who’s trying very hard not to be traumatized.

Then he bends down to start picking up the mess he made with the dropped gifts, and you notice the poor guy’s hands are shaking a little. “I just wanted to give you guys your pigeon,” he says, a little wounded. “I picked out one wearing a tiny firefighter hat.”

You kneel down to help him, guilt and secondhand embarrassment flooding your bloodstream like battery acid. “We really appreciate the pigeon, Bob. Seriously. We’ll name it after you.”

“I don’t think I want that,” he mutters, setting the figurine on the table and not quite looking you in the eye. “You guys do know you live with me, right? Like, this isn’t a hotel. There are consequences. For example—”

He pauses to pick up a sticky spoon from the floor, holds it up like he’s inspecting a murder weapon.

“—someone’s going to have to clean this. And it’s not going to be me, because I already did dishes this week.”

You glance at Bucky, still frozen in place, then back at Bob. That was not the way you were expecting things to go. “You’re… taking this really well.” Better than Yelena, goes unsaid.

Bob looks genuinely puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I? Besides the… well. I really shouldn't be surprised. You’ve been in love with each other since, like, week two.”

You and Bucky blink in sync. “What?”

Bob just starts pouring a bowl of cereal, completely unbothered. “Was I not supposed to know? You two are, like, the worst at pretending not to be together. The Rep. Barnes t-shirt? The matching coffee mugs? The way you make heart eyes at each other when you think no one’s watching?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Bucky looks personally offended on behalf of his espionage skills.

“I’m very discreet,” he mumbles.

“You called her by her first name in the middle of a team meeting,” Bob says. “You never ever refer to us by anything other than our last names.”

“That’s—” Bucky falters. “Contextually intimate.”

“And one time I heard her say, ‘I don’t care about the news, can you just tell me if Bucky ate breakfast,’” Bob adds, wringing his hands like it could possibly wipe away the memory of this.

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

Bob shrugs. “Honestly, I thought you two were just trying to create plausible deniability in case HR ever got weird about it.”

You stare at him. “We… we don’t have HR.”

“Exactly,” Bob says, like that proves his point.

Then he disappears into his room, muttering something about pigeons and getting compensation for therapy, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

You turn to Bucky. He’s leaning against the counter, dazed, looking like a man who just walked away from a car crash and won the lottery in the same day. Then he grins. Proud. Absolutely smug.

“Well,” he says, “That went better than I thought it would.”

There’s a long, stunned pause where you and Bucky just look at each other, half-dressed, ruined, embarrassed beyond repair. The kitchen still smells like garlic and impending lawsuits. You stare at him for a beat, sauce drying on your shoulder, and say, “You’re bleaching the counter.”

He shrugs. “I’d bleach the whole building if it meant eating you out like that again.”

You throw a dishtowel at him.

He catches it. Smiles like a menace.

And you already know—next time, the toaster will probably fucking die for real.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #winter soldier #thunderbolts #thunderbolts spoilers #bucky barnes imagine #bucky smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #sebastian stan #mdni #marvel #mcu #🎞️ WRITING — me when i write.#divider: cafekitsune

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hotsexyemogirl77 · 10 months ago

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╭──────────── ╰─➛✎﹏ | nsfw headcanons ! .°• ੈ♡₊˚•.

incl. jeff the killer, ticci toby, masky, hoodie, eyeless jack, ben drowned

18+ | minors dni

❦.♱ʚ♡ɞ♱❦

jeff the killer

" you look so pretty wrapped around my cock. you're such a whore for me, i'm gonna fuck you dumb "

-filthy mouth ,,, he's so graphic in bed

-always lets you know how good you feel around him <3

-he loooves watching your face

-his favourite position is definitely either missionary or when you ride him

-he loves face fucking i'm sorry he loves watching you take all of him

-likes watching you cough and tear up too

- big on degrading

-he loves edging either you're doing it

to him or he's doing it to you he goes crazy for it

-mean and dominate but he will never deny you pleasure

-you'd have to beg for it first though

-loves finishing on your face and chest

-loves being noisy he does NOT care if anybody hears you two

ticci toby

" fuuck, keep clenching around me like that, i promise i'm gonna fill you up so good just give me one more ok ¿ "

- he wants to be a dad sooooo bad (he wants to see you pregnant with his seed)

- crazy stamina he's at LEAST going 2 LONG rounds

- munch ™ but he likes loves to be all up in there. like All over down there

- very messy

- loves the idea of his and your fluids mixing together

- speaking of, he loves hearing the slick sticky sounds from them mixing

- lowkey kinda sick LMAO

- doesn't know where to keep his hands he's all over you

- he loves finishing down your throat or inside you (if you'll let him of course)

- his favourite position is doggy or reverse cowgirl

- switch dom leaning for sure

masky

" shut your mouth or i'll give you something to shut it with, i wont be bothered to be nice either about it sweetheart "

- if you think jeff was mean you have another thing coming honey </3

- big sadist

- wether him marking you up or him spanking you he's doing it all

- he especially likes spanking your ass

- he like seeing you in any position where he's in control

- likes spitting

- doesn't matter if you spit on him or vice versa he's into it

- hard dom loves seeing you so helpless for him

- likes seeing you cry or tear up

- likes the idea of handcuffs in bed

- rough and mean for sure but he knows when he's taking it too far

hoodie

" such a pretty thing for me, im sorry for being so mean you just look so good begging for me down there "

- likes head a little too much

- loves to see you begging or yknow, just on your knees for him

- sooo cocky

- he likes any position he can see your face in he has no preference for it

- likes gagging you but he rewards you for being such a doll about it <3

- he likes receiving more than giving but he likes seeing his partner happy

- he will do it because he likes returning the favour (he likes when you pull his hair)

- lowkey a masochist but he won't say it out loud

- he likes being bitten, marked up ect

- likes seeing your expressions while fucking, his favourite is when he first slips it in

- and when your eyes shut or roll back during it

- hard/service dom

eyeless jack

" look at you, so needy for me, if you ask nicely i'll give you what you want and more"

- loves the every sound you make

- every moan, whimper, cry ect

- big on telling him yourself what you want from him

- he gets a power trip from it

- doesn't make much sound aside from talking

- grunting, growling and heavy breather

- LOVES 69-ing and missionary

- loves marking you up either from hickeys or bite marks

- especially in places others can see them too

- likes keeping his hands your hips

- loves setting the pace

- service top/dom

ben drowned

" fuck yeah just like that angel, please don't stop you feel so good around me like that "

- switch sub leaning

- LOVES when you're on top

- whimpering ,,, and whining ,,

- he like cumming either anywhere on you or down your throat

- he begs a lot without having to ask

- very very eager to please you

- despite all that he can have his more dominate moments too

- loves doggy or literally just bending you over his desk

- LOVES LOVES LOVES biting, scratching, hickeys ect

- goes crazy when it's happening either way tbh

- loses it when you pull his hair it gets him so hard so fast

- likes to tell you how good you feel and are and vice versa call him a good boy

- loves under the desk support

#creepypasta smut #creepypasta x reader #masky x reader #jeff the killer x reader #hoodie x reader #ticci toby x reader #eyeless jack x reader #ben drowned x reader #creepypasta headcanon

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mingiatz · 16 days ago

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Everyone knows Song Mingi doesn’t do relationships. But when you drunkenly tell him about your ex dumping you for being a virgin at 23, he offers to help—no strings attached.

It was supposed to be casual. Then why does it feel like you’re both breaking all zur rules?

👩‍❤️‍💋‍�� Pairing:Song Mingi x F!Reader

🌸 Trope: Fuckboy!mingi, first time, friends-with-benefits-to-lovers, shy!reader, protective cousin (Yeosang), campus AU

🎭 Genre: College AU, smut, angst, fluff, comedy (full K-drama chaos energy)

🎤 Featuring: Ateez as the chaotic friend group (with Yeosang as cousin protective mode™), best friend Jisoo, toxic ex-boyfriend

🔥 Warnings: Explicit smut (first time, oral, multiple rounds), language, angst (with a happy ending), public confession, jealousy, idiots-to-lovers energy

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Mingi couldn’t sleep.

Not because he wasn’t tired—he was. His body felt heavy and warm under the covers, still humming from what they’d just shared.

But his eyes refused to close as he watched you.

You’d drifted off a few minutes ago, your head pillowed on his bicep, your breaths slow and even.

Your hair was a soft mess around your face, lips slightly parted, your lashes casting faint shadows against your cheeks.

How are you this pretty?

His thumb brushed over your bare shoulder absentmindedly, careful not to wake you.

Something bloomed in his chest—warm and unfamiliar. He couldn’t name it, but it scared him in a way he wasn’t ready to unpack.

Still, he held you tighter and let his eyes finally close.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

A faint stirring beside him pulled Mingi from sleep.

You shifted slightly against his chest, and he felt your fingers splay hesitantly over his ribs.

“Morning,” he rasped, his voice still deep and rough from sleep.

“Morning.” Your voice was soft, almost shy.

You tilted your head to look at him, finding his dark eyes already watching you.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip. Then, in a small voice:

“Do you… want to do it again?”

Mingi blinked, then let out a quiet groan, his hand covering his face for a moment.

“Baby… you can’t just say shit like that when I’m still half-asleep.”

“Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.” He was grinning now, his hand sliding down to cup your hip. “You have no idea how badly I want to say yes.”

The nervous knot in your stomach unraveled slightly when he leaned down and kissed you—slow and deep.

“Roll over for me,” he murmured against your lips.

You blinked. “Roll over?”

His grin turned wolfish. “Trust me.”

You obeyed, lying on your stomach, your heart pounding as you felt his hands glide down your back. He pressed soft kisses along your spine before nudging your thighs apart with his knee.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered as he positioned himself behind you.

When the head of his cock pressed against your entrance, you gasped.

“Relax, baby. You’re already so wet for me.”

The stretch felt different this way—deeper. His hands gripped your hips as he slid in slowly, groaning at the tightness.

“Fuck… you feel even better like this.”

You buried your face in the pillow as a breathy moan escaped you.

“That’s it,” he growled softly. “Let me hear you.”

He set a slow but firm rhythm, the sound of his hips meeting yours filling the room.

Each thrust had you gasping, your body rocking forward slightly with every deep push.

“Mingi…”

“Yeah, baby? You like this?”

“Yes—oh my god…”

When your arms gave out from the intensity, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you up slightly so your back pressed to his chest.

“Feel good?” he whispered in your ear.

“So good…”

When you were close, he pulled out and flipped you onto your back.

“Your turn,” he said, settling against the pillows and patting his thighs.

You blinked. “My turn?”

“I want to see you ride me, baby. Think you can do that for me?”

You straddled his hips nervously, your thighs brushing his as you settled on top of him.

Mingi’s dark eyes raked over you hungrily, his hands stroking up your sides to rest on your waist.

“God… you look so good like this,” he murmured, his voice thick with want.

Your cheeks burned. “I don’t really know what I’m doing…”

He grinned, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your skin.

“That’s okay. Just move how it feels good for you. I’ll help you.”

You lifted slightly, aligning him at your entrance, and sank down slowly.

The stretch made you gasp. He felt impossibly deep this way, filling you completely.

“Fuck—Y/N…” Mingi’s head tipped back, his jaw tight as he gripped your hips. “You’re so tight. So warm. Take your time, baby.”

You started to rock your hips gently, testing the motion. Sparks of pleasure bloomed in your core with each movement, your shy moans growing louder as you grew bolder.

“That’s it,” Mingi groaned, his fingers tightening slightly. “Just like that. You’re doing so good for me.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Watching you ride him was torture.

The way your hair fell into your face as you bounced shyly, the soft sounds spilling from your lips—it was too much.

“Baby…” he panted, fighting to keep his hips still beneath you. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your hands rested on his chest for balance as you picked up your pace, your confidence growing with every roll of your hips.

“Shit—I can’t—” Mingi’s hands slid up your thighs to grip your ass, helping you move faster.

The sight of you riding him, your face flushed and lips parted in pleasure, nearly pushed him over the edge.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he growled, sitting up slightly to kiss you hungrily. “Look at you… taking me so well.”

Your walls fluttered around him as you moaned his name, and he knew you were close.

“Cum for me, Y/N. Want to feel you soak me.”

Your thighs burned as you bounced harder, Mingi’s hands guiding you, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

“God, Y/N…” he groaned, his voice raw. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

His eyes never left yours, dark and intense as he watched your flushed face contort with pleasure.

You gasped when his hips bucked up sharply, meeting you halfway.

The new angle had him hitting deeper, the stretch overwhelming. Your hands fisted in his chest as your moans turned into broken cries.

“M-Mingi—I’m—oh my god—”

“I know, baby.” His voice was tight, his thrusts growing faster. “I can feel you. You’re so close. Cum for me. Wanna feel you lose it.”

Your body tensed as your orgasm slammed into you, pleasure crashing over you in hot, shivering waves.

“Ah—Mingi!”

“That’s it,” he growled, his pace faltering as your walls clenched around him. “That’s my good girl. Fuck—”

With a final, deep thrust, he let out a low, guttural moan and followed you over the edge.

“Y/N—”

His hips stuttered as he spilled into the condom, his head falling back against the pillow.

For a moment, the room was filled only with your ragged breaths.

You collapsed onto his chest, trembling slightly as his arms wrapped around you.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded weakly. “Yeah… just… wow.”

Mingi kissed your temple softly, his chest still heaving.

“Yeah. Wow.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“You’re glowing.”

You almost spit out your iced latte. “What?”

Jisoo smirked like she already knew the answer. “You heard me. You’re glowing. Post-good-sex glowing.”

“Jisoo—”

“Oh my god.” She slapped the table, eyes going wide. “You did it! You slept with him, didn’t you?”

You tugged your cardigan tighter, staring hard at your drink.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? That’s not a maybe answer. Spill. Right now.”

You sighed, feeling your face heat.

“It… happened.”

“It happened? Y/N!” Jisoo’s voice went high-pitched as she grabbed your hand across the table. “Was it good? Please tell me it was good.”

“I’m not giving you details.”

“Fine. Scale of one to ten?”

“…ten.”

“Ten?!” Jisoo nearly fell out of her chair. “You’re kidding. He ruined you, didn’t he?”

“Jisoo!”

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay. But… just once?”

You hesitated.

Her eyes narrowed like a predator. “Y/N. How many times?”

“…three.”

Jisoo clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek.

“Three?! First time ever, and you went for a damn trilogy?!”

“It wasn’t planned!” you hissed, sinking in your seat. “It just… happened.”

“Wow. Okay. So you’re basically living a romance novel now.”

“Stop.”

But Jisoo’s grin faltered slightly as she stirred her drink.

“Y/N…”

You looked up at her tone—softer now, with that edge of protectiveness you knew too well.

“You know his reputation, right? Song Mingi doesn’t… date. Like, ever. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You straightened a little, your fingers tightening around your cup.

“I’m not stupid, Jisoo. I know what this is.”

“I’m not saying you’re stupid.” She gave you a gentle smile. “I’m saying you’re soft. And I know how easy it is to confuse great sex with… more.”

“I’m not confusing anything,” you said firmly. “It’s just physical. That’s all.”

Jisoo studied you for a moment longer before nodding slowly.

“Okay. I trust you. But if he does anything even remotely asshole-ish, I’m keying his car.”

You laughed, the tension breaking. “Please don’t.”

“Fine. But I’m keeping it as a backup plan.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It had been a week.

Seven whole days since he’d last seen you.

And Mingi was losing his mind.

He sat slouched on the couch in his apartment, his phone resting on his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

He wasn’t even watching the game on TV anymore. His thumb kept swiping across his lock screen, checking for notifications out of habit.

Nothing.

She said it was just physical, he reminded himself. That’s all it is. Don’t overthink it.

But he couldn’t help it.

Every night this week, he’d caught himself wondering what you were doing. Whether you were thinking about him.

Whether you were lying in bed the same way he was, staring at the ceiling and feeling that strange ache in your chest.

“Yo.”

Yunho’s voice snapped him out of his daze. His friend plopped down on the other end of the couch, a slice of pizza in hand.

Yeosang followed, tossing a can of soda to Mingi.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Yeosang said casually. “Something on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Mingi muttered, unlocking his phone again like the notification fairy might’ve blessed him in the last two seconds.

Yunho raised a brow. “You’ve been staring at that screen like it owes you money.”

Yeosang smirked. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

Mingi froze.

“Ahh, knew it.” Yunho grinned. “Who is she? You’ve been acting like a kicked puppy since Friday.”

“She’s… no one.”

Yeosang snorted. “No one? You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes. For no one?”

Mingi sighed, running a hand down his face.

“She’s just… different.”

Yunho and Yeosang exchanged knowing looks

“Ohhh,” Yunho said, drawing out the sound. “The fuckboy’s catching feelings.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are.”

Mingi groaned and sat up, typing out a message before he could overthink it.

You ghosting me, pretty?

He hit send and threw his phone on the coffee table like it was going to explode.

Yeosang laughed. “Wow. Smooth.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You weren’t expecting a message from him.

It lit up your screen as you sipped tea on the couch, and your heart stuttered when you saw the name.

Mingi: You ghosting me, pretty?

You bit your lip, trying to smother the smile tugging at your mouth.

You: Maybe I like leaving you hanging.

Mingi: Brutal.

Mingi: So… wanna hang out? I’ll bring food.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Two hours later, Mingi was sprawled on your couch with a bag of takeout between you.

“You didn’t have to bring half the menu,” you teased, unpacking boxes of dumplings, fried chicken, and noodles.

“Didn’t know what you liked. And I’m a growing boy,” he said with a grin.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

The food disappeared quickly between shared bites and casual conversation.

It felt… easy.

Somehow, the banter flowed without effort, and you caught yourself smiling more than once at his dumb jokes.

After dinner, you pulled out the Nintendo Switch.

“You play?”

Mingi’s grin turned mischievous. “Prepare to get wrecked.”

He didn’t wreck you.

In fact, he lost—three times.

“Didn’t you say you were good at this?” you teased, flashing him a victorious grin as your character crossed the finish line.

“Hey—I’m distracted.”

“By what? Your crushing defeat?”

“By you,” he said simply.

You blinked, caught off guard as heat rose to your cheeks.

When you looked up, he was already watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“I can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re just… cute.”

Before you could respond, he set his controller down and leaned in, his hand cupping your jaw as he kissed you softly.

The softness didn’t last long.

When your fingers curled into his hoodie and pulled him closer, Mingi groaned low in his throat.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered against your lips.

You didn’t remember how you ended up in your bedroom, only the heat of his hands on your skin as clothes hit the floor.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his forehead resting against yours.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I want you.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing you hard as he lowered you onto the bed.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The room was quiet now, save for your soft breaths against his chest.

Mingi’s arm draped lazily around your waist, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your bare skin.

He could still feel the rapid thud of your heartbeat where your body pressed into his.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

“Mhm.” Your voice was drowsy, a small smile curling your lips. “Just… relaxed.”

Relaxed.

That’s how he felt too.

But it was more than that.

