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watchmegetobsessed · 18 days ago

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UNDONE I.

A/N: i've started like 3 wips these past weeks but finally finished one! so here is some boss!harry for you, let me know if you want more of it, bc i feel like i could def add to this story!

WORD COUNT: 8.1k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: Harry is obsessed with Y/N. The only problem is that he is her boss, so he keeps this obsession to himself. But everything changes after one drunken night.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry has a love-hate relationship with the glass-walled meeting rooms in the office. Aesthetically they are bringing that well-known, usual vibe of every corporate office, nothing new, nothing unusual. Often, he is irritated that people tend to peek inside as they walk past towards the coffee machine or the restroom. He knows it’s second nature, they don’t necessarily try to intrude, but it tends to frustrate him when he is in the middle of a meeting and a random guy is just staring him down from outside. He tried to get the glass covered, but HR declined, they said something about transparency that just pissed Harry off even more, then he just gave up.

But lately, there’s been an advantage of those see-through dividers, because if people from outside can see in, that means Harry can see everything and everyone outside.

Like right now, as he is sitting by the oval table, laptop in front of him while the lawyers are talking about all the legal documents that are needed for their next deal, it’s an important step and Harry is usually great at focusing on what matters, but today his attention is somewhere else.

Outside of the meeting room, right by Y/N’s desk.

She is the latest addition in the department, a talented analyst who joined a little over three months ago. Harry knows she is great, because he was there at her interview. He is usually not one to attend interviews, but the hiring manager got sick and they needed someone from management to be there as well and Harry had a spare hour he wanted to use to get a little ahead on that tender he’d been working on, but that got thrown right out the window.

It was the last thing he wanted to do, listen to some random analyst who probably never even saw a DWH system, they always think they are qualified to deal with anything, but then they see just how much data they need to work with and then freak out. Harry was convinced it would happen that time too, but he was wrong.

Y/N walked in there, seemingly nervous, fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan, looking like a frightened little rabbit, so innocent, so sweet, something surprising happened.

Harry was in awe.

He found himself being drawn towards her, interested in how she’d perform at the interview. He kept a straight face as the recruiter beside him asked her some basic questions and then he took over for the professional part.

He gave her his hardest questions, things even seniors might not know, he quizzed her about topics that are way too specific to work around and… she excelled. She couldn’t answer every question, but she worked up a logic she would use to at least try to tackle the matter and Harry knew she would succeed if she had the right materials.

She blew his mind away. Once she left, he turned to the recruiter and said:

“I want her. Get her to start next week.”

And she did. Next monday, she was holding her onboarding package, eyes bright as she got seated at her desk, ready to start working.

Now she is sitting at the same spot, wearing her blue light glasses, her eyebrows slightly furrowed behind them as she is working on something on her computer. She is wearing a long sundress today with a yellow cardigan to cover her shoulders. Harry has noted her colorful outfits every morning when she strolled into the office, brightening the otherwise dull atmosphere. It’s a whole floor full of developers, analysts and other IT professionals, they are not known for their exquisite fashion taste, but Y/N is different. Her wardrobe is full of colors and pieces others wouldn’t consider as business casual, but somehow she always makes it work.

She is the kind of person that has a nice word for everyone, she often brings coffee to Linda, whose desk is across from hers and they usually have lunch together, Harry has noted. She is always happy to help others, she is great at seeing problems differently and quick to come up with solutions. She is definitely a favorite among her colleagues.

Unlike Harry.

Not that he wants to be liked, he is head of IT, he needs to lead, keep everything under control and make hard decisions. He is not stupid, Harry knows most people in the department fear him, he is not known for being friendly and chatty. He usually has so much work he doesn’t have time left to get a coffee with anyone, not that he would have anyone to invite. He is the gruff boss who is always busy and people try not to cross paths with.

He doesn’t mind it. He likes to be focused on his work and most people don’t realize how hard it is to be the one to decide about budget cuts, downsizing and restructuring, because they don’t see what goes down behind these decisions, they just want to blame someone and that’s usually him. They don’t want to be friends with the big boss who fired their work bestie, even if it was a known fact they never did their job.