There was something about this—about you curled up against him, your hair tickling his chin, the faint scent of your shampoo still lingering in the air—that felt… dangerous.

It felt right.

Mingi wasn’t used to this.

He was used to slipping out after, to avoiding attachments, to keeping things light and easy.

But right now?

He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to ruin the perfect little bubble that had formed around you.

You shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into his chest with a soft sigh.

Mingi’s throat felt tight.

I could get used to this.

The thought hit him so hard he froze.

Could he?

Could he really get used to lazy nights eating takeout with you, gaming on the couch, holding you like this after?

The idea should’ve terrified him. But instead, it felt… safe.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured sleepily.

He smiled faintly and pressed a kiss to your hair.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About?”

„Nothing really.”

He couldnt tell you his real thougts, just yet.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The sound of laughter echoed through the little Korean barbecue place, the table crowded with plates of sizzling meat and side dishes.

Mingi sat at the end of the booth, absently scrolling his phone.

He wasn’t even pretending to listen to the others anymore. His thumb hovered over the keyboard as he read your last text for the tenth time:

Y/N: That sounds like a challenge. Wanna see if you can actually beat me this time? 😉

A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

“You’re doing it again,” Yunho said.

Mingi blinked up. “Huh?”

“The smiling at your phone thing,” Yunho clarified, gesturing with his chopsticks. “That’s the third time since we sat down.”

Yeosang leaned back, smirking. “Not just smiling. Grinning. Like an idiot.”

“Okay, chill,” Mingi said, flipping his phone over.

“What’s so funny?” San asked curiously.

Wooyoung’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “It’s not funny. It’s someone.”

The entire table turned to Mingi.

“Mystery girl?” Hongjoong asked casually, sipping his beer.

“What mystery girl?” Jongho chimed in, his brow raised.

“Exactly!” Wooyoung leaned across the table like he’d just discovered gold. “That’s what I’m asking. Mingi’s been acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird.“

“Bro, you’re acting so weird,” Yeosang said flatly. “Checking your phone every five minutes. Smiling for no reason. Zoning out in the middle of games.”

San gasped theatrically. “You’ve been hit with Cupid’s arrow.”

“Cupid’s arrow? Seriously?” Mingi scoffed, shoving a piece of lettuce into his mouth

Hongjoong was watching him now with that scary leader gaze.

“So? Who is she?”

“She’s…” Mingi hesitated, fiddling with his chopsticks. “No one.”

“No one?” Yunho repeated, grinning like a shark. “Your face says otherwise.”

Yeosang drummed his fingers on the table. “He’s hiding her. Which means…”

“Which means he actually likes her,” Wooyoung finished with a gasp.

Mingi groaned. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?” Jongho asked calmly.

“It’s…” Mingi trailed off, staring down at his plate.

It wasn’t like him to open up, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I don’t know. She’s different. When we’re together, it’s… easy. Like I don’t have to think about anything. And when we’re not…”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I keep thinking about her.”

The table went quiet for a split second.

Then Yunho slapped the table, sending the soy sauce bottle rattling.

“YOU’RE IN LOVE!”

“What?! No—”

“Yes! That’s literally what love sounds like!” Yeosang pointed accusingly.

Wooyoung leaned in dramatically. “The fuckboy has fallen. Somebody call the press.”

“I’m not in love,” Mingi said firmly, though his ears burned hot.

“Sure you’re not.” Hongjoong smirked knowingly. “That’s why you’re smiling like a dork at your phone and spilling your heart like a main character in a rom-com.”

Even Jongho joined in. “This is funnier than when he cried during that dog movie.”

“HEY.”

As the guys erupted in laughter, Mingi swiped his phone off the table, unlocking it as your notification popped up again:

Y/N: So… wanna come over tonight and prove you’re not scared of losing? 😏

His lips twitched.

Yeosang’s eyes narrowed like a hawk. “He’s texting her again.”

“Look at that smile.” Yunho sighed dreamily. “He’s gone.”

“Shut up,” Mingi muttered, typing quickly.

Mingi: Be there in 30. Don’t cry when I destroy you in Mario Kart.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The smell hit him as soon as he stepped inside.

Garlic, soy, and something faintly sweet.

“Are you… cooking?” Mingi asked, dropping his jacket on the arm of the couch.

“Maybe,” you called from the kitchen, peeking out from behind the counter with a shy smile.

Mingi grinned as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you stir something in a pot.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to. You always bring takeout, so I thought… I could return the favor.”

When you set a plate in front of him, he took one bite and froze.

“This… this tastes like my mom’s.”

Your eyes widened. “Is that… good?”

“Good?” He laughed, already reaching for another bite. “This is fucking incredible. I’m gonna need like three more plates.”

You flushed with pride as he practically inhaled the first serving.

After dinner, the two of you curled up on the couch, a random movie playing in the background.

Mingi stretched out, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing lazily against your shoulder.

Halfway through the movie, your head tipped onto his chest.

You were asleep within minutes.

He stared down at you, his chest tightening in a way that was becoming disturbingly familiar.

He wasn’t even thinking about sex.

For the first time in… maybe ever… he didn’t care if that’s where the night led.

He just liked being here.

Watching you. Listening to your soft breaths. Feeling the steady warmth of your body against his.

Shit.

The guys were right.

He was in deep.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

When you stirred awake a little later, blinking sleepily up at him, he couldn’t help but smile.

“You fell asleep on me,” he teased softly.

“Sorry…” you murmured, but your arms tightened around his waist.

“Don’t be. I liked it.”

His hand brushed your hair back gently, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Y/N…”

You hummed in question, still half-asleep.

“I think I’m in trouble with you,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you softly.

The kiss deepened as you woke fully, your fingers curling into his hoodie.

When his tongue brushed against yours, you let out a soft sound that had his control snapping.

“Bedroom?” he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded.

In the bedroom, Mingi was slow at first—undressing you carefully, kissing every new inch of exposed skin.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck. “I’ll never get tired of this. Of you.”

But when you tugged him closer, whispering his name like a plea, something in him broke.

His kisses turned hungry. His hands roamed greedily.

“You drive me insane, Y/N,” he growled against your lips. “I don’t even know who I am around you anymore.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The Apartment was quiet when Yeosang let himself in.

He balanced the bag of food from his mom on one arm as he nudged the door shut behind him.

“Y/N?” he called softly. “Your aunt made enough stew to feed a small army, so I brought some over.”

No answer.

As he toed off his shoes, his brow furrowed.

There were men’s sneakers by the door. Big ones. Definitely not Y/N’s.

His eyes flicked to the couch—an oversized hoodie was draped over the back. A phone charger was plugged in that wasn’t hers.

His stomach sank.

Did she get a boyfriend?

“Y/N?” he called again, stepping deeper into the apartment.

The sound of faint, even breathing drew his attention to the cracked-open bedroom door.

He froze.

There, tangled up in the sheets, were two figures.

You.

And Mingi.

Yeosang’s brain short-circuited.

Mingi’s arm was thrown lazily over your bare waist, his face tucked into your hair. The sheets barely covered both of you, but there was no mistaking the bare shoulders, the strong chest, the way your legs intertwined under the covers.

Yeosang’s jaw dropped.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK.”

Mingi jerked awake at the sound, his eyes still heavy with sleep as they cracked open.

“…Yeosang?” he mumbled, his voice rough and confused.

“Are you—?!” Yeosang sputtered, his hands flailing like he didn’t know where to look. “Is SHE—?!”

Mingi blinked, trying to sit up, but the movement caused the sheet to slip dangerously low.

“Dude—COVER YOURSELF!”

You stirred beside him, eyes fluttering open in confusion. “Yeosang…?”

“NO.” Yeosang pointed a shaking finger at Mingi. “DON’T ‘YEOSANG’ ME. IS THE MYSTERY GIRL YOU’VE BEEN TEXTING MY COUSIN?!”

Mingi’s mouth opened. Closed.

“I—uh—”

“Oh my GOD.” Yeosang clutched his head. “I’m gonna puke. You’re hooking up with my cousin?! SONG MINGI?!”

“I think Yeosang might kill him.”

Jisoo nearly choked on her iced Americano.

“Wait. BACK UP.” She leaned across the café table, eyes wide with glee. “Yeosang. As in your cousin Yeosang?”

“Yes,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands.

“And Mingi? As in Song Mingi—campus heartthrob, tall and dangerous, your very-not-boyfriend?”

“Jisoo.”

“I need every detail,” she demanded, barely containing her grin. “How did he find out?”

“He… brought food over.”

“Cute.”

“With his spare key.”

“Oh no.”

“I was asleep. Naked. Cuddling with Mingi. He saw everything.”

Jisoo slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh.

“Oh my god. I know I should be horrified for you, but this is hilarious. What did Yeosang do?”

“He freaked out! Started shouting about how Mingi’s been texting some mystery girl all month and now it’s his cousin—”

Jisoo snorted. “I love that for him. Poor guy.”

You sighed, stirring your latte absently.

“It’s a mess, Jisoo. He’s pissed, and I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s not like Mingi and I are… y’know… anything serious.”

Jisoo tilted her head. “Are you sure about that?”

Your heart skipped. “What do you mean?”

“You tell me. Are you catching feelings?”

You hesitated.

“I… think I might be.” The words tumbled out softly. “I know we said no strings, but… sometimes he’s just… different.”

“Different how?”

“Like… he doesn’t just come over for sex. He eats my cooking. He stays for movies. He holds me after, even when I fall asleep first. And the way he looks at me sometimes…”

You trailed off, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Sounds like boyfriend behavior to me.”

“Or maybe I’m just delusional,” you mumbled. “Maybe he’s like this with every girl.”

Jisoo reached across the table to squeeze your hand.

“Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s catching feelings too, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

You bit your lip, staring down at your coffee.

„You think I should talk to him?”

“Yes.” Jisoo didn’t hesitate for a second. “I know you, Y/N. You’ll eat yourself alive wondering otherwise.”

You fiddled with your straw, staring at the melting ice in your drink.

“But what if I ruin it? What if he doesn’t feel the same and things get awkward?”

Jisoo’s expression softened.

“Then he wasn’t the right guy. And you’ll know, and you’ll heal.”

She reached across the table, resting her hand over yours.

“But if he does feel the same—and you don’t say anything—you might lose out on something amazing.”

You bit your lip.

“I don’t even know how to bring it up. ‘Hey, so I think I might have caught feelings for you even though we promised no strings attached’?”

Jisoo chuckled. “I mean… not those exact words. But yeah. Be honest. Tell him what you told me.”

“I can’t believe this is me,” you muttered. “I’ve turned into one of those girls.”

“You’re one of those girls who’s falling for a guy who might be falling for her too.”

You looked up, meeting her steady gaze.

“And what if I’m wrong? What if I’m just… another girl to him?”

Jisoo shook her head firmly.

“No, Y/N. You said it yourself—he’s different with you. Guys like Mingi don’t hang around for movies and homemade meals unless they want to.”

Her words lingered like a warm ache in your chest.

I hope she’s right.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

When Mingi walked into the dorm lounge, Yeosang was already pacing like a man possessed.

“We have a situation,” Yeosang declared, his hands flailing as the rest of the group looked on in various states of confusion and amusement.

Jongho sipped his coffee calmly. “Do we, though?”

“Yes!” Yeosang said, whirling on him. “A BIG situation.”

San smirked. “This is about Mingi’s mystery girl, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Yeosang snapped. “And you’ll never guess who it is.”

Hongjoong sighed. “Yeosang. Just say it.”

But Yeosang didn’t get the chance—because Mingi froze in the doorway.

Shit.

Yeosang didn’t see him yet. He was too busy waving his arms.

“It’s Y/N. My COUSIN. That’s who he’s been texting. That’s who he’s been SLEEPING with. I walked in on them cuddling NAKED—”

“Naked?!” Seonghwa’s eyes widened.

“Yes! NAKED.” Yeosang’s voice cracked. “They were like—entangled. It was horrific.”

Wooyoung clutched his stomach, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

“OH MY GOD. This is incredible.”

San was wheezing. “Song Mingi seducing Yeosang’s cousin… I can’t…”

Jongho just shook his head. “Hyung, you’re a dead man.”

Finally, Yeosang spotted him.

“You!” He pointed an accusatory finger as Mingi stood frozen in place.

Mingi raised his hands. “Wait—Yeosang—”

“EXPLAIN YOURSELF. NOW.”

Hongjoong’s leader voice cut through the chaos.

“Mingi. Are you serious about her?”

The room went dead silent.

Mingi’s chest tightened. He thought about you—your laugh, your smile, the way you fell asleep on his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yes,” he said softly.

The silence deepened.

“Wait.” Yunho blinked. “Did you just…?”

“I’m serious about her,” Mingi repeated, stronger this time. “I think… I think I’m in love with her.”

Yeosang’s mouth opened. Closed.

San made a sound like a dying dolphin.

Wooyoung actually dropped his chopsticks.

“YOU’RE IN WHAT?!” Yeosang finally shouted.

“Love,” Mingi said simply, meeting his eyes. “I know it’s fast. I know it’s not what you expected. But it’s true.“

Wooyoung was on his feet now. “OH MY GOD. HE ADMITTED IT. SONG MINGI HAS FALLEN.”

San clutched Yunho for support, laughing so hard tears streamed down his face.

Jongho raised an eyebrow. “Congrats on becoming a softie, hyung.”

Yeosang sputtered. “YOU—MY COUSIN—YOU’RE—”

Hongjoong clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe, Yeosang. At least he’s in love and not just… y’know…”

“Fucking her?” Jongho supplied bluntly.

“JONGHO.”

Mingi exhaled deeply.

“I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t even think about leaving after—because I don’t want to leave.”

Yeosang went quiet for a moment, staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

“…You better mean that,” he said finally, voice tight. “If you break her heart, I swear—”

“I won’t,” Mingi interrupted softly. “I promise.”

“I don’t even know if she likes me back,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

“What?” Yunho asked, eyes wide.

“She and I… we agreed after the party that it was just casual.”

Yeosang froze mid-pace, his eyes snapping to Mingi like he’d just confessed a murder.

“AFTER THE PARTY?!”

“Yeah.”

“THE PARTY THAT WAS OVER A MONTH AGO?!”

“Yeah.”

Yeosang’s voice cracked. “YOU’VE BEEN SMOOCHING AROUND WITH MY COUSIN THAT LONG?!”

Wooyoung was already on the floor laughing.

“Smooching around? Oh my god—” He wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeosang, you sound like her dad.”

“I FEEL LIKE HER DAD,” Yeosang yelled. “You—” He pointed wildly at Mingi. “—you KNEW she was my cousin because I INTRODUCED her as my cousin, and you STILL—”

“I know,” Mingi groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I didn’t plan on this happening.”

San cackled, leaning into Yunho. “He’s been secretly dating her for a month and calls it casual.”

“It’s NOT dating,” Mingi protested weakly. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Sounds like dating,” Jongho deadpanned.

Hongjoong raised a hand, cutting through the laughter.

“Mingi. Be honest. What are your intentions with her?”

Mingi sat up, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I want to be with her. All the time. But I don’t know if she wants that with me.”

“Mingi.” Yunho leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You’re in love. She might be too. But you’ll never know if you don’t talk to her.”

San grinned. “Yeah. Confess. Worst case? She says no and you cry in the shower like Wooyoung.”

“HEY.” Wooyoung threw a napkin at him. “I cried ONE time. Shut up.”

Seonghwa gave Mingi a pointed look. “They’re right. You can’t keep dancing around this. You need to tell her how you feel.”

Even Jongho chimed in, his tone dry as ever.

“You’re acting like a high schooler. Grow a pair and confess.”

Mingi groaned. “You guys make it sound so easy. What if it ruins everything?”

“Or what if it makes everything better?” Yunho countered.

Silence fell for a moment as Yeosang crossed his arms, still glaring.

“…Fine,” he muttered finally. “But if you hurt her, I’ll break your face.”

Mingi looked up, startled.

“I’m serious,” Yeosang said sharply. “Confess. But if you screw this up, cousin or not, I’m coming for you.”

Hongjoong clapped his hands together. “Settled then. Mingi’s going to tell her.”

Wooyoung smirked. “Should we start planning the wedding?”

“WOoYoUnG—”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The sun was warm against your skin as you sat cross-legged on the grass, a paperback balanced in your lap.

Campus was quieter than usual this afternoon, most students rushing off to their next classes or huddled in the library.

You turned a page, lips curving into a small smile as the story pulled you in.

“Hey.”

You blinked, looking up.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy stood a few feet away, a backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. His smile was easy and charming, dark eyes glinting as he brushed a hand through his wavy hair.

“Sorry to bother you. I just… couldn’t help noticing you.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “Noticing… me?”

“Yeah. You look cute sitting there, all focused.” He nodded toward your book. “What are you reading?”

You glanced down at the cover, suddenly shy. “Oh, um… just a novel. Nothing exciting.”

He smiled wider. “Well, you make it look exciting.”

You blinked, stunned. Wait. Is he flirting? With me?

You’d never been the type to attract random strangers like this.

“Anyway,” he said, shifting his weight, “I was wondering… would you maybe want to give me your number? We could grab coffee sometime.”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“I…” You bit your lip. “I appreciate it, but… I’m seeing someone right now. So I’m not interested.”

For a beat, his smile faltered. But then he chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Lucky guy.”

He stepped back, giving you a little nod. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” you murmured, watching as he walked away.

You turned back to your book, but the words blurred as your thoughts drifted.

Seeing someone.

The phrase had slipped out so naturally.

Even though you and Mingi weren’t official… it still felt true.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

He hadn’t meant to wander past this part of campus.

After leaving the dorm, Mingi’s steps had felt aimless—pulled by some invisible string until he ended up cutting across the lawn.

That’s when he saw you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the grass, a paperback balanced in your lap, hair falling softly around your face. The sunlight caught on your skin, and for a moment Mingi just… stopped.

You looked so peaceful.

So yours.

His lips parted slightly. He was about to call out to you—maybe wave—when movement caught his eye.

A tall guy. Attractive. Broad shoulders, easy smile, leaning down slightly as he spoke to you.

Mingi’s chest tightened.

The guy’s grin was obvious. So was the way his gaze lingered on you.

He was flirting.

Mingi’s jaw clenched.

He couldn’t hear your reply, but you looked flustered—eyes wide, hand fiddling with the corner of your book.

Was this what you liked?

The thought made his stomach churn.

You’re being stupid, he told himself. She’s not yours.

But it didn’t matter. Watching someone else smile at you like that felt like a hand around his throat.

When the guy stepped back, Mingi exhaled shakily. Relief washed over him as the stranger gave a small nod and walked away, leaving you alone again.

He ran a hand down his face.

This can’t wait anymore.

I have to talk to her.

But as he took a step forward, you began packing your things.

You slipped your book into your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and headed toward the main building—probably off to your next lecture.

Mingi stood frozen for a second, his heart pounding.

Now or never.

Mingi cursed under his breath as you disappeared around the corner of the path.

She’s fast. How is she so fast?

His long strides carried him quickly across the lawn, but you—small, unassuming you—moved with a surprising purpose.

Is she speed walking?

“Y/N!” he called, but his voice was lost in the hum of campus noise.

You didn’t turn.

Mingi adjusted his pace, nearly jogging as you darted up the steps toward the main building.

“Seriously? Those tiny legs?” he muttered under his breath.

Finally, as you reached for the lecture hall door, his hand caught your wrist.

“Y/N—wait.”

You jumped slightly, startled, but when you turned and saw him your expression shifted instantly—softening into surprise and then warmth.

“Mingi? What are you—”

“Did you give him your number?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The guy,” Mingi said, his voice lower now but tight with something he couldn’t quite name. “The one who was talking to you just now. Did you… give him your number?”

Your brows knitted, confusion flickering across your face.

“No. Of course not.”

“Then why was he—”

“Why are you asking me that?”

Around you, a hush had fallen.

Students settling into their seats were now watching openly, whispering behind hands.

“Mingi,” you said softly, tilting your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Are you okay?”

He exhaled, realizing his fingers were still curled gently around your wrist. He let go quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I just… I saw him talking to you. And I—” He broke off, swallowing hard.

“I think…”

Mingi’s voice was louder than he intended, and it carried across the room.

You blinked at him, startled.

“I think I’m jealous.”

The room went silent.

Dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward you both, whispers rippling through the lecture hall.

You stared at him, your mouth slightly open.

“What?”

“I saw that guy talking to you,” Mingi said, his voice tight. “And I thought… I don’t know. I thought I was fine, but then I realized I’m not fine. I don’t like seeing you with anyone else.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion mixing with surprise.

“Mingi… what are you saying?”

His hand raked through his hair, his usual smooth composure cracking like glass.

“I’m saying—fuck—I think I like you. No, I know I like you. I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Gasps echoed faintly around the room.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You weren’t expecting this—this version of Mingi.

He looked nervous. Vulnerable. His tall frame seemed smaller somehow as he stood there under the weight of so many eyes.

When you didn’t speak right away, his expression shifted.

The faint hope in his eyes dimmed.

“Right,” he said quickly, stepping back. “I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Mingi—”

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice tight. “Someone like you… you deserve better than some guy who slept his way through half the campus.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, his shoulders tense.

You stood frozen at the entrance, heart pounding in your ears.

The professor cleared her throat pointedly.

“Miss? Are you coming in or staying out?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you nodded quickly and slipped into a seat.

You barely registered the lecture starting.

Your mind was still spinning.

Mingi’s in love with me?

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The apartment was filled with laughter and the rapid clicking of controllers when Mingi walked in.

“Yo, you’re back!” San called from where he was sprawled on the floor. “You miss me wrecking Yunho in Mario Kart?”

But the moment Mingi stepped fully into the room, the energy shifted.

He was pouting.

Not his usual playful pout—the deep, miserable kind, his lower lip jutted out as his brows knitted together.

His eyes were glassy like he’d been holding back tears the whole walk home.

And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“Uh-oh,” Wooyoung whispered, pausing mid-game. “That’s not a ‘casual Mingi’ face. That’s a ‘my heart just got ripped out’ face.”

Mingi didn’t respond. He just let out a heavy sigh and flopped face-down onto the couch, burying his head in a throw pillow.

The room went quiet.

“Did… did something happen?” Yunho asked carefully.

“She rejected you, didn’t she?” San blurted, his voice soft with surprise instead of mockery.

Mingi groaned into the pillow. “She didn’t reject me. She didn’t say anything.”

“What do you mean?” Hongjoong’s voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp with concern.

“I confessed. In front of her entire lecture hall like an idiot. And she just… stared at me.”

Yeosang, who had been sitting stiffly in the corner, frowned. “She didn’t answer at all?”

“No.” Mingi’s voice cracked slightly. “She just… stood there. And I panicked. I said I wasn’t good enough for her and I left.”

“Oh, hyung…” Yunho rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve got it bad.”

“You think?” Mingi muttered bitterly, his words muffled by the pillow.

Wooyoung whistled low. “Damn. You finally fell for someone, and now you’re the one getting wrecked.”

“Not helping,” Seonghwa murmured.

“Hey.” Hongjoong’s voice was steady, firm. “You did the right thing. You told her how you feel. That’s brave.”

“Brave and stupid,” Mingi mumbled.

Yeosang let out a quiet sigh. “Look. I don’t know where her head’s at. But I know my cousin. She doesn’t just stare at people for no reason. She was probably just shocked.”

Mingi peeked out from the pillow, his lashes damp.

“Do you really think she might…?”

San grinned faintly. “Dude, she likes you. We’ve all seen it. She’s just shy as hell.”

“Or she’s realized you’re a walking red flag,” Wooyoung added with a shrug.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You barely remembered leaving the lecture hall.

Your bag swung against your hip as you speed-walked across campus, your shoes clicking against the pavement.

He said he loves me.

The words echoed in your head like a drumbeat.

Song Mingi. Loves me.

You yanked out your phone, your fingers fumbling as you called Jisoo.

“Whoa—aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Jisoo, I—he—oh my god.”

“Slow down,” she laughed. “Who?”

“Mingi. He confessed. In front of the whole lecture hall. Everyone saw.”

There was a pause.

“Girl.” Jisoo’s voice turned smug. “I know.”

“You WHAT?”

“It’s all over campus. People are calling it ‘the K-drama moment of the year.’”

You groaned, pressing a hand to your hot face.

“This is so embarrassing—”

“Embarrassing? He confessed in public and you just froze? No wonder he thinks you don’t like him back.”

“I didn’t mean to! I was shocked!”

Jisoo’s voice softened.

“So? Do you like him?”

You stopped in your tracks.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I think I do.”

“Then what are you doing talking to me? Run to him, you idiot.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I’m already on my way.”

By the time you reached the dorm, your heart was hammering in your ears.

You hung up with Jisoo, wiped your palms on your skirt, and knocked.

The door opened a crack—and there he was.

Mingi.

Dressed in an oversized fuzzy pullover, holding a half-melted tub of ice cream. His hair was a mess, his eyes slightly red like he’d rubbed at them too much.

He blinked at you in surprise, his mouth parting slightly.

“Y/N…?”

You took a breath, clutching the strap of your bag.

“Hi.”

The door swung open wider, and there he was.

Song Mingi.

Tall, broad-shouldered, hair sticking up in a thousand directions like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His oversized fuzzy pullover swallowed him, the sleeves falling over his fingers where he clutched a melting tub of ice cream.

His eyes were slightly red, like maybe—just maybe—he’d been close to crying.

For a split second, he looked like every male lead in every heartbreak K-drama you’d ever watched.

“Y/N?” he said softly, as if saying your name might break him.

“I—uh—what are you doing here?”

You stepped closer, clutching your bag.

“I came to talk to you.”

Mingi shifted nervously, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“You… didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

“I mean—you don’t have to explain or—if you don’t feel the same, it’s fine, really. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to—”

“Mingi.”

He froze.

You took another step closer.

“Shut up.”

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect.

You were trembling slightly, standing on tiptoe to reach him, your hands fisting into the soft fabric of his hoodie. But the second your lips pressed to his, he froze—then melted.

The ice cream hit the floor with a dull thud as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours, wild and wide.

“I like you too,” you whispered, your voice steady even as your heart tried to beat out of your chest. “I was just… shocked. I didn’t know what to say.”

Mingi let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. His forehead dropped to yours, his arms still locked tight around your waist.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not just saying that because I look like a tragic K-drama lead right now?”

You laughed, tears pricking your eyes. “You do. But no. I’m serious.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“Did you hear the door?” San asked, pausing his game.

“Yeah,” Yunho said, leaning back to peek toward the entrance. “Wait… is that… Y/N?”

“Holy shit,” Wooyoung hissed, dropping his controller. “It’s her. She came after him.”

Yeosang’s head whipped up so fast you’d think his neck cracked.

“My cousin’s HERE?”

“Shhh!” Seonghwa waved frantically. “They’re talking!”

They all froze, controllers forgotten, as Mingi’s nervous voice drifted from the doorway.

“I—uh—what are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you.”

“You… didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Yunho slapped San’s arm excitedly. “She wanted to.”

“Shut up,” Yeosang hissed. “What’s happening?”

And then—

They saw it.

Y/N stepped forward, grabbed Mingi’s hoodie, and kissed him.

“OH MY GOD—” Wooyoung clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his yell.

San wasn’t so subtle.

“YOOOOOOOOO! SHE KISSED HIM FIRST!”

Yunho’s eyes widened as he started clapping softly like he was at a wedding. “Let’s gooo. Main character energy.”

Even Jongho cracked a small smirk.

“Finally. Took them long enough.”

Yeosang, meanwhile, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief.

“They’re… kissing? She kissed HIM?”

“She kissed him, bro,” Wooyoung whispered, shaking his shoulders. “You lost. Mingi’s your cousin-in-law now.”

“WOYOuNg—”

Hongjoong pinched the bridge of his nose but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Let’s give them a second. Don’t scare her off.”

Seonghwa nodded, smiling softly. “She wouldn’t have kissed him if she didn’t feel the same.”

Yeosang sank into the couch, rubbing his temples.

“I can’t believe I’m living through this.”

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE SO CUTE,” San whispered like he couldn’t physically hold it in.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Mingi didn’t care who was watching.

Not the people whispering as he walked across campus.

Not the cluster of students gawking from the café window.

Not even the group chat notifications blowing up on his phone (probably from his idiot friends).

All he cared about was you.

You walked beside him, clutching a small to-go cup of tea, your cheeks pink from the cold.

“Here.” He stopped, tugging your hand gently. “Your scarf’s coming loose.”

Before you could protest, Mingi stepped in close and started re-wrapping your scarf—his big hands surprisingly gentle.

When he was satisfied, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“There. Perfect.”

“Min…” you whispered, glancing around. “People are staring.”

“Good.” He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Let them see how pretty my girlfriend is.”

Someone behind you audibly whispered, “Is that Song Mingi? The campus player? Holding hands?!”

Mingi’s grin widened.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath, loud enough for them to hear. “The player’s retired. Sorry.”

You were perched on a stool, reading a textbook while Mingi sat across from you, his chin propped on his hand.

“Stop staring,” you murmured without looking up.

“Can’t.”

He reached over and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You’re distracting.”

“Min—”

“Open.”

You blinked as he held out a forkful of his cake.

“I’m not—”

“Open.”

You sighed but opened your mouth, and he grinned like a kid as he fed you the bite.

“Disgusting,” Wooyoung said flatly from across the café. “They’re so disgusting.”

“I kinda think it’s cute,” Yunho whispered.

“Cute? It’s nauseating.” Wooyoung mimed gagging.

San grinned. “I give it three minutes before Mingi kisses her again in public.”

“Three?” Jongho snorted. “I say two.”

Yeosang sighed, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe he’s dating my cousin. And worse… he’s actually a good boyfriend.”

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

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abbotjack · 4 months ago

Note

Abbott with a ‘sir’ kink just feels right

(ps love your writing)

Oh absolutely—Jack Abbot with a ‘sir’ kink doesn’t just feel right—it explains so much. Man spent years in the military, still walks like command never left his body, and the second you call him "sir"? His jaw ticks. His breath catches. The air shifts. This is very him—and very you, ruined by him. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: sir kink, emotionally repressed man finally losing control, rough sex, power dynamic tension, mentions of military trauma and death, alcohol (beer), reader is a fourth-year resident, Jack is Not Gentle™ p.s thank you so much to everyone who’s left kind words about my writing lately. it means more than you know <3

You weren’t supposed to be on shift. Memorial Day, supposedly protected on the schedule. But half the roster called off and you got the text at noon from Dana: we need you.

Jack was already in the trauma bay when you walked in—sleeves stained, voice low and clipped, the kind that made everyone fall in line without thinking. He didn’t say a word when he saw you. Just handed you a pair of gloves.

Now it’s past midnight. You’re outside the hospital, undershirt sweat-stuck to your spine. You could’ve walked home—it’s not far—but when Jack mutters, “You need a ride?” with his keys already in hand, you don’t say no.

His truck smells like unscented soap, clean cotton, and the faintest trace of leather—lived-in but scrubbed down, like everything else he keeps close. There’s nothing on the seats. No wrappers. No dust. Console organized, glove box latched. The kind of vehicle that’s been through things but still runs quiet—because he keeps it that way.

There’s a trauma kit in the backseat. You know without asking. Probably an extra pair of scrubs folded under it. Probably gloves in the door pocket, a stethoscope stuffed between the seats.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, wrist loose, posture upright. No music playing. Just the low, occasional murmur of the police scanner tucked under the dash.

He doesn’t talk while driving. He doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it. Jack Abbot isn’t wired for background noise. He reads intersections like patients—measures, anticipates, adjusts. Everything he does has a reason.

Even the way he glances over at you at the red light, like he’s making sure you haven’t slipped out of his orbit yet.

“You eat today?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head. “When would I have?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, turns the wheel one-handed.

“You’re coming back to mine,” he says.

Not a question. Not even an offer.

Just... routine.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

You’ve done this enough times to know there’ll be cold beer in the fridge, maybe leftover pasta—if Robby didn’t steal it last time he dropped by. Jack won’t say a word when you kick off your shoes at the door like you live here, too.

The house is dark when you step inside, but it smells like cedar and clean soap and something warmer beneath it—wood polish, maybe. His kind of clean. The kind that comes from knowing where everything belongs and putting it there, every time.

He moves through the space like it’s muscle memory, like the floor was built to match his stride. The quiet step of his prosthetic against the hardwood is as familiar to you now as the creak in the cabinet hinge he still hasn’t fixed.

“You want one?” he calls from the kitchen, already pulling open the fridge.

You murmur a quiet yeah and drift in, leaning your hip against the counter as he cracks two beers open. He sets one in front of you without looking. The cap lands in the little dish on the windowsill with a soft clink—just like all the others piled inside it. A dozen, at least. Maybe more.

The house is nice. Not just for a guy like him, but nice by any standard. Exposed beams. Matte black fixtures. Shelves that look like they belong in a magazine but you know he built them himself. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need decorating because it was built right the first time.

You take your beer and head into the living room. Sit where you always do.

He follows, lowering himself into the armchair across from you with practiced ease. Weight shifts left, then the soft tap of his prosthetic finds the floor. You know the rhythm of how he moves—how he balances, how he settles. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t explain it. And you’ve never needed him to.

You glance at him.

“What,” he says.

“You always sit like that,” you reply.

He arches a brow. Not challenging—just neutral.

“You lead with your left,” you clarify.

“I don’t think about it.”

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

You both sip in silence for a while. There’s a radio scanner in the corner near the window. It’s on, low. Something crackles and fades out.

“Why do you always work Memorial Day?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Don’t like being told to take the day off.”

That makes you smile. “So, spite.”

He doesn't smile back, but his voice shifts just enough to tell you it landed. “Something like that.”

You stretch your legs out. Rest the bottle on your thigh. “You ever miss it?”

Jack looks at the wall behind you—not through you, just past. Not escaping. Recalling.

“No.”

You wait.

“I miss the parts that made sense. Waking up every day with a mission. Knowing the rules. Knowing what mattered.” He looks at you. “But I don’t miss the heat. The sand. The sound a man makes when he thinks he’s going to die.”

You nod, slow. He’s not looking for sympathy. You don’t offer it.

You shift a little on the couch, not even thinking before you say, “Do you miss the authority? Like... being called ‘sir’ all the time?”

He glances at you. Not sharply. Just long enough to let the question hang.

Then he looks away again. Back to the bottle in his hands.

“I miss not having to explain myself,” he says. “That’s about it.”

You smile a little, trying to cut through it. “Well, you’re still kind of terrifying when you want to be.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

You tip your head toward him. “Sir.”

Just a murmur. Barely there. But he hears it.

He stills.

Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t answer.

He just... sets his beer down.

Carefully. Quietly.

Jack leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s walking himself through something he already decided an hour ago.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He holds your gaze, steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t move.

Just waits—like he’s giving you a last chance to pull back, even if part of him knows you won’t.

And when you don’t—when you just sit there, breathing quiet and not taking it back—

He stands and crosses the room—measured, quiet, with that same deliberate ease he always has right before everything changes.

You set your beer down without thinking.

When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Just looks at you.

You’re still sitting, hands loose in your lap, heart loud in your chest. You tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“Still sure?” he asks.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in—both hands coming to your face, one curling against your jaw, the other threading into your hair—and kisses you like he’s been trying not to for a long time. His body tilts over yours, braced, sure.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough. It’s need—heat, breath, a scrape of teeth. You tilt into it, fingers catching the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself like you’re afraid he might pull away.

When you stand—rising into him—it’s instinct, seamless. That’s when his hands find your waist, gripping like he’s finally letting himself touch what he’s wanted all along.

“You want this?” he asks, breath hot against your cheek.

You nod, already breathless. “Yes.”

He steps back—not far. Just enough to let you follow.

You do.

No words. No second thoughts. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet creak of floorboards beneath his steps.

The bedroom is like the rest of the house—dark, clean, minimal. Black sheets. Hardwood floors. A space that’s only ever held him, until now.

The door barely clicks shut before he’s already working your pants down—no fumbling, just intent. Mouth on your jaw, breath hot and uneven as he pulls them past your thighs.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, almost under his breath.

You do. Of course you do. Every look, every shift in his voice, every beer he handed you with his jaw clenched too tight.

You step out of the last of your clothes. He does the same—fast, practiced, stripped down to nothing but need.

He backs you toward the bed, then pushes you gently by the hips. You go easily, falling back onto the sheets, legs parting before you even think about it.

Jack stares.

His body over yours—solid, scarred, familiar—but his face?

Wrecked.

“This,” he says, low, like he’s not even speaking to you, like he’s talking to the version of himself that told him not to touch you. “This was always gonna happen.”

Then he’s on you.

No teasing. No delay.

Just his mouth, hot and heavy between your legs, tongue dragging slow and purposeful until you’re arching off the bed with a sound you barely recognize as yours.

You grip the sheets. His shoulders. Anything.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even look up.

Just groans low into you like he’s addicted to the way you fall apart under his hands.

You’re already shaking when he pulls back, mouth wet, chest rising.

“Turn over,” he says, voice wrecked.

You hesitate just a beat—enough to see the way he breathes when you do it. When you shift onto your stomach, hips lifted, arms bracing.

You hear the sound of the condom, fast. Efficient.

And then—

Jack’s hand on your lower back. Steady.

And the way he slides into you? Slow. So deep it knocks the air out of you.

He curses under his breath. Grips your hip with one hand and the back of your neck with the other—not to force you down. Just to hold you there. Like he needs you solid. Still.

You moan into the mattress. He groans above you, pace already building.

Every thrust is measured. Heavy. Earned.

“Fuck, you feel—” he breaks off. “I can’t—Jesus.”

You push back into him, and he snarls something low and wordless. One of his hands slides around to your front, fingers finding you again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

Hard.

So hard your voice breaks.

He groans—sharp, wrecked, desperate—and follows you over the edge with one last thrust, hips grinding against yours as he comes with a sound that tears right through your spine.