It was never an issue for him how his employees saw him. Until her.

Someone stops by Y/N’s desk and he watches her face light up as she gives them her attention. He can’t hear what she is saying, but when she laughs, it rings in his ears. He loves hearing her laugh.

“So what do you think?” one of the lawyers asks him and he snaps back, realizing he has no idea what they were talking about in the last five minutes. He quickly looks down at his notes so far, but there’s no use.

“Uh, I’ll leave it to you. I have to go now, do you think you can have everything set by the end of next week? We need it for the next sprint.”

“Sure,” the guy nods, his name is something with a J, but Harry can’t remember what it is.

He is relieved that he could dodge admitting he has no idea what was talked about, shutting his laptop he murmurs a thank you for the group and he is the first one to walk out of the room, heading towards his office.

Y/N is not at her desk when he walks past and he looks for her, hoping he is not too obvious, but he sees no trace of her. Is she having coffee with that guy who walked up to her desk? Are they planning something outside of work? Does he want to date her?

Harry’s thoughts are racing as he closes the door behind him, shutting out the general buzz of the open office outside. With a sigh, he sits down in his chair, places his laptop onto the desk, but leaves it unopened for a bit as he rubs his face with his hands.

He always has control. He plans and keeps himself to his plan, he gathers data, analyses and then makes a new plan. Easy as it is. This is why he likes his job, IT is usually exact, the problem might be deeply hidden, but it’s always exact, he just needs to find the data.

But he’s been feeling chaotic lately. He is disoriented, can’t focus at meetings and finds himself thinking about her when he is supposed to be working. He just can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, then rolls his head, his neck cracks and he lets out a groan before opening his laptop and trying his best to get back to working. The code opens in front of him and he focuses on the lines he’s been trying to rewrite, but right when he is about to start typing, there’s a knock on his door. For a second, he feels irritated that he was interrupted again, but then he looks past the screen and sees her.

Harry nods and Y/N walks through the glass door, holding her laptop to her chest, smiling shyly. Harry likes to think that this smile is for him only, that he is the reason to bring it to her lips, though he doubts he has such an effect on her. But still, it’s a nice thought.

“Hey,” he greets her as she crosses the room and sits across from him.

“Hi. Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” he shakes his head.

“I finished those tables you asked for yesterday, but I wanted to run a few things with you.”

“You… finished?” he asks as Y/N unfolds her laptop, nodding.

“Yeah.” She places the laptop onto his desk and he leans closer, focusing on the screen as Y/N explains what she found unclear, but Harry is still stunned when she is done talking.

“Is it… Is it bad? Not what you thought of?” she asks, seeing his face.

“No, it’s… Y/N, you did this all by yourself?”

“Yes?” Her answer sounds unsure and panic settles in her visibly. “I-I’m sorry if it’s–”

“Y/N, this is brilliant.”

She is taken aback by his compliment, it wasn’t the first time, but it feels like a gift every time for her.

“It is?”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t doubt you could do it, but I didn’t think it would turn out this great and you also finished so fast, I thought it would take you the entire week at least.”

“Well… I did stay in a little longer last night,” she admits with a soft chuckle and it tugs on his chest right away. He looks at her over the desk, their eyes meet and for a second, warmth spreads through his veins as he fights the urge to reach out and touch her.

Clearing his throat he leans back in his chair.

“Send it over, I’ll leave comments on those sections and then you can start the migration.”

“Thank you,” she nods, taking her laptop and heading to the door.

“And well done, Y/N,” he calls after her. She just nods and smiles at him before walking out.

Harry watches her return to her desk, takes some deep breaths and forces himself to return to the code on his own computer.

***

Linda wiggles her eyebrows at Y/N once she is sat at her desk.

“Did you two eye-fuck again?” she asks and Y/N gapes at her, quickly looking around to see if anyone heard her, but luckily, everyone is too busy.

“Linda! That’s–We don’t do that.”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, twirling her pen around between her fingers.

“We just went over the tables. He said I did a good job.” She shrugs, but Linda doesn