You both collapse, tangled, shaking, breathless.

Nothing moves for a long time.

You stare up at the ceiling, lips parted, chest still rising and falling.

Then, quiet—almost lazy—you murmur, “I guess I should start calling you that more often.”

Jack doesn’t lift his head, but you can feel the tension in his body change. Loosen. Settle.

“You do that,” he mutters, voice half-buried in your neck, “and I’m not gonna make it to shift tomorrow.”

You turn toward him, drape an arm across his chest, skin still hot against yours.

“Guess we’ll test that theory.”

Jack exhales, something low and rough in his throat—just close enough to be a laugh.

#anon request #request #the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #smut #the pitt hbo

1K notes · View notes

dilf-docs · 7 months ago

Text

You're a Daydream, Stay A While

jackson!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: you're jackson's designated bartender. well, your dad is, but after the arrival of a new face in town, maybe the inspiration to finally step up to your obligations kicks in.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., oral (f. receiving), fingering, foreplay (mostly breasts), creampie, breeding kink (kinda), angst/comfort, insecure!joel (love touch etcetc starved), needy!joel, pov switch mostly joel (he's down bad as well), collected shitty puns from across the internet like thanos collected the infinity stones

word count: 6,136 words

side note: yk what's worst than simping for old men? simping for old men who don't exist. since y'all know, tlou II trailer dropped, which got me searching for joel's ***** to brace/prepare myself. umm so, why did no one tell me jackson!joel is the hottest thing ever? can´t wait to see pedro being senior citizen level of hot and dying (again) on his bday month! 😍 anyway, this is based on this request and well, yes! i too would flirt with an old ass if he looked like that™ hope u like it bc for some reason I'm not sure of it JSJDLKDFK also 400 followers GUYS STOP (pls don't)

The truth is simple: you hate working.

An apocalypse later, you figure there are more important things. But on Jackson, it feels like the world before fungus and violence, and everyone's got a role to play. As the daughter of Tipsy Bison's owner, yours is to help around the bar, something no matter how much your dad scolds you, you don't seem to care enough to even do a decent job.

Of course, it could be worse: patroling, keeping the cattle or crops, but not even then you're moved enough to give a shit about it.

Enter Joel Miller.

He, who made sure his arrival in Jackson didn't go unnoticed, making heads turn at it, not only because of his emotional reunion with Tommy, the little girl with him, or the fact that he left yet still returned. But also (mainly to you) because he was hot. Very hot.

Joel was the type of handsome that was rough in the edges, his closed-off demeanor and overall mystery adding to the thrill. His face seemed to be in a perpetual state of grief and darkness, sprinkled with grey and wrinkles, that in your opinion, didn't mean about age but just something that made his features all the more attractive.

It was a lie to say there weren't any boys your age in Jackson, good-looking too, yet you felt yourself gravitate towards Joel's musky presence. Yes, he could be your dad, but again, it's the apocalypse, and there are plenty of things to worry about than some age gap.

That doesn't stop the talking, anyway. It may be the end of the world, but gossip is just like cockroaches: it never dies.

The Tipsy Bison owner's daughter is in love with Tommy's older, much older, brother.

It didn't bother you, thought. You were pretty open about it, giving Jackson more to talk. Whenever Joel arrived at the bar, all heads would turn in your direction, ready for the shameless flirting and compliments you showered the oldest Miller in.

Maria had warned you, of course. She was the closest you had to a friend―sometimes being like a big sister, and she seemed to know what he was up to before, at the QZ in Boston, thanks to Tommy. Safe to say, you didn't care, despite listening to every word she had said.

Joel could break your heart, yet in a dying world, you weren't afraid to live.

Which is why now, as he enters the bar, you offer your dad to take his place.

"Go rest, I'll take this client" you offer with kindness, but he knows better. You're his daughter: in the end of the day, he's aware Joel is here, your shift in attitude warning him about Miller's incoming presence.

"If you will take this client, take the rest too" and before your dad can throw a speech about everyone being equal in Jackson, you're accepting to do the job properly, despite your grumbling and lack of interest to anyone who isn't Joel.

"Joel" you greet as soon as he sits, one of the many flirty smiles you have for him only adorning your face. He nods, avoiding your eyes that look at him like he could give you the world. He can't, so he keeps focused on the glass you're pouring in front of him.

"See? Didn't even need to ask. I already know" you seem proud of it, and the ghost of a smile brushes his lips.

"Well" he raises the glass, "it's an easy drink"

You feign hurt, "is that how you treat your bartender? I could poison your drink" Joel now truly smiles, knowing you could never, "or I could just strip you of your my favorite customer rights"

Now he feigns hurt, playing along for the first time in ever.

"Copied" he raises his arms in surrender, not before taking a gulp. You watch hypnotized the way his adam's apple bobs, the liquid sliding down his throat until it looses itself in the peak his two buttons undone give, of what looks to be a broad soft upper body, blessed with a patch of greying messy hair.

"Have they ever complimented you before, Joel?"

You. He refrains from answering, scared as to where little encouraging had led you and your shameless mouth to. He can feel the rest of the people behind him whispering, holes burning his neck. He can't let you win again: make him seem a pathetic excuse of a man who can't say no to a sweet doe-eyed delusional girl.

But you don't stop, despite his silence and the growing pit on your stomach.

"I'll take that as a no. Wanna know why?" he takes a much needed sip, "because all the good pick-up lines are taken"

This he can handle, Joel thinks. It's silly, proper of your age-

"But you aren't"

Ah, of course. Hasn't he learned?

You have the nerve to laugh, free as a wind chime softly carresed by the wind. His face burns, and even thought he's heard plenty of worse from you ("No pen, no paper but you still draw my attention", "Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?" "You must be a dog person because you look fetching"), nothing had affected him this much.

Which is why he tries to pull the mask that had accompanied him since he first knew what grief was, so no feeling would ever made him weak again in a world hardened with pain. He's so good at it, wearing it like a second skin that doesn't scrub off no matter how much he wastes Jackson's water supply away, he sometimes sees the way your face is crestfallen at his indifference.

But you're young and stubborn, as so was he, before all the suffering and broken dreams.

So you won't listen to the past or doubts: the moment he stepped a foot into the community, you knew it was over, beating so loud you could barely hear your own breathing or him, when Maria introduced you and he shook your hand with his much bigger one.

"Joel" he'd said, with the sexiest voice you'd ever heard. His hands were covered in gloves, but despite that and the cold winter, the warmth that pooled from his palms had spread across your cheeks and chest. It had taken you a while to realize you hadn't said anything.

"Y/n" you hate the way your voice sounded small.

He nods, a way of saying Nice to meet you in his withdrawn nature. Then walks away, with Tommy and the girl, who looks curiously at you, Joel completely oblivious of how he's just turned your world upside down.

"Welcome to the museum!" you had said.

He tilted his head in confusion, Ellie's stare intense. "I thought this' Jackson?"

"This is a museum, because you're a work of art"

The tip of his ears instantly reddened, and the laugh Ellie was containing bursted like a bottle of champagne.

"Look at you, old man!" she laughed at him, making you wonder their relationship and how closer they seemed to be, despite initial assumptions. "Can't believe a girl gets the big, grumpy, scary Miller to blush like a boy"

You think that's the reason behind his apathy towards you, barely reacting to your pick-up lines or "subtle" flirting. It's probably not a reason as childish as that, but you'd rather be wrong than accept he may never feel the same way you do.

Because for a moment, despite the times you lived in, life made sense.

So no matter the stares, Joel's guarded posture and lack of reciprocation, you'll always be there, waiting: riding the roller coaster, enjoying the high.

The speed brings you closer, even if that means you'll crash.

Unfortunately for Joel, he knows who you are.

He's not even ten patrolling jobs closer to owning a bottle of whiskey of his own (he thinks earning it is bullshit, hasn't he done already enough?), so he's forced to go to the only place where he can get it.

And of course, there's you: a name and face he couldn't place upon his arrival, even if you had introduced yourself with your shitty line (which made him blush and Ellie laugh, so maybe it was a grudge what made him bent on removing you from his head) yet now is ingraned into his mind.

He doesn't know what's worst: your flirting or the fact that you seemed genuine about it. Or maybe it's the fact that he can tell you apart from the rest now, with a face full of life, always ready to give him your best smile and serve his glass the way he likes.

He needs to be the bigger person in this mess and stop it, Joel thinks. He isn't one to care about the talking, years of being brutal hiding any possible feeling that isn't rage. But then Ellie smuggled her way in his life, he found Tommy again, and Jackson was a reminder of old days when he would allow himself to feel anything else. So, in a way, he's become a bit susceptible to the talking behind his back.

How could he entertain a girl that could be his daughter? hushed, behind his stool. But then your fingers brush "accidentally", and his dick twitches between his legs when you bite your lip, pronouncing a Sorry like no one has said before: a tone so low and sultry, he's convinced wasn't even possible. Then you bat your eyelashes, and laugh (a sound both as delightful as addictive) before you're saying: "Don't mind them. They're just jealous you've got all my attention" and for a brief second, Joel let's himself believe he's special and worth of your time.

It's now a while since he's been there in Jackson, slowly settling into a life that doesn't involve running and fear.

If he thought your little crush was a phase, he's wrong.

You're still giving him time.

He's not supposed to get attached to you, Ellie, Tommy and Maria (future nephew in the way) more than enough. But then, when he's alone in a house too big for two people, Joel misses the way your loud voice fills the eerie silence that's followed him since death has been tracking his every step. Or how your interest on his life doesn't seem an act, listening to every word he says with tender eyes and soft smile, sometimes even making the effort of bringing things he's said before into new conversations; remembering. His heart flutter at your compliments, no matter how dumb they are, probably because he's not used to that stuff. As he lays awake at night, brain clogged with wounds too deep to bear, he finds comfort in things he has a feeling he's too old to get worked up about.

"Joel" you had said one day. God, he loved his name on your lips. The way you say it so sure, as if you'd follow him wherever he'd go.

He coughs. "Yeah?" and you smile, because at least he's looking in your direction.

"The chance of meeting a person like you is the only reason I talk to strangers"

The way your tone was straight, not flinching or faltering scared him. How something akin to sincerity dancing in the sparkles of your eyes, that now seemed to waver not out of whimsy but out of vulnerability, perfectly hidden in what could pass as another one of your attempts to woo him, but Joel's lived and seen enough to know it means much more.

So now, whenever there's darkness, he finds light on replaying those small moments on his head.

Dear God. What's he become? Ellie can't find out or he'll never hear the end of it.

But this things you don't know. All you see is a wall, and you're getting tired of hitting it.

The few words he spares your way are now a punishment you endure, cruel reminder that it's all you'll ever get.

Could you be in love forever? Could you even love?

It was a new feeling. Foreign, in fields of inexperience, but familiars in others. You may have never felt it, but the way your beat was steady when he showed up, worn out boots against the wood creaking under his weight, makes you believe when you know, you know.

"Hello, Joel" your father greets before you speak. Today, no matter how much you tried to shoo him away, he stayed.

You send a small smile his way, but he doesn't return it. You feel small, like a kid, undeserving of his attention. There's a bit of relief knowing your dad's there, so you let him take Joel for you.

There's always a first, and when both your dad and Joel notice, the latter feels a little sting on his chest.

But he's caused this, he thinks. It's what he wanted, after all: for you to stop chasing a man with scars in and out, bearing sins and blood where you had innocence and love.

"We're having a party tonight" he comments, making Joel quirk an eyebrow as he sips.

He gives you a brief glimpse, lost in the curve of your ass in those tight jeans, you giving him your back. He dryly scoffs on instinct at your deliberate choice to ignore him.

"Why's that?"

"My daughter's birthday"

He sees your body tense in the corner of his eye, wiping the glass in your hand with a bit too much force.

"Happy birthday" Joel speaks up, and you mutter a weak Thanks.

That's all he gets? No smile, no looking his way. Just a dry thank you that sounds more like something he would say.

Oh.

Was this how you felt?

"Time sure flies by" your dad sighs nostalgic, completely oblivious to the whole thing. "I feel if it was yesterday we came home from the hospital with you"

You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes, despite the obvious adoration for your dad.

"Don't get sappy on me" you sound embarrassed.

"I don't care. Twenty-one years later and an apocalypse in the mix, you're still my baby"

"Dad!" your cheeks heat up, and Joel almost forgets he's there, his body back to life when your face goes back to its normal color and happiness.

"Which means" your dad goes back to Joel, "you're invited"

Your laughter dies and Joel's chest tightens.

"You need to stop saying that. All Jackson is invited" you respond, making him flinch. The bite is obvious.

You're not special, is what you try to say in between lines.

"I'll be there" tone daring, and your father feels something has shifted in the air.

You don't answer after that. What are you supposed to say? Don't come? I hate you for making me feel small? He doesn't owe you anything, but it still hurts.

"It's at seven" there's a sharp edge to your tone when looking at him.

"I'll be there" he repeats, still, but it sounds more like who he really is trying to convince is himself.

Joel is there, as promised. You don't know why, but after what happened earlier, for the first time ever, seeing him brings you dread.

He catches you in a corner, sipping on some drink.

"Hi" it's soft, the tone new, and it doesn't help the pit in your stomach.

"Hey"

"Why are you here?" he's curious., "ain't this supposed to be your party?"

It's funny, really. The way everyone else mingles around you, laugh and talk, yet here you are, bitter inside the shadows of your corner.

You raise your glass and chuckle dryly. "Well, cheers to that"

"You shouldn't be here" he insists, and you roll your eyes. Then, his voice goes soft. "Is... Is this because of me?"

You scoff, venom falling out of your bitter laugh. "Wow, big ego you got there. Newsflash: the world doesn't revolve around you"

He's so used to your pinning, it's hard to bear the change.

"I wasn't saying that, I just-"

"Please don't" you cut him off. "Don't ruin my birthday more than you already have, thanks"

You decide to walk away, but Joel won't let you.

"I don't want that" he insists, blocking your steps. "I want you to be happy"

"Don't bullshit me" your tone is icy, cutting like daggers. "Please, leave me alone"

"Not until you're fine"

You scoff at his incomprehensible behavior.

"Oh, now you care? Drop the act; you're just angry I'm not stroking your ego anymore like a lovesick puppy. Truth is, you don't owe me anything, Joel"

He looks like you've slapped him across his face.

"I know" his voice darkens, filled with tension. "But-"

You get tired at Joel's sudden insistence, overwhelming you with confusion. This is the same guy that has uttered less than fifty words your way, indifferent to your flirting and special treatment. Of course, it may have been a little silly of you to expect so much from a guy older even than your dad, but his apathy was borderline rude, and that you can't excuse. Or understand. Or let go.

So yes, you're being petty. And yes, it also feels good to have him begging to have your attention, the roles reversed.

"But what, Joel? Is there anything you can say, really? It's not that serious" you empty the glass in a chug, feeling dizzy. "Live a little and stop being so obssesed with me"

He shoots you a look hard to decipher. There is hurt: from all the emotions available, he chose the one thing you didn't think he'd be capable of feeling. Hell, he looked rather more like the cause than the affected on the other end. But then auburn fires flash behind his eyes, and the circle repeats itself, the danger and rage Maria warned you about.

"Obssesed with you?" his eyes carry a wild light in them. "If anyone is obssesed, well, it ain't me"

"I need air" you push past him, done with his shit.

"I'm sorry-"

The cold wind hits your face as you storm outside the bar. Is this a lesson to be learnt? Was this how heartbreak felt? The only thing you know is you need to get the farthest you can, even if your footsteps feel heavy with the weight of the snowed streets and frigidness of your heart.

"Y/n, wait!"

You turn around. Unbelievable: Joel Miller is running after you.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?!" you shout, "why can't you just leave me alone?!"

"Because I-"

"There's nothing for you to say" you counter, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "If this is some sort of guilt thing, I need you to let it go. What I did- I mean, you should probably forget about the whole thing. It's my fault, and I'm sorry my reaction is immature and what not, but I should've known to read the signs. You're simply not interested in a girl who hasn't truly lived or known what pain is"

After you confession, you hear a laugh. You raise your eyes, anger and hurt flashing in tears.

"And you have the nerve to fucking laugh?! Fuck you, Joel" you want to walk away to save yourself from further embarrasment yet your feet seem to be stuck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm not interested?" you roll your eyes, but he pins you by your shoulders, as if knowing you'd walk away. "Listen, I need you to know somethin': I'm not who you think I am"

"I don't care" you interrupt, defiant. "You're right, I don't know who you are. But I want to. Who you where outside this walls... It doesn't matter, not to me. You did what you had to do to survive, and that brought you here. Jackson... think of it as a second chance. You can still be happy, you know?"

With me, dies in your throat, not wanting to give more of yourself away.

"It's better this way" Joel insists, "hell, you'll even thank me one day. There's plenty of young boys here who'd love to be with you, trust me"

"I don't want them, Joel. What's so hard to understand?" what makes you get closer to him, you don't know, but in a sudden rush of force, you find the courage to look at him, body standing still as you exhale, fears condense in the air. "I only want you"

"You don't" you should roll your eyes again at his stubborn character, but his voice comes out so small, almost as if resignated, that it tugs your chest.

"I do" you reply firmly, cupping his cheek with tender care. He leans in your touch, despite it revealing his true desires when it comes to you.

"Why me?" Joel whispers, bigger hand covering yours, as to prove it's real and the warmth isn't a joke. "Why not a younger, charmin', happy boy your age? Why a broken violent older man?"

His voice breaks after the admission, quietly seeping into heavy silence that falls like the snowflakes in his hair.

"Joel" you call his name softly, making those sad brown eyes look at you. You gulp, nervous at the storm of emotions inside them, "is it so hard to believe you can be loved?"

Your words make him falter, his grip loosing strength as he tumbles back.

"Love?" he repeats with disbelief, as if you'd just say some kind of tale. "There isn't love in this world left for me. Men like me don't deserve good things, especially if they comin' from a pretty girl as yourself"

You shouldn't be blushing at times like this, but the maroon splash on your cheeks betrays you, warm as the drink from before and red as the dim lights casted by Jackson's Christmas tree in the middle of the town.

"Joel" you call again, and he's surprised you're still there. That you hadn't turn your back on him, or looked into his eyes and saw the monster in him, running away to never come back.

"If you let me" you hold his hands to steady him even as they tremble, "I could"

I could love you.

The promise hangs unspoken in the air, the wind now barely above a humming.

"You'd take me" his voice falters, "with all I've done, knowing I've hurted people?" Killed people, but he can't bring himself to say it when you look at him like that: like he could learn to love you.

"Yes" your voice doesn't waver a bit, "every part of you"

"And you'd take me knowin' that I'm years ahead in hurt, age and life?"

"Yes, Joel" you giggle. "Are you making me do an exam on your life? Because that's not fair, you've barely spoken to me, or anyone else for the matter!"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"I s'ppose life ain't fair, sometimes"

"But it could be" the moonlight of the now clear sky shines over your eyes, and Joel is sure that the stars would be jealous.

"It could" he repeats, as to believe it himself.

Silence settles again, but it doesn't feel suffocating anymore.

"You know, we should probably get inside"

You dissmiss his words. "Nobody has even noticed we're gone"

"What about the cake?"

Your chest feels warm at his concern. He may not believe it, but the old-world Joel, the one who was a contractor in Texas and had a daughter, is still there, somewhere.

"Jackson is real, but miracles not" you laugh, "we don't have those. The party really is just an excuse for dad to drink with his friends during labor hours"

"And yours?" Joel inquires, "where your friends at?"

"Left early" then you lean to his ear, hot where skin meets cold. "I told them to"

He tries, but all words die on his throat.

"Wanna know why I did it?" your fingers wander to his tense jawline, tracing your sharp nails until they descent to his neck, sprinkled with loose hairs from his beard.

"Why?" voice barely above a whisper, his cock painfully hard between his legs. That you don't know: just the glint of dark on his hazel eyes.

"Why don't we find out?" and your hand takes his to lead the way. When he doesn't move, you try other way.

"I'm the birthday girl" you tease softly, but your orbs sparkle with something akin to dangerous. "You better make it up to me"

You've walked this road so many times, yet it's never felt longer.

The house is alone, you'd say, and Joel followed you because well, he'd follow you anywhere. He notices you said 'house', an indicator you still live with your parents. He wonders if you're embarrased, but by the way you smile, inviting him inside, to a part of you intimate and unknown until today, he knows he's chosen right.

When you open the door, cold creeps in through the cracks of warmth. You lead the way to your room, and once you're inside, he thinks it's very you.

"Very me?" you giggle, taking a seat in the bed. Joel watches from the doorframe, his bulky arms crossed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's cute" and you think it's not a frequent word in his vocabulary, thanks to the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I'm cute?" you repeat delighted, and the shade of pink turns darker.

He just nods, avoiding your gaze.

"Joel" you call, then pat the spot next to you "why are you so far away? Are you scared?"

He grumbles something under his breath before walking over to where you showed. The bed creaks under his weight, and now that he's closer, you hear the wavering beat of his heart and ragged breaths.

"You are scared" you repeat, a statement now. He thinks you're mocking him, until your sure hand grabs his. "It's okay"

Before he can add on that, your face is too close, your breath tickling over his nose. He feels the moist of your lips press over the brigde of it, with a tenderness that brings ghosts of tears he has since long shade to his eyes.

Then they smoothly move to catch him in a kiss. He lets out a shaky gasp against your mouth, letting himself loose on the whiskey drops inside, an intoxicating mix against his own. His hands find your waist, gripping the soft skin with calloused fingers, refusing to leave it. He squeezes your curves while infiltrating your mouth with his tongue, until he pulls to breath, making you whine.

"Fuck, sweetheart" he nips your lower lip, "ain't you the sweetest thin' to ever exist?"

The kiss gets more heated, his hands now traveling to your face as they hold onto you for support, rough digits meeting peachy skin. Just the mere act of kissing makes him groan against you, too old to be shameful about the needy sounds coming out of his mouth.

"Joel" you whimper his name. He stops and takes the time to bore his gaze over your flushed face, your own dazed eyes mirroring his.

His fingers find their way to your hips again, pulling you closer. The moment caughts you and the bed off guard, the furniture creaking while your eyes move to the hardness visible on his worn-out jeans. You move your head to free your mouth to talk, but that doesn't stop Joel, who hungrily kisses the trace of your jaw and the road starting in your neck and finishing on your collarbones.

"Is that because of me?" Joel whines against your lips, yet you can't stop staring at the very big silhouette. "Oh, happy birthday to me"

Joel whines when you tear way from him, his hands loosing grasp on your body. You move up against the headboard, spreading your legs for him to put himself in between them.

You take off your clothes, and his eyes don't leave your body as if it's a show for him. He can drool at the sight of your breasts, rosy skin waiting for his tongue and teeth to sink on it. He leans closer, eyes looming at moles he could beg to kiss.

Now you, your expectant eyes plea. Joel's posture adquires a guarded air, as he grows self-conscious.

"Stop staring at me like that" he nervously chuckles.

"Is there something wrong?" your sweet voice inquires, laced with concern. He gulps, kind of afraid and embarrased of what you would say.

"I'm..." his voice comes out strained, "I just-"

His mind briefly wanders to Tess, how she never said anything, rather busy seeking the warmth of his body without commenting about it. The act mattered over the feelings, which where in her eyes but not his heart. But now, his heart beats in a different sound, one where he wishes you won't judge a body crossed with the roughness of scars yet the softness of extra weight.

"M' just warnin' you, doll" the nickname brings butterflies in your stomach, "this body's seen better days"

He removes the layers of clothing: flannel first, and then tight white long sleeved shirt. He's left in his jeans, unbuckling his belt that falls to the floor with a thud. His breathing turns to panting, afraid to meet you in the eye.

"Joel" you repeat his name, bringing him back to reality. "Look at me"

He's killed people, faced raiders as much as infected, and other countless things, so he dares himself to look up, breath hitching when he finds you eating him with your eyes.

"Fuck, Joel. I didn't know you were so pretty under those dirty ass flannels"

You knew he'd be handsome; that's literally the reason why you chose to flirt with him. But now that he's completely stripped off his layers of warm clothing, it's even better. You can't stop your hungry eyes from roaming his body, lingering on the soft swell of his stomach, hanging over the waistband of his underwear. A scar that looks deep is near his belly button, and you wonder if he'll ever tell you why. There's a patch of hair over his soft chest your tongue wants to lick. And of course, his strong arms packed with broad shoulders that make you want to scream.

"Stop lying" he chastises, but there's a smile adorning his features. A true smile on Joel fucking Miller's face. What a rare sight; you need to see it more.

"W-where your condoms?" he asks, nervous.

That catches you off guard, too busy cooing over how a man so big and sturdy could fold that easily, looking and sounding small.

"I'm not sure. I mean, maybe on my parents room but I-"

You cut yourself. Joel's concerned gaze finds you. "Yes?"

"I want you, Joel" the intensity of your stare terrifies him. "All of you"

He falls closer to you, forehead against your own. He can't bring himself to look at you, so he closes his eyes and dares to ask:

"Are you sure you want this?"

Are you sure you want me?

"Don't you trust me?" you're all smiles, even if your voice is soft. "I want you. I truly do"

He's hiding his face into your shoulder until you feel his lips pressing against your now bare skin, making you shiver.

"Where you want me, birthday girl?" he says between kisses. "Tell me, sweetheart. I'm all ears"

"Please, Joel" you unhook your bra, letting your breasts free. His lips begin to kiss his way to your breasts, tongue teasing the skin before nipping it. Joel's teeth catch the hardened nipple, grazing it lightly.

"S'pretty" he sounds drunk, and you love the way he looses himself in the pleasure haze.

He continues kissing your breasts before positioning himself right so he can hover above you. The kisses turn wet and sloppier, as if all his energy was to be spent into the rosy skin.

"Can I taste you, sweetheart?" he lowers his head to your entrance, already soaking wet with your arousal. "Fuck me, if this ain't a meal"

"The best in all Jackson" you joke, but the laugh dies in your throat when Joel's nose ghosts over your throbbing pussy.

"I- fuck, Joel" you moan when he licks your folds, his tongue an expert. For a brief moment, you think of who came before you, and if this is what they got or you're getting the best version. His saliva mixes with your dripping juices, making you whine as his tongue licks your swollen folds. His fingers then slowly inserted themselves inside at the same time, moving in and out of your puffy walls. His groans mix with the sound of your whines and the furniture creaking, the sounds obscene and feeling so far from the outside world.

"You're so good at this, baby" his sweat mixes with the blush on his face because of the nickname, nose pressed against your clit as he keeps up the ministrations. "D-don't stop"

"This pussy's so pretty" he says, "and s'only for me, yeah?"

"Yes, Joel. Only yours" you whine, your orgasm approaching. All of your body feels on fire, every touch inching the burn in your stomach closer as his head remains between your legs, tongue insatiable. You come all over his face, your hands digging into his damp locks as you scream his name to the air.

Joel raises his head to capture your lips on a wet kiss, the taste of you inside your mouth and dripping from his coated beard.

"Ain't you sweet" you open your legs further. "You're such a tease, sweetheart. Gon'be the death of me"

"I just like seeing you like this" you admit.

"Means?"

"So fucking needy"

A borderline primal grumble births from his throat. "You've a filthy mouth on you, sweetheart" he chuckles while wrapping your legs around his waist and lining himself up. Joel's tip runs up and down your folds, grazing your clit long enough to make you gasp.

"And you're s'fuckin' tight" he mumbles under his breath. You gasp for air as you try to adjust yourself to the huge size of his girth, afraid you bit more than what you can chew. His pace starts slow but gradually picks up a rougher and quicker pace. Joel grunts between thrusts, yet takes his time to make sure his lips kiss every mole sprinkled across your face and chest, his favorite just above your left eyebrow.

"I want ya' to come first, like a present" blush crosses through his face again. He leaves teasing kisses against your face, as you wail, finally hitting you.

"I'll wait for you" you whisper, your hips aiding you to sustain his sloppy thrusts, "want you to come too. Inside"

You feel his softening dick twitch, suddenly rock hard again. Oh, so he was into that.

"Don't worry, I have a pill" you explain. "So go ahead, pretty boy. Show me if the size matches the talk"

"Bet" his voice acquires a darkness to it. "Gonna fill you with all of it, until you milk my cock dry. Gonna fill this pretty pussy until it's full of my seed and it leaks for days"

He follows right after, groaning into your shoulder, where he bits the skin. His tongue wets the area, to relief the pain, yet you like it. Thick ropes of cum paint your puffy heat creamy, Joel panting as he stares down at you.

"What?" you chuckle.

Maybe Jackson was a safe haven. Heaven incarnate. Maybe second chances were real, and for the first time in years, he feels safe.

"I don't deserve you" he voices his thoughts, forehead pressed against yours as he tries to even his breathing, yet each breath seems more labored than the last.

Your hands travel to his face, cupping it with tender hands. He leans on the touch, because despite his crimes and past dawning upon him, he's a man: one seeking comfort on a pretty face and anything that'll remind him of distant emotions that can still exist despite what the world has become. Joel's hands travel to yours, thumb brushing skin free of scars and pain. He envies and loves the beauty in your face, eyes full of something akin to affection looking back, blurring the pain mirrored on his own. You kiss him again, and he can feel the emotions in the tip of your tongue.

"You're wrong" your voice holds a quiet determination. Time was a precious gift, but in Jackson, time could be, and the resolve longing tells him you'll be there. I'm not going anywhere, Joel. Not without you. "We all deserve love, Joel"

Joel Miller is a man who finds it hard to trust, yet, when he takes a look at your eyes―warm as rum, he allows himself to believe in you.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @loregifs

#dilfistwrites #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #jackson!joel miller #tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us #tlou hbo #tlou joel

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sisconstsg · 4 days ago

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UNCLE!TORU AND UNCLE!SUGU having their favorite niece over!!

A/N: lil' repost from my prev accs. </3 i suddenly thought of stsg dp and i was like wait...i've written that before lmfao. not my fav but!! it's okaysies. ── .✦ BLOSSOM™

CW: (INC3ST!! stsg! moments, use of 'princess' and 'baby' and 'good girl', satoru calls reader 'kid' once, is this dub/c0n cuz reader is not into it at first?, praise k1nk, suguru being manipulative ofc, or4l (f and m receiving), t1t play, sugu calls reader a slut once, d0uble p3netr.ation, slight spit klnk, creampie)

UNCLE!TORU who doesn't even realize you're there at first; he's too busy sucking marks and nibbling down suguru's neck, whining at the taste of his skin in his tongue and under his teeth.

UNCLE!SUGU who does notice you arrived. he'd tilt his head back to look at you, adam's apple bobbing with a swallow and a breathless chuckle. “ah, princess, you're here. did daddy drop you off early?”

UNCLE!TORU who pulls away reluctantly from fondling suguru's squishy pecs when the other man lightly smacks his arm. finally lifting his head to look up at you, satoru immediately lit up, like you hadn't just witnessed them making out a second prior.

“hey, kid! long time no see!” UNCLE!TORU would say, getting up from the couch in a rush to smother you in a hug. a tight hug. tight enough to feel something hard poking at your stomach.

UNCLE!SUGU who steals you from satoru's arms as soon as the other man walks you to the couch, chuckling from your cute little squeak when he makes you sit on his lap. “how's uni, princess?” he'd ask, rubbing a hand up and down your thigh in a way that feels friendly, but not friendly enough.

UNCLE!TORU who stares as you shyly stutter through telling about your recent life. and i mean really stare. those blue eyes make you shiver, tho not as much as when he starts drinking you down like a prized possession.

UNCLE!TORU who even licks his lips, noting his favorite parts of your body, and how cute you look with a little tummy peaking out as suguru's other hand draws patterns on the skin.

UNCLE!SUGU who adding little “ oh, i see ”s, “ really? ”s and hums along to your story, relishing the way your voice wavers when he mumbled so close to your ear.

UNCLE!SUGU who stops to chuckle when your thighs finally give a twitch, nuzzling your cheek softly as he murmurs: “what's wrong, princess? ticklish?”

UNCLE!TORU who smirks at this, wiggling his fingers threateningly at you. “ohh! is our baby niece ticklish? lemme see, lemme see!” he'd say, before attacking your sides until you giggle.

UNCLE!TORU who makes your giggles into moans when he suddenly starts playing with your breasts.

UNCLE!SUGU who hugs you by the waist when you squirm, peppering kisses down your cheek and neck. his voice is so warm and soft, you feel yourself dumbed down from how smooth he sounds alone. “you're such a good girl... wanna please your uncles, right, princess? make us happy and get lots of praise and attention. yeah, right~?”

UNCLE!SUGU who kisses you until you melt in his arms. sloppy and slow and with lots of tongue, drool dribbling down your chin. UNCLE!TORU who kisses like you might disappear, holding your face with two hands, rough and loud until you're breathless and whimpering.

UNCLE!SUGU who peppers bites and kisses on your sides and tummy before eating out your sweet pussy. UNCLE!TORU who's obsessed with your tits and leaves your nipples sore and drenched in saliva.

UNCLE!TORU who takes his sweet time prepping your tight little ass to receive him; with lots of lube and his fingers, maybe even a toy from his collection. UNCLE!SUGU who relishes each moan satoru elicits from you and that vibrates around his cock.

UNCLE!SUGU who'd leave your face a sticky mess of precum and saliva, from gently coaching you how to deepthroat. he'd rub his cock all over your face every time you pull away with a gag. “you look s'pretty, princess, you know that? huh? how pretty my perfect girl looks, all slutty for some cock?”

UNCLE!TORU who almost loses his mind the moment he's inside you. who does most of the thrusting from behind while you sit and buck on suguru's thick cock. satoru's balls slap against you, suguru's pubes tickle your clit just the right way.

“sss'good, s'good, fuck, squeezin' so t'ght,” he'd say between gritted teeth. UNCLE!TORU who had this smile on his face: his eyes half-lidded, his eyebrows creased upwards, sometimes poking his tongue out as he worked his long perfect cock inside your puckered hole.

UNCLE!SUGU who looked straight up heavenly . biting his lower lip, grunting soft and deep, long pretty hair loose and draped over the armrest and a hand resting behind his head comfortably. the other is on your ass, caressing circles and patterns with the tips of his fingers and nails that made you squirmy.

UNCLE!TORU who wouldn't resist bending down, sandwiching you between their chests, to whimper and moan around suguru's tongue. you'd feel every vibration of their grunts and moans from how tight you're squeezed between their big bodies, their hips moving in synch to always keep you full of one or another.

UNCLE!SUGU who'd kiss you right after, sharing their mixed spit with you.

UNCLE!TORU and UNCLE!SUGU who'd fuck you harder and harder, more and more messy, then creampie you from both ends as you moaned loud and cried out. who'd hold you tight as you writhed and squirmed through your orgasm and their owns.

UNCLE!TORU who'd be so loud when he cums. fucking you through it in squirming, rutting fashion as he whimpers from the oversensitivity but fuck he can't stop .

UNCLE!SUGU who'd arch with a loud grunt and a gasp, panting and bucking his hips, holding your thighs for support and bite your shoulder as the afterglow washes through him.

“not a word of this to your daddy,” UNCLE!SUGU would chuckle, slapping your asscheeks fondly with both hands, happy with the small jump you gave.

UNCLE!TORU who'd refuse to leave your tight hole, nuzzling your nape and purring like a content kitty as he said: “our baby, all for us... such a good girl...”

UNCLE!SUGU and UNCLE!TORU who'd ask to have you over a lot more often from now on. 🩷

#⟢ blossoming tales #suguru geto x reader #satoru gojo x reader #stsg x reader #satosugu x reader #dark jjk #jjk smut #gojo x reader #getou x reader #jjk x reader #tw.incest #cw incest #dead dove #dead dove do not eat #dd:dne

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cigarettesuga · 18 days ago

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⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀closer than this ୨ৎ ( myg )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after a charged first meeting, yoongi doesn’t expect to text her — or end up tangled in her sheets after a quiet rooftop dinner that feels more intimate than it should. but some things are too good to leave behind, even when they don’t make sense.

featuring⠀idol!min yoongi x actress!fem!reader genre strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut with emotions™, romantic tension so thick you could chew it wc⠀12.3 k warnings explicit sexual content (fingering, protected sex, oral fixation, teasing, praising, desperate pacing), intense sexual tension, breathy makeouts, soft dominance, mutual control, light pressure to jaw/throat (non-aggressive), mild marking (hip-grabbing/bruising), lots of kissing and emotional intimacy, post-sex cuddling, internal monologue-heavy navi

lu's note⠀i’m so happy to finally share part two of charitable causes — it’s tender, it’s filthy, and it’s a little dangerous. life’s been hectic lately so updates might slow down a bit, but i’m still writing when i can. also: there’s a scene where oc talks about working with a popular actor — i didn’t name anyone ‘cause i don’t really watch dramas and didn’t wanna pick someone who’s suddenly problematic 😭 just pretend it’s your fave lol.

as always, my asks are open & your love keeps me going 𖹭𖹭

⠀⠀

yoongi woke up like he’d been dreaming with his eyes open — hazy, limbs heavy, warmth pooled in his chest that didn’t belong to sleep. his room was too quiet. the sunlight crawling across the floor was too soft. he blinked slowly, one arm flung across his stomach, the other half-buried under his pillow.

it took him a second to recognize where he was. home. the ache in his jaw from clenching during sleep grounded him. so did the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue.

he turned his head toward the nightstand.

his phone was there, screen black, plugged in. he didn’t remember doing that. didn’t remember coming in, brushing his teeth, changing clothes — the whole night had slipped through his fingers like water the moment the door closed behind him.

but the piece of paper underneath the phone?

that he remembered.

crisp, folded, barely visible — just the corner peeking out like it was daring him to acknowledge it. her handwriting small and confident. her name and number, sitting there like a secret only he knew how to keep.

he stared at it without touching it.

hadn’t texted her. not yet. hadn’t even typed out a draft and deleted it — though he’d thought about it. several times. thumb hovering over the messages app, brows furrowed, heart punching slow and hard in his ribs like it wanted to be consulted.

his mouth was dry. he brought his hand up and dragged it over his face, palm pressing against his eyes until the darkness turned red.

“what am i doing,” he mumbled into his skin.

he exhaled. slow. rough.

he wasn’t like this. he didn’t do this.

he didn’t slip away from events to kiss strangers in deserted hallways. didn’t flirt with actresses he barely knew just because they looked at him like he was something worth unwrapping. didn’t let his guard down just because someone touched his elbow and whispered something sharp into his ear like a line written for him.

he was careful. calculated. controlled.

but last night?

he hadn’t felt controlled at all. he’d felt seen. and wanted. and a little reckless in a way that hadn’t scared him — not in the moment, anyway.

the worst part?

he couldn’t stop replaying it. her breath against his jaw. the way her body arched into him like they were built to fit. the sound of her voice curling into his ear just before she disappeared again — to be continued?

fuck.

he scrubbed a hand over his hair and rolled onto his side, staring at the number again like it might answer all the questions in his chest.

he didn’t move to text her.

not yet.

but he didn’t put the paper away either.

he stayed in bed longer than he should have.

his body wasn’t tired, not really, but his thoughts felt heavy — dense in the back of his skull, turning over and over like laundry caught on repeat. he stared at the ceiling. listened to the silence. blinked slow, trying not to let his brain go there again.

but it did anyway.

to her.

he told himself not to overthink it. it was fun. harmless. she was beautiful, sure. interesting too. quick with her words, sharp with her looks — the kind of woman who carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but might give you one just to see how you handled it.

he should be able to let that go.

just… let it exist in a vacuum. one stolen night, one breathless kiss, one private moment that didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t let it.

but his mind — traitorous, persistent — kept leading him back.

to the press of her lips against his. the smell of her skin. the way she’d looked at him like they were sharing an inside joke no one else in the room could read. how she’d flirted like it was second nature, like her words were laced with static — subtle but charged, casual but undeniable. enough to make him second-guess his own memory.

did it really happen like that?

was she really that close?

he shifted under the sheets and let out a low sigh. rubbed at his eyes. cursed softly.

a part of him felt misplaced now. out of sync with his own skin. maybe it was the solitude — the rest of the guys all enlisted, the dorms too quiet, his name suddenly carrying the weight of seven. maybe it was guilt. not for the kiss itself, but for wanting more. for thinking about her mouth while sitting in a studio chair or brushing his teeth or trying to answer emails.

what would the others say? he wondered. not in a shameful way, just… curious. would they tease him? tell him to text her already? would they think it’s weird? would jimin have noticed before anyone else that something was off?

the phone buzzed sharply.

yoongi flinched.

just for a second. barely a movement — but enough to make him painfully aware of everything around him. the weight of the blanket. the cut of light through the curtains. the silence he’d been stewing in. the tiny folded paper still tucked beneath his phone like a match pressed against gasoline.

he reached for the device, thumb swiping across the screen. not her.

[manager] yoongi-ssi, just a reminder you’ve got a photoshoot today @ 3. did you eat already? want me to grab you an americano on the way in?

he stared at the message.

normal. routine. the same kind of check-in he always got on busy days.

he typed back one-handed:

[yoongi] americano’s fine. haven’t eaten yet.

he hit send. stared at the blinking cursor in the chat a second longer than necessary. like maybe the screen would change. like maybe her name would appear right underneath.

but it didn’t.

and he still didn’t text her.

not yet.

yoongi dressed slow, like his body hadn’t quite synced up to the day yet. cotton shirt, loose jeans, something easy and familiar — he wasn’t staying in them long anyway. stylists would tear him out of this and layer him into something tailored and intentional by the hour.

his phone went in his pocket. and so did the paper.

he didn’t fold it again. didn’t look at it. just slid it into his jeans like it wasn’t whispering her name against his thigh the whole way there. like it wasn’t a brand searing quietly through denim and skin and pretense.

the drive to the label was quiet, even with traffic. his manager talked — something about the shoot setup, lighting, a quick reminder of the concept. yoongi nodded. didn’t really absorb. just stared out the window with one arm propped against the door, fingers tapping against his leg like they wanted to move. like they missed her waist. her neck. the sound she made when his mouth dragged over the hollow of her throat.

the rest of the day blurred.

he knew the steps. say hello. get ushered into hair and makeup. sit under bright lights while someone primped and shaped and added shine where the tired lines used to be. change into the first outfit. pose. tilt your chin. don’t blink. switch angles. smile like it’s not practiced.

he did all of it.

but his mind wasn’t in the room.

it was on her — the way her lips had curled around that last kiss, the heat in her voice when she whispered against his ear. the way her eyes had tracked him across the ballroom like she already knew the shape of his mouth from a past life.

he was back in the makeup chair when it finally happened.

his resolve cracked in the smallest way — just a tiny fracture — and he gave in.

unlocked his phone. typed her name into search like it was harmless.

no one would see. no one would know.

the results came fast — clips, interviews, red carpet photos. he chose a video, something recent. a panel, maybe. she was sitting on the far end, wearing something black and minimal. smiling just enough. her voice was steady, but warm. teasing.

he watched. tried not to react.

but his lips twitched at something she said — some smartass remark delivered with a little tilt of her head and that same look she’d given him in the hallway. like she was daring someone to flirt back.

a soft snort sounded behind him.

yoongi startled slightly, glancing up at the stylist behind him.

“she’s nice,” they said, still running product through his hair. “i worked with her once. sweet with the whole crew. brought coffee for the interns. that kind of person.”

yoongi nodded. neutral. not too quick.

“yeah,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the screen. “met her at the event last night. she’s a natural under the spotlight.”

the stylist hummed. “she’s got that thing, right?”

yoongi smiled faintly — more to himself than anything. yeah. she had that thing.

he didn’t say anything else. just watched her on his screen until the video ended, heart heavier than he expected.

and the number in his pocket burned a little hotter.

he kept it together for the rest of the shoot.

he posed. changed. nodded at directions, half-listened to compliments, let the stylists fuss over the details. when someone asked him to look more intense, he just thought about her mouth on his and delivered it in a single blink. when they said softer, more thoughtful, he let the image of her laughing against his lips soften the corners of his mouth. easy. efficient. no one noticed how detached he felt.

but the moment he walked through his front door, the quiet hit him like a wave.

no music. no voices. just the hush of the apartment swallowing his footsteps as he toed off his shoes and dropped his keys on the counter.

he didn’t turn the lights on right away.

just moved through the soft shadows of his living room, fingers grazing the wall out of habit. he tugged his jacket off with one hand and let it hang over the back of a chair, already heading to the bedroom like his body knew the path by instinct.

the silence felt louder now. thick. intimate.

too much room to think.

he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed — the usual post-schedule slump. but this time, his hand drifted into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edge of that damn paper like it was a nervous tick he couldn’t break.

he pulled it out.

held it between two fingers. stared at it.

no fanfare. no revelation. just him, alone in the dark, heart tapping against his ribs in a rhythm that didn’t match the stillness around him.

what’s the worst that could happen?

that she doesn’t answer? that she regrets it? that he looks desperate? that he wants something from her and she doesn’t want it back?

his lips pressed into a thin line.

he ran a thumb over the fold crease.

and then — before his brain could catch up, before the second-guessing could wrap both hands around his throat — he grabbed his phone. punched in the number. stared at the blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen for a long, long beat.

he typed out a message before he could talk himself out of it. nothing clever. nothing planned.

just:

[yoongi] so… should i pretend we imagined that night?

he stared at it for a second.

his thumb hovered. and then—

send.

just like that.

the message slid into the chat. final. weightless. loud in the quiet.

yoongi didn’t breathe for a moment. just stared. unread. no reply. but his chest felt like it had cracked open anyway.

he leaned back, sinking into the mattress with a slow exhale, one arm slung over his eyes like it might block out the part of him that suddenly felt twelve kinds of stupid.

too late now.

the paper still sat on the nightstand. but he wouldn’t need it again.

the reply came faster than he expected.

less than two minutes. just long enough to make him stare at his screen and consider if he’d overplayed it.

then:

[y/n] color me surprised… i thought you weren’t gonna text at all.

he let out a soft breath through his nose. one corner of his mouth twitching up.

he didn’t answer right away. fingers hovering, thumbs flexing, debating what to send back without sounding too eager.

then:

[yoongi] i don’t usually text people who get me lost in hotel hallways [yoongi] you’re a little out of my routine [y/n] you say that like it’s a bad thing.

he laughed. short, surprised.

and that was it — the shift. the weight in his chest turned warm instead of heavy. he didn’t mean to, but soon enough, he was fully reclined against his pillows, phone lit up in one hand, face tilted toward the screen like he couldn’t look away.

the chat filled itself slowly. one line at a time. nothing direct. no mention of the kiss. no "so about last night."

instead, it was:

[y/n] what’d you end up wearing for that photoshoot? don’t say leather. [yoongi] was leather ever on the table?? [y/n] i don’t know your life [yoongi] you knew it well enough to pin me to a wall [y/n] are you complaining? [yoongi] still deciding.

his cheeks ached. he barely noticed until he shifted and felt the stretch of the smile again. god. he wasn’t even that into texting. usually short, efficient, dry. and yet here he was, lying in bed like some teenager with a crush, scrolling back to reread what she said just to feel it again.

and under it all — the current kept rising. a breathlessness he could taste, even through a screen. like they were both building to something but neither wanted to break it too fast.

until he did.

maybe because he had to.

maybe because the longer they joked, the heavier it sat between his ribs — what she’d said. what she’d left him with.

so he finally typed:

[yoongi] so… [yoongi] about that “to be continued” thing

he watched the little gray dots appear. disappear. come back.

gone again.

a full minute passed. his pulse ticked harder.

finally, her message came in:

[y/n] depends.

another pause. then a second message.

[y/n] you like dinner under the stars?

his heart stuttered.

he blinked.

then the third message arrived, and it felt like a dare.

[y/n] my rooftop. tomorrow night. i’ll cook. unless you’re scared of heights.

he didn’t smile this time. not exactly.

he just bit his lip and exhaled slowly — chest full of something he wasn’t ready to name.

[yoongi] what time?

he didn’t call it a date.

not out loud. not even to himself.

just dinner. on a rooftop. with a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

he told himself he wasn’t overthinking it.

he picked out a shirt and changed it twice. but that didn’t mean anything. it wasn’t nerves—it was weather. comfort. fit. totally normal to swap black for white, then back to black because the first one felt too clean and the second one felt more like him.

he didn’t style his hair. barely touched it, in fact. let it fall into his eyes and swept it back once with his fingers, like that would make it look accidental enough to not seem intentional. he wore something casual. comfortable. sneakers. a jacket, even though the air was barely cool.

no cologne. just his skin. a little lotion. done.

not a date.

not like that.

but when he checked the clock again, his foot started tapping against the floor.

he wasn’t expecting anything. not exactly. yeah, if she leaned in close—if her hand found his leg under the table or her lips brushed his again—he wouldn’t stop her.

but that wasn’t the point.

the point was… her.

the woman under the smirk. behind the quick lines and confident eyes. he wanted to know how she took her coffee. if she sang in the shower. if she hated being alone or if she loved it so much she carved silence out of busy days just to feel it on her skin.

he wanted to hear her voice without the music playing. just talk.

and maybe kiss her again, yeah. if she was in the mood.

he grabbed a bottle of wine before heading out. not because it was romantic—just polite. adult. decent.

he kept his hands in his pockets the whole drive there.

and told himself—again—it wasn’t a date.

at exactly 8:03 p.m., yoongi texted her.

[yoongi] should i ask for the address or are you gonna make me guess which rooftop belongs to you

her reply came back almost immediately.

[y/n] hold on let me adjust the spotlight and roll out the carpet [y/n] i’ll send it. don’t be late.

his lips twitched. he didn’t smile much when he texted, not in a way anyone would notice, but she had a way of pulling it out of him like it was nothing.

he typed “on my way” but didn’t send it yet. instead, he checked the location, scanned the route. familiar. one of those luxury complexes you didn’t even look at unless you were someone—or trying very hard to look like someone.

of course she lived there.

he grabbed his keys. then hesitated.

her voice echoed in his mind—something she’d said the night of the event. half-laughed over wine and dim lights. a throwaway line about how she hated most wines but had a soft spot for this one brand, some mid-shelf label that reminded her of home or old friends or maybe just something she’d stolen once from a set party.

he wasn’t even sure why he remembered it.

but now he was standing in the wine aisle at a convenience store on the way to her place, holding that exact bottle in his hand like it had always been part of the plan.

he stared at it. sighed. wondered if it was too much.

then bought it anyway.

when he finally pulled into the underground garage, the nerves hit in a slow, strange wave. not sharp, not loud—just enough to tighten his chest a little. his hand hovered over his phone. a few breaths later, he typed:

[yoongi] just parked. heading up.

her reply was short. clean. cool.

[y/n] use elevator 3. code’s 0112.

he repeated the numbers under his breath as he walked. zero one one two. like a song lyric. or a prayer.

the place was quiet. exclusive. the kind of building where everything echoed in the right way and smelled like clean money and eucalyptus diffusers.

he stepped into the elevator. punched in the code. the doors slid shut.

and just like that—it was happening.

no stylists. no cameras. no people pulling him in four directions. just him, a bottle of wine, and the echo of her kiss still lingering somewhere behind his teeth.

the numbers on the panel ticked up slow.

his fingers twitched at his sides.

not a date, he told himself again.

and then the elevator stopped.

the doors opened.

and her door—just ten feet ahead—was already cracked open, golden light spilling into the hallway like it had been waiting for him.

she didn’t dress up.

he could tell the second she opened the door. and god—he was grateful for it.

no heels. no makeup that looked like a mask. just jeans, low on her hips and snug around her thighs in a way that made his mouth go a little dry. a black spaghetti strap tank, the kind that clung in all the right places, skin glowing under soft light. she wore a button-up shirt over it—open, sleeves rolled—and it only made her look more effortless. like this wasn’t a date. like this was just her. unfiltered. untouchable.

her eyes flicked down, landed on the wine bottle in his hand.

a smile pulled at her mouth, slow and knowing. that kind of smile. the kind that said “i see you.”

“you remembered,” she said, voice soft, amused.

he almost said i’m not the type to forget, but it felt too revealing.

so he just gave a tiny shrug. “figured you wouldn’t want to fake liking something else.”

she laughed under her breath, then reached for his hand—cool fingers wrapping around his wrist like it was natural to touch him, like there hadn’t been a week of silence between their last kiss and this moment.

“come in,” she murmured, tugging him gently across the threshold.

he followed without hesitation.

and instantly, everything about the apartment knocked the air out of his lungs.

he’d expected… something polished. minimalist. luxury sheen and matching neutrals. maybe a little too clean, too curated, like a magazine spread waiting to be photographed.

but what he walked into was something else entirely.

low, warm lighting pooled in the corners of the space. mismatched lamps. candles that had clearly been lit, their wax spilled over dishes and holders like a crime scene of comfort. books stacked in uneven towers on the floor, on shelves, on the wide arm of a velvet chair that didn’t match the couch but somehow belonged. art everywhere—walls splashed with color, linework, frames that leaned instead of hanging, pieces that pulled your eyes and made you wonder what kind of soul lived here.

there was music playing faintly from a speaker somewhere—vinyl crackle and a woman’s voice, soft jazz vocals that kissed the air like an afterthought.

and above all of it—her scent. subtle. familiar now. some blend of citrus and warmth and something he couldn’t name but already missed.

he turned in place slowly, eyes scanning.

it looked lived in.

it looked like her.

the kind of apartment that told stories even when she was silent. full of surprises, personality, contradictions. no sharp edges. no pretense.

“didn’t expect this,” he said after a moment, voice low.

her hand was still in his. she squeezed it once, then let go to take the wine from him.

“what, you thought i lived in a k-drama set?” she teased.

he smiled—real this time. “a little.”

she shrugged, glancing around like she hadn’t already known exactly what she was showing him. “most people do.”

then she walked ahead, barefoot and easy, calling over her shoulder—

“make yourself at home. i just need a sec to grab glasses and check the food.”

he stood there for another beat, just… looking. breathing her in.

and then he let out a slow exhale, shoulders dropping, tension loosening with every second.

maybe it wasn’t a date. maybe it was something else entirely.

but either way—he was here.

and he wasn’t going anywhere.

he drifted toward the record player without thinking.

the vinyls were stacked neatly beside it—some in sleeves, some not, the edges worn like they’d been loved, not just collected. there were classics in there. jazz, mostly. soul, funk, old movie soundtracks. a few foreign titles he didn’t recognize, and more than a couple that made him blink because he didn’t expect her to own those. it made sense, though. the more he stood in her space, the more he realized it wasn’t about expectations. it was about layers.

he knelt slightly, fingers brushing the corners of a few records.

he didn’t plan on snooping. just looking. listening.

her apartment was quiet in a way that felt... intentional. like every soft surface had been placed there to catch sound and hold it gently. the only thing he could hear was the low croon of the vinyl still playing in the background and his own breath.

but then he glanced toward the far side of the apartment—

and his breath caught.

the space curved gently, rooms branching off like arms curling inward, and all of them led to her terrace. glass sliding doors opened onto a wood deck bathed in amber light. fairy lights hung overhead, swaying a little, the breeze soft and warm like it belonged in another city. the table was already set, simple and beautiful, the glow from the lights pooling around the plates like the scene had been carved out of a dream.

and further back—

a sitting area. outdoor sofa. pergola heavy with hanging plants. candlelight flickering against terracotta pots and dark green leaves, like the flames knew they were part of something quiet and sacred.

it didn’t look like a rooftop.

it looked like a world.

private. alive. waiting.

his lips parted slightly, gaze softening as he took it all in. he didn’t hear her footsteps. didn’t register the air shift behind him.

not until her hand slid under the hem of his shirt—slow, warm, the barest touch against the small of his back.

he startled only slightly, but didn’t move. didn’t speak.

her voice came next, right by his ear, soft enough that he could feel the words before he processed them.

“view’s pretty good, huh?” she whispered, her breath ghosting the edge of his jaw. “dinner’s almost ready.”

his spine straightened a little. not stiff—alert. like his whole body had tuned to the frequency of her.

he didn’t turn around.

just nodded, voice low. “it’s… not what i expected.”

he could hear the smile in hers. “you keep saying that.”

her hand slipped out from under his shirt, but she stayed close. too close. the stem of the wine glasses clinked gently in her other hand as she tilted her head to look past him toward the terrace.

“you hungry?”

he swallowed, eyes still on the deck.

“yeah,” he said. and it wasn’t just about food.

she nudged his side with her hip—playful, easy. “good. c’mon.”

and then she was walking again. barefoot. light on the wooden floors like she belonged to them.

he followed, fingers still tingling from where she’d touched him.

“you want help with anything?” he asked, voice soft, already halfway to the kitchen.

she glanced at him over her shoulder, a smile curling on her lips like she’d been expecting him to say that.

“sure,” she said, passing him a couple of plates without hesitation. “you can carry these out while i grab the wine and salad.”

he nodded and took them from her hands — careful, the ceramic warm to the touch, still radiating the scent of roasted herbs and garlic.

he didn’t mean to notice the way her fingers brushed his when she let go. didn’t mean to hold that feeling for longer than he should’ve. but he did. and it stayed with him as he walked out onto the deck.

the evening air was mild, kissed with the scent of jasmine from the corner planters and something rich and buttery from the kitchen. fairy lights flickered overhead like lazy stars, and the city spread out in front of them like a painting—han river glinting in the distance, buildings lit like a quiet celebration.

he placed the plates down and stepped back just as she came out with the rest. wine bottle in one hand, salad bowl in the other, and a little sway in her step like this wasn’t the first time she’d carried dinner for two out to the rooftop.

she caught him watching.

“you’re staring,” she said.

“you look like you’ve done this before,” he replied, pulling a chair out for her without thinking.

“what, dinner on rooftops with quiet men who don’t talk about themselves?” she teased, raising a brow.

he smirked. “sure. that.”

she sat with a graceful drop, skin catching golden light. “maybe i have.”

he poured the wine, not too much. the clink of glass against wood sounded louder in the stillness between them. a beat passed, then two.

“so,” she said, leaning on her elbow. “you’re not gonna ask me about my last project or what it’s like working with [insert big name actor here]?”

yoongi shook his head, taking a slow sip. “no interest.”

she blinked. a little amused. a little surprised. “no?”

“not really,” he said. “i mean—i could google all that. find interviews. soundbites. but i don’t want your press tour answers.”

her gaze flicked down to her glass, then back to him.

“what do you want?”

he exhaled slowly, staring at the way the candlelight caught her features. soft shadows under her cheekbones, a shimmer against her collarbone.

“i wanna know where you’d go if you disappeared for a week,” he said, voice low. “no cameras. no phone. just… gone.”

she stared at him for a moment. still. the corner of her mouth lifted.

“that’s a good question.”

“i’ve got a list,” he added, like it was a confession.

“yeah?” she leaned in, elbow on the table now. “what’s at the top?”

he smiled, eyes dropping to his plate for a second. “somewhere cold. quiet. maybe a cabin in japan. snowed in. nothing but books and music and someone who knows how to keep a fire going.”

“sounds romantic,” she said, tone unreadable.

“i didn’t say i’d go alone.”

that made her laugh. soft and surprised.

and just like that—it started. the shift. away from the noise. into the space where names didn’t matter and fame didn’t reach.

they talked.

about how she ended up in this apartment. how the plants were from her old place and she still didn’t know the name of half of them. about how he used to be afraid of swimming. about how she writes poetry when she can’t sleep but never reads it back. about family. about loneliness. about the kind of silence that feels like home, and the kind that feels like a trap.

they never once said idol. never once said actress.

it was deeper than that. heavier. lighter. real.

and yoongi couldn’t remember the last time a conversation made him feel full.

the dinner had passed in slow waves of wine and laughter.

conversation drifting from deep to dumb and back again — favorite childhood snacks, dreams about disappearing, people they’d outgrown, things they weren’t proud of but couldn’t quite regret. she made him laugh in a way that felt rare. surprised out of him. like he hadn’t done it in a while and forgot how good it felt in his chest.

and when the food was gone — plates scraped clean, wine glasses half-full — neither of them moved to clear anything. there was no urgency. the night wasn’t over, not even close.

she shifted first.

pulled one foot up onto her chair, knee bent. her arm draped across the back of the seat, glass resting lazily in her other hand, gaze warm and slow as she looked at him. like she was memorizing something. or maybe already knew it by heart.

he moved without thinking.

his hand found her thigh — the one propped up, stretched toward him. his fingers resting near her knee, then slowly sliding down. up. back again. just barely pressing. like a tide testing the shore.

her skin was warm under his touch.

her eyes flicked down briefly, but she didn’t stop him. didn’t comment. just took another sip of wine and exhaled through her nose like the silence between them had thickened into something sweet.

her free hand — the one not holding the glass — reached out. lightly, her nails grazed his wrist. then the back of his hand. then up, just a little. a soft, absent drag of touch. casual, if it hadn’t made his pulse jump.

he looked at her. really looked.

and maybe that was why it happened. why the question formed. why the wine and the quiet and the low hum of everything unspoken finally pushed the words to his mouth.

“you think about that night?” he asked, voice low. quiet enough that it could’ve been lost in the rustle of leaves if she hadn’t already been looking at him like she knew it was coming.

her gaze didn’t waver.

“yeah,” she said, just as soft.

he nodded, thumb tracing a slow line over her skin. “me too.”

she tilted her head slightly, the kind of movement that invited honesty. the candlelight licked the sharp line of her jaw, her mouth parted just slightly.

“you regret it?” she asked.

he let out a breath through his nose. “not for a second.”

a pause.

he leaned in a little more, eyes flickering down to her lips, then back up. “but it didn’t feel like me.”

“what part?”

“all of it,” he said. “being there. feeling that pulled in. touching someone like that when i didn’t even know their last name.”

she didn’t flinch. didn’t take offense. just kept watching him, like she understood exactly what he meant.

“was it a bad thing?” she asked, voice lower now.

he shook his head. “no. just… new.”

“you didn’t seem new at it.”

he let out a breathy laugh. “i’m a fast learner.”

that made her smile — slow and crooked.

her hand slid higher, palm over the back of his, warm and sure.

“you wanna know something?”

he hummed.

“i wanted to kiss you the second i saw you across the room. before you looked at me. before you even knew i was there.”

yoongi’s hand stilled on her thigh. heat licked up his spine like a match had been struck just beneath his skin.

“i felt it,” he murmured. “like static.”

she nodded once, slow. “me too.”

the silence returned. but it didn’t feel empty. it felt full. dense with the things they didn’t have to explain anymore.

his fingers curled gently into her leg. her thumb traced a soft circle over his knuckles.

and whatever had been hanging in the air between them all night — that quiet tension, the thread pulled tight — was starting to unravel into something softer. deeper.

real.

she leaned in like the night had called her to do it — slow and deliberate, mouth soft and parted, eyes half-lidded as she closed the distance between them inch by inch. not a question. not a warning. just a shift in gravity that he didn’t try to fight.

yoongi didn’t wait.

his hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers curling as he leaned forward and met her mouth with his.

it wasn’t gentle.

it wasn’t rough either — it was slow, like tasting something forbidden, like drawing out the first bite of something he’d been craving for too long. their lips pressed together in steady, measured rhythm, mouths moving with a kind of practiced hunger neither of them had to rehearse. it was instinct. it was need. it was built from the heat of everything unsaid.

she made a soft sound against him — a quiet, satisfied hum — and he drank it in like it was poured just for him. her hand cupped the side of his neck, thumb grazing just beneath his ear, and the shiver it sent down his spine made his grip tighten.

she kissed him like she had all the time in the world.

and when she bit his bottom lip — a sharp, playful little nip that made him groan low in his throat — she pulled back just enough to laugh against his mouth. breathless. amused. her eyes fluttered open, and she murmured against his lips, still close enough to steal another kiss if either of them so much as breathed too deep.

“your manager better not interrupt this time,” she whispered, her voice soft and stained with heat.

yoongi let out a low laugh, nose brushing hers.

“if he does,” he said, his lips barely brushing hers between the words, “i’m quitting.”

that made her smile — that slow, wicked curl that tugged at the corner of her mouth like she already knew she had him. like she knew he meant it, too.

her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing his scalp lightly, dragging another quiet exhale out of him.

yoongi kissed her again — slower this time, deeper.

no rush. no noise. just the quiet crackle of candlelight and the taste of red wine on her tongue.

his other hand found her waist, pulled her closer.

and the night shifted again — this time into something heavier.

her shift came with no warning — just the subtle tightening of her fingers around his shoulders, and then the slow, deliberate sweep of one leg over his lap.

yoongi let out a quiet breath against her mouth, hands instinctively tightening at her waist as she settled onto him — not rushed, not needy, just there, confident and warm and so close it made his pulse stutter.

she moved like she’d done it a hundred times before — not with him, but like she’d always known she would. like her body had already mapped out this moment in some half-forgotten dream. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, draped loosely, wine glass abandoned somewhere behind her. his hands stayed low, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips, thumbs tracing soft lines over the thin fabric of her shirt.

their mouths moved together again, deeper now — more heat, less air.

yoongi kissed her like the wine was still on her tongue and he was trying to drink the last drop.

her breath caught when his hand slipped under her shirt. not rushed — just slow, steady curiosity, palm sliding over warm skin, tracing the curve of her waist before dipping higher, under the second layer — that tight black top she’d worn beneath. the contrast of cotton and silk against his knuckles made his skin feel too tight.

her back arched ever so slightly into his touch. he felt it — the way she pressed into his palm, her breath stuttering in the back of her throat.

and still, they didn’t speak.

not really.

just shared air and heat and quiet, involuntary sounds.

until her lips parted, barely lifting from his — and she said something.

soft. hushed. her voice like smoke against his mouth.

he didn’t catch all of it — too far gone, too focused on her body, her taste, the way his name would probably sound if she moaned it.

but he caught enough.

“…risky out here…” she whispered, a faint trace of laughter coloring her tone, like she wasn’t that worried.

and then she kissed him again — not full, just the ghost of it, barely touching — before pulling back enough to meet his eyes.

“you wanna continue in my room?” she asked.

not a flirtation. not a challenge.

just a quiet, open door.

and all he had to do was walk through.

he nodded before his brain could even make sense of the question.

not that it mattered. his body had already leaned in. already decided. already chosen her.

her smile came easy — that slow, knowing curve of her lips that made him feel like she’d just won a bet he didn’t know they were playing. she pressed a kiss to his cheek, light and quick, like punctuation. then stood, holding out her hand.

yoongi took it without a word, let her pull him to his feet — her fingers warm in his, steady. she didn’t let go.

they didn’t have to go far — just a few quiet steps across the rooftop, toward the sliding glass doors tucked in the corner. she slid them open with one hand, pulling him gently inside, and just like that, the night closed around them.

her bedroom smelled like her — floral and something deeper, muskier, like the skin just under her jaw. warm light spilled from a small lamp on the bedside table, casting everything in soft gold. it felt private. quiet in a way the rooftop wasn’t. no candle flicker, no city hum. just breath and heartbeat and bare feet on hardwood.

he didn’t have time to look around.

because the moment they were inside, she turned to him again — both hands sliding up his chest, then around the back of his neck. she leaned in close, and he was already chasing her mouth again when she stopped short — just barely.

her forehead touched his.

a pause.

she exhaled slowly, lips hovering over his, eyes closed for a moment.

“you wanna stop?” she whispered.

yoongi blinked. not because he didn’t hear her — but because he hadn’t expected her to ask. not now. not when they were this close, when his hands already itched to slide under her clothes again.

but the fact that she did — that she still wanted the choice to be his — it hit him deeper than he expected.

he laughed, low and quiet, tilting his head slightly so their noses brushed.

“you ask like you don’t already know the answer,” he murmured.

she pulled back just enough to open her eyes. her gaze met his, all soft edges and flickering heat.

“maybe i just like hearing you say it,” she teased.

his mouth quirked, one brow lifting. “you’re trouble.”

“mm. and you’re slow,” she shot back, fingers already finding the hem of his shirt.

her eyes lit up — mischief glowing like a secret behind them.

and just like that, the air changed again.

no rush.

but no hesitations either.

they were doing this.

his shirt was the first to go — not yanked, not pulled, but eased up over his head, inch by inch, as her fingers curled beneath the hem. she wasn’t watching his eyes. she was watching his skin. the way it flexed under her touch, the slow reveal of his torso beneath the fabric. he let her, arms lifting lazily, and when the shirt slipped over his head, he shook his hair back into place without looking away from her.

she didn’t comment. didn’t need to.

the way her gaze dragged down and lingered said everything.

yoongi smirked, just a little. barely there. his hands drifted to her waist, fingers brushing over the hem of her top — and then lower, skimming over the edge of her jeans like he was thinking about it.

but instead of undressing her, he stepped closer. pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, light and maddening, his hands sliding under her shirt but leaving it on. just the warmth of skin to skin. a thumb brushing over the edge of her ribs. teasing himself more than her, but he didn’t care. he liked how she inhaled sharply, like she wasn’t expecting the restraint.

her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. just raised an eyebrow — as if to say your move, then.

he took the challenge in stride.

his hands slipped around to her back, slow and sure, and when his fingers found the hem again, she lifted her arms without needing to be asked. he pulled the shirt off carefully, watching her the whole time. she stood there in her black top, skin glowing under the soft light, chest rising a little faster than before.

he kissed her shoulder.

she tilted her head, letting him. then smiled.

“you’re dragging it out on purpose,” she said.

“so are you.”

“only because you are.”

he chuckled against her skin, then let his lips trail a little lower — collarbone, then just above the swell of her chest. when his fingers dipped below the hem of her top, she grabbed his wrist gently and shook her head.

“not yet.”

yoongi looked up, heat flickering behind his eyes. “tease.”

“takes one to know one.”

and then — she moved.

her hands went to the button of his jeans.

he didn’t stop her. just watched.

but she didn’t rush.

her fingers worked slowly, almost cruelly, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down with a sound that sliced through the silence like a sigh.

she didn’t push them down though. just left them like that. undone. dangerous.

her fingers slid beneath the waistband, resting against the line of his hips.

yoongi exhaled hard through his nose, eyes darkening.

he didn’t speak.

neither did she.

but her smile said checkmate’s getting close.

yoongi broke first.

he didn’t mean to. didn’t plan it. one second he was holding still, watching her like she was a flame he could study forever — and the next, he was grabbing, kissing, reaching like he’d been starved of her for days instead of minutes.

his mouth crashed into hers — no finesse, no teasing this time. it was desperate. heated. too much tongue, not enough breath. and the sound she made — soft, muffled, almost surprised — hit him square in the chest. like he hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear her fall apart under his mouth.

his hands slid to her hips, grip firm but careful, guiding her backward until her thighs met the edge of the mattress. she let him — smiling against his lips, hands still tangled in his hair as he pushed her down onto the sheets.

and fuck, she looked unreal like this.

her hair fanned out across the pillow, her top rumpled just slightly, one hand tracing along her bottom lip like she was waiting to be devoured. her legs still hooked loosely around his waist, her breath coming in slow, shallow waves. waiting. watching.

yoongi knelt onto the bed — one knee sinking into the mattress beside her, the other still planted on the floor as he leaned over her. his gaze dragged over every inch, hungry, reverent. his fingers found the hem of her top again, slower this time, sliding it up inch by inch — revealing skin like a secret, until her bra was finally in view.

he exhaled.

it fit her perfectly — hugged her in all the right places, soft and dark against the warm tones of her skin. his gaze lingered. not out of hesitation — but out of awe. like he needed a second to catch up to the fact that she was real and here and letting him see her like this.

he didn’t kiss her again.

not yet.

instead, his hand slid lower — teasing fingers brushing just above the waistband of her jeans, then curling around the button. he didn’t undo it right away. just played with it. thumb dragging lightly over the metal, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

she stared back at him — pupils blown, lips parted, one hand still ghosting over her mouth like she wasn’t sure if she was holding back or just baiting him.

yoongi smirked — barely there, but sharp.

“this still feel risky to you?” he murmured, fingers now toying with the zipper.

she laughed under her breath — breathless, soft, dangerous.

“only if you stop.”

his fingers worked slowly — one hook of the button, a lazy tug of the zipper — until her jeans eased open, denim gaping just enough to show a sliver of her underwear. he didn’t peel them off yet. didn’t dive in. instead, he dragged his palms back up her sides, under her top, and finally pulled it over her head completely, revealing her in that black bra, all curves and candlelit skin and a mouth that looked like sin just breathed into it.

yoongi swallowed hard.

his jeans were tight now — uncomfortably so — but he ignored the ache. filed it away. because this? this was better. her laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling like she already knew what was coming, hands fisting lightly in the sheets.

he leaned down — not to kiss her lips, but to mouth at the edge of her bra. the soft swell just above the cup. skin he could taste without removing anything. and he did — slow, deliberate presses of his mouth. lips, tongue, the faintest graze of teeth. his hand slid between her back and the bed, unclasping the bra with practiced ease. he watched the fabric part like he was being let in on a secret.

and god, she was beautiful.

his mouth dropped to the top of her chest again — kisses pressed like punctuation across her sternum, then lower. he took his time. praised her without words — just the low sound of his breath catching, the soft hums that spilled into her skin, the way his hands never stopped moving. across her ribs. her hips. her thighs.

she let out a shaky breath when his lips finally wrapped around her nipple, warm and wet and so slow it made her hips lift just slightly. he groaned against her when she moved like that — not loud, but deep, like it slipped out without permission.

“fuck…” he whispered, more to himself than her. “you’re unreal.”

his teeth grazed lightly. his tongue soothed the spot. and when she let out another breathy sound, her hand curling into his hair, he didn’t stop — just shifted to the other side, giving it the same attention. licking. sucking. kissing like he was memorizing her heartbeat through his mouth.

and all the while, his jeans throbbed with every grind of her hips against his thigh.

but he didn’t move for relief.

not yet.

she was already breathing like she was close — and he hadn’t even touched her properly.

that was the point.

he wanted her to feel him for days.

he looked up at her from where his mouth had lingered on her chest — lips parted, breath warm, hair slightly mussed from her fingers. but his eyes were sharp now. intense. like something inside him had shifted — flipped — and now he was moving with purpose instead of curiosity.

like he’d found his rhythm and it was her.

yoongi pushed himself up, hand braced beside her ribs as he leaned in again — straight to her mouth. his lips met hers in a kiss that was wetter this time, deeper, the kind that sent heat straight down her spine. his free hand slid up, fingers curving under her jaw to tilt her face to him. it wasn’t rough. it was firm. like he wanted her attention, and every inch of it.

and when he pulled back, just barely — her lips slick, parted, breath caught — he didn’t say a word. just let his thumb drag slowly across her bottom lip, watching it bounce slightly under the pressure.

then he pushed his fingers into her mouth.

slow.

intentional.

not deep — just enough to feel the heat of her tongue, to let her wet them herself. his fingers curled slightly, and she didn’t resist. didn’t flinch. just looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes like the moment had cracked her wide open and she had no idea what to do with the flood.

fuck, she was dangerous.

he slid his fingers out of her mouth slowly, coated with her spit. his hand drifted down, and he pressed another kiss to the soft curve of her neck — right where her pulse throbbed. she tilted her head slightly, breath catching again as his lips lingered.

“god, you’re good at that,” he murmured — not asking, just noting, like it was a fact she should’ve already known.

his hand didn’t stop moving.

it slipped lower, dragging along her skin — down her stomach, between her hips — until it found the heat still hidden by her underwear. he brushed his fingers over the thin fabric, just barely pressing, and even that made her hips twitch.

yoongi exhaled, low and steady. kissed her collarbone. then kissed lower — just once — before dragging his fingers slowly up the center of her, feeling the heat, the wetness even through the fabric.

“fuck…” he breathed again, mouth close to her ear now.

his thumb circled. one finger traced the edge of her underwear, like he was considering moving it. but he didn’t yet.

instead, he looked up again — gaze dark and focused, as if he was memorizing the way her mouth parted and her thighs tensed and her chest heaved, all at once.

“say it,” he murmured, voice low, just for her. “you still want this?”

not because he doubted.

because he wanted to hear her say yes.

she barely said it.

just a whisper — hoarse, trembling, thick with want. a single syllable soaked in breath and need, like it had fought its way out from somewhere deep in her chest.

“yes…”

yoongi didn’t wait.

couldn’t.

not after that.

his fingers slid beneath the band of her underwear, slow but sure, until he found the heat he’d only been teasing before. and fuck — she was already so wet for him. slick and warm and ready, like her body had been begging for this since the moment their eyes met in that crowded room.

he exhaled harshly through his nose — not a groan, not a word — just the kind of sound that broke free when restraint finally snapped its thread.

and then he pushed his fingers in.

slow, deep, perfect pressure — and the way she gasped, sharp and ragged, made his head drop against her shoulder. he stayed there for a second, buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the perfume that clung to her hair and collarbones. but more than that — her sounds.

small, breathy moans caught between parted lips. the stutter of her breath when he curled his fingers just right. the quiet, involuntary way her hips lifted into his hand like her body couldn’t help but chase the high he was coaxing out of her.

“that’s it,” he whispered, voice low and rough against her ear. “just like that.”

his free hand braced beside her ribs, steadying himself, while his fingers moved deeper — curling, pressing, finding the rhythm that made her thighs shake.

she was already falling apart.

and he hadn’t even kissed her again.

her hand grabbed at his arm, nails dragging across his skin as her other fisted the sheets, mouth open and trembling. every sound she made was his now. every gasp, every breathy whimper — all of it branded in his mind like a verse he’d never forget.

he lifted his head, just to watch her.

hair fanned across the pillow, her chest rising in shallow waves, lips bitten pink and trembling.

“look at me,” he murmured — soft, commanding.

she did.

barely.

but it was enough.

the moment their eyes locked, she moaned again — louder this time, messier, one leg wrapping tighter around his hip like she was trying to pull him into her completely.

yoongi kissed her then.

hard. deep. swallowing the sound she made as his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right.

and he thought — god, she’s gonna come like this.

just from this.

and he was going to let her.

watch her.

feel her.

every trembling second of it.

her hand moved like she couldn’t stop herself.

one still wrapped around his wrist — gripping, guiding, hips twitching beneath his touch as she pressed him deeper, faster, chasing the pressure that had her breath hitching with every curl of his fingers. she wasn’t just letting him touch her. she was showing him how. claiming the rhythm. dragging it out. her thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

and the other hand — fuck.

the other slid down, across his stomach, slow and shaking, until it found the hard outline of him beneath his jeans.

yoongi’s whole body stuttered.

his breath caught somewhere between his throat and chest, a low groan vibrating in his ribs as her palm pressed down — tentative at first, then with more purpose. like she wanted to feel the way she was ruining him. like she knew he’d been holding back and couldn’t stand it anymore.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges.

her eyes met his — dazed and dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed — and when she pressed just a little harder, her fingers shifting over him, he thrust into her hand, involuntary, his fingers deep inside her still.

it was messy. desperate. their bodies moving in tandem now, hips rocking against hands, like they couldn’t get close enough.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to hers.

she let out a breathless laugh — the kind that barely made it past her throat — and squeezed him again, slow. teasing. fucking lethal.

his fingers didn’t stop. he’d found the spot inside her that made her breath break, and he curled into it with intention now, matching the pace to the way her thighs were tightening, how her nails were digging into his skin, her mouth dragging open in a silent gasp.

“that’s it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “you’re close.”

she nodded — barely — but it was the sound she made next that wrecked him. that high, cracked moan as her hips lifted to meet his hand again, her rhythm starting to falter.

yoongi groaned deep in his throat.

because she was palming him harder now, her grip losing finesse, and he knew — knew — she was right on the edge.

so he kept going.

curling his fingers just right, his mouth pressed to her jaw, his other hand sliding to her ass to anchor her down.

“let go,” he breathed, voice shaking. “i’ve got you.”

she fell apart in his hands — breath caught, back arching, her hips grinding helplessly into his palm like her body was chasing the aftershocks. her thighs trembled, muscles fluttering beneath his touch, and her mouth dropped open on a moan that sounded dangerously close to his name.

yoongi felt it everywhere.

in his chest. in his spine. in the way his cock throbbed against the denim, painfully hard, caught in a limbo between control and the kind of need that bordered on reckless.

but it was her voice — the way it broke as she pulled him closer — that did it.

"please," she whispered, raw and aching, “i need to feel you.”

and fuck.

he swore he could’ve come right then — just from the look in her eyes. wide, hazy, flushed and blown out, still shaking, and yet so focused on him. her hands dragging down to his hips, grasping, pulling like she couldn’t bear to wait another second.

his fingers slipped from between her thighs — soaked and trembling — and he exhaled, sharp, eyes closing for just a beat.

then he moved.

with the last shred of resolve in his body, yoongi reached down, hand digging into the pocket of his jeans, fumbling just slightly. there. the foil packet brushed his fingers, and he let out a low breath, almost a laugh, something wild flickering in his chest.

he sat back on his knees, tearing the packet open fast with his teeth, his other hand already dragging the denim and briefs down his thighs.

her eyes dropped.

watched.

and stayed there.

he could feel her gaze — heavy, hungry, wide with anticipation — locked on his hands as he slid the condom on. her mouth parted slightly, breath shallow, fingers still gripping his hips as though trying to anchor herself to the moment.

yoongi looked up, caught her staring, and smiled — not cocky, not smug, just… wrecked. overwhelmed. full of something soft and dark and unspeakably fond.

“you’re really watching that close, huh?” he said, voice rough.

she nodded once, slow. lips brushing open. eyes full of fire.

“can’t help it,” she whispered.

he leaned forward, dragging his mouth across hers — a kiss that tasted like heat and hunger and too many almosts.

“good,” he murmured, hand sliding to her thigh as he lined himself up.

“’cause i want you to remember this.”

yoongi lined himself up — just the tip brushing against her, slick and hot and so tempting — and stopped.

his breath hitched.

his hands dug into the curve of her hips, holding her steady. his jaw clenched so tight it ached. because if he moved — if he let himself go that last inch — it’d be over. the moment would swallow them whole. and he wasn’t ready to lose it yet. not when she looked like this.

spread out beneath him. flushed and flushed and wrecked. the afterglow of her orgasm still softening the edges of her face, her hair stuck to her forehead in delicate strands, her thighs twitching open and ready for him.

but most of all — her eyes.

those wide, dazed eyes watching him like he was some kind of answer. lips parted, chest rising in short, sharp bursts, hands skimming down his arms like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

yoongi looked down between them, eyes locked on where their bodies almost met — his tip just barely pressing into her folds, catching slightly as he shifted his hips.

he groaned under his breath.

it took everything in him not to slam forward.

instead, he gave her a slow rock — just enough to drag the head of his cock through her heat, the tip slipping in a little more with each movement. her breath stuttered. her nails sank into his biceps, leaving trails of heat behind.

“yoongi—” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the second syllable.

and fuck, that did something to him.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, their noses brushing. his breath was hot against her mouth, voice low and dangerous.

“you want more?” he rasped.

her fingers tightened — nails biting into his skin, legs wrapping higher around his waist.

“please,” she whispered, breathless. barely a sound. but her eyes said it all.

and still — he didn’t move.

just nudged forward, inching in a little deeper. not enough. not nearly enough. he watched the way her mouth dropped open, how her brows pinched, the sound she made — like she was about to cry or scream or combust.

“i just wanna remember this,” he muttered, his own voice fraying now, hands trembling slightly as they slid up her sides. “how fucking good you feel already. and i’m not even in yet.”

she whimpered — straight-up whimpered — and it shot straight through him like lightning.

his hips rolled again, teasing another inch, and her whole body arched into him.

“yoongi,” she gasped, finally breaking.

“mm?” he teased, mouth on her cheek now. “what’s that, baby?”

her hands cupped his face so gently it nearly broke him.

fingers threading into his hair, thumbs brushing along his jaw — and then her mouth, god, her mouth — soft and urgent against his. not a kiss so much as a plea, her breath catching on the word he’d been teasing from her for what felt like hours.

“please,” she whispered, kissing him again, lips wet and trembling. “please, yoongi—”

her hips lifted as she spoke, slow and sure, coaxing him deeper — finally sinking him in, inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it had been waiting forever.

his breath hitched so sharp he gasped into her mouth.

then he groaned — low and raw, buried into the crook of her neck as her walls fluttered around him, pulling him in like gravity itself had been redefined.

“fuck,” he breathed against her skin, his voice wrecked. “fuck, you feel—”

but he couldn’t finish. the words died in his throat because she was already moving again — hips rolling, fingers still in his hair, her legs hooked around his waist like she needed him closer. like even being buried inside her wasn’t enough.

she held him there.

whispered into his ear — sweet and desperate.

“don’t stop.”

his hips stuttered, pushed deeper.

“you feel so good, baby. so good.”

yoongi groaned again, his hand fisting in the sheets beside her head. her voice was everything — warm, wrecked, coaxing him through each slow thrust like she wanted to memorize him now.

“just like that,” she murmured, her mouth dragging over his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin. “don’t stop—fuck—please, i need you to—”

and he did.

he moved — not fast, not yet — but deep. every inch deliberate. every sound she made drawing him further into her until there was nothing else.

only her.

her hands in his hair.

her mouth against his cheek.

her thighs trembling around his waist as he started to fuck her like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

he couldn’t think straight anymore.

his mind was static — white noise between thrusts — her breath, her nails, her skin, the wet sounds where their bodies met. and her voice. god, her voice.

soft and ruined, telling him more, right there, kiss me, don’t stop, and he was following every command like it was instinct.

like he didn’t know how to say no to her.

and maybe he didn’t want to.

maybe there was something in the way she said his name — not just gasped, not just moaned — but called for him. like she knew he’d come. like she knew he was hers the second she touched his face and kissed him between pleads.

he had her pinned under him now — body flush to hers, chest to chest, hips grinding deeper with every roll. the mattress creaked beneath them, sheets tangled at their waists. he was in her in every sense, and still it didn’t feel close enough.

yoongi moaned into her ear — couldn’t stop himself — and her body clenched so tight around him that his rhythm stuttered, jaw falling slack as he swore under his breath.

she whimpered when he hit deep.

he groaned when she tightened.

his mouth found her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone — kissing every inch she asked for, biting gently when her nails sank into his back. one of his hands slid up, grasping the back of her thigh, pulling her leg higher over his hip to get deeper, stay deeper.

the sweat between them made it all feel primal. feverish. real in a way that didn’t make sense, like he wasn’t sure if this was the best sex of his life or a goddamn religious experience.

and he hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

not just the heat. not just the high.

the connection.

the way her hands still held onto him even as her voice broke. the way her body moved with his like it knew him already. like it had been waiting for him to come back to life.

and he was.

piece by piece. kiss by kiss. thrust by thrust.

yoongi pressed his forehead to hers again, panting, hips rolling steady and deep as her breath caught and she whispered his name like a prayer. her nails curled into his shoulder blades.

he groaned again — low, helpless.

“fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against her mouth.

she smiled — crooked and breathless — and kissed him hard, teeth grazing his bottom lip before she said, “good.”

he laughed.

not loud. not amused. wrecked.

it cracked out of his chest like disbelief — like she’d just dared him to snap — and she fucking had.

yoongi leaned back, separating from her chest, chest heaving. and the second she started to reach for him — eyes hazy, lips parting in protest — his hand locked around her hip, tight. rough. possessive.

she gasped, and fuck, he felt it.

the way her body jolted. the way her breath hitched. the way her legs trembled around his waist.

he pressed his thumb into the meat of her hip, slow and deep — not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. he knew it would leave a bruise. wanted it to. wanted her to find it tomorrow and remember the way she asked for this with nothing but a smirk and a dare.

his other hand rose to her jaw — fingers spread, palm warm and solid, thumb dragging across her bottom lip before his grip shifted. just enough pressure to ground her. not choking. not rough. just right. enough to make her pupils blow wide, lips fall open, breath break again.

and then he moved.

his hips snapped forward — hard. deeper than before. rougher. the kind of thrust that rattled her body against the mattress.

she whined. moaned. arched. all at once.

“yeah?” he rasped, eyes locked on hers. “you like that?”

her mouth dropped open — desperate, dazed — and she nodded, voice nearly gone.

“tell me,” he muttered, fucking into her harder now. “tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

she gasped — a jagged inhale, her fingers clawing at his shoulders.

and then, through breathless, broken confessions, she told him.

about the way she thought of him the night they met — how she imagined this. him. the way she touched herself thinking about how he’d sound, how he’d moan. how she'd imagined his mouth, his hands, his weight pressing her down into her mattress, just like now.

yoongi groaned — deep, guttural, shaking through his whole chest. his grip tightened on her hip. his pace faltered for just a second before he snapped back into it — rougher, deeper, his cock dragging against the spot inside her that made her voice crack when she tried to keep talking.

“fuck, baby—” he gasped, mouth finding her neck again, kissing it hard. “you’re gonna make me come.”

and she gasped at that. her whole body reacting — fluttering around him, her legs shaking, arms locking around his back like she was trying to trap him there.

and yoongi?

he let her.

because fuck it — he wasn’t going anywhere.

he couldn’t hold back anymore.

his hips snapped into her again — deep, ragged — and this time he didn’t try to quiet the sounds that came out of him. couldn’t. not with the way she gripped him, her hands dragging down to his ass, pulling him in, guiding each thrust like she wasn’t even close to finished with him.

yoongi groaned — sharp and guttural, the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, from the place that was losing her already even as she was still wrapped around him.

he dropped his weight slightly — elbows pressing into the mattress on either side of her head, chest to chest, his face buried against her cheek. and then, just before he shattered completely, he turned and left a kiss on her forehead.

so gentle.

so quiet.

like the softest thank you he'd never say aloud.

his hair was soaked, sweat dripping down his neck, his whole body trembling with the force of it as he came — hips stuttering, breath catching, buried so deep in her it almost didn’t feel real. a moan ripped from his throat — her name barely audible against her skin.

but she didn’t stop.

her hands coaxed him through it, fingers digging into his skin, soft, desperate whimpers pushing past her lips as her hips tilted up again. chasing hers. so close.

“don’t stop,” she gasped. “yoongi—please—i’m—”

and fuck.

his body was wrecked, but his heart was still punching through his ribs for her, so he kept moving. slower now, but still deep, rolling into her just the way she liked — groaning as he felt her clench again, tighter this time, like her whole body was pulling him in to come with her.

she shattered with a gasp. a long, aching sound that cracked in the middle as her thighs trembled and her hands fisted into his skin.

and yoongi?

he felt it.

deep.

full-body.

because this wasn’t just release — it was connection. her body shaking beneath him, lips brushing his jaw, her moans quiet now but still there, like they were part of the rhythm of his own breath.

they stayed like that.

pressed together.

sweat-slick and shivering, heartbeat to heartbeat, breath syncing as the silence finally returned — not empty, not awkward.

just real.

just them.

he didn’t move.

couldn’t.

his body was still thrumming — nerves fried, lungs stuttering against hers, every part of him soaked in the weight of her. sweat on his skin, her scent in his nose, her heartbeat steadying underneath his chest like she was trying to bring him back to earth.

her arms stayed locked around him.

tight.

one hand resting flat against his spine, the other tracing slow, mindless shapes into the space between his shoulder blades. he could feel her nails, just barely — not scratching, just reminding. like she didn’t want him to slip away. like she was holding him there on purpose.

yoongi exhaled.

his face still pressed against the side of her neck, breath ghosting over her skin as he tried to find his voice. but nothing came yet. didn’t need to. the silence between them wasn’t awkward. it was full. stretched soft like a blanket. like a memory.

finally, after a minute — maybe two — he lifted his head.

just enough to look at her.

and fuck.

she was a vision.

lips red and bitten. cheeks flushed. pupils still dark and wide and glassy. there was sweat along her collarbones and a dreamy kind of haze in her gaze, like she was still floating somewhere between now and the stars.

her hand reached up — slow and sure — and gently brushed the hair from his forehead, fingers dragging soft against his skin. a quiet, instinctive gesture. so casual and so intimate he felt it in his chest like a bruise.

yoongi leaned in and kissed her.

not rushed. not hungry.

just soft. like he meant it.

when he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers for a beat longer before he whispered, voice low and rough, “where should i...?”

he didn’t even finish the sentence.

she understood.

she nodded toward the bathroom door, lips parting slightly, too spent to smile but too sated not to.

he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth — then carefully pulled out of her, a soft hiss caught in his throat as the warmth of her slipped away. he moved slow, quiet, disappearing down the hall just long enough to take care of it.

when he came back, she was still there.

bare and beautiful in the soft light.

one hand outstretched — waiting for him.

yoongi didn’t even think.

he climbed back into bed, under the light blanket she’d tugged over herself, and let her pull him back into her arms. his head on her chest now, ear pressed to her heartbeat, fingers ghosting over her ribs like she might vanish if he didn’t touch her.

neither of them said a word.

they didn’t need to.

her fingers were still in his hair, slow and lazy, threading through the damp strands like she had all the time in the world.

yoongi’s arm was draped low around her waist, hand curled under the curve of her spine. their bodies had stopped moving, but his mind hadn’t — it buzzed, still full of her. the sound of her voice. the look in her eyes. the feeling of her skin under his hands, her legs around his hips, her breath right there at his mouth.

he felt wrecked. in the most peaceful way.

her lips brushed the top of his head, a kiss that was more like a breath. and then, soft — almost teasing, but not really — her voice reached through the quiet.

“you’re gonna be a problem for me,” she murmured, half-lidded eyes blinking slow, like she was already falling under sleep’s weight.

yoongi huffed a laugh against her chest.

“good,” he whispered back. “i want to be.”

she smiled — he could feel it. the way her ribs shifted slightly beneath his cheek.

a beat passed.

the kind that invited more, the kind that asked without asking.

and then she did — so quiet he almost thought he dreamed it.

“are you staying?”

he stilled.

not from fear. not from panic.

just from the sheer gravity of it.

because she wasn’t asking about just tonight. he could hear it in her voice, feel it in the soft curl of her fingers around his neck. it wasn’t about falling asleep together. it was about after. about what they did with this — with whatever the fuck this was becoming.

yoongi closed his eyes. breathed her in. his hand splayed against her lower back like it had always known how to fit there.

“yeah,” he said, eventually. just above a whisper. “i think i am.”

and she didn’t say anything after that.

she didn’t need to.

she just kissed the top of his head again, her lips barely brushing his skin, and held him tighter.

and for the first time in a long, long while — yoongi let himself be held.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

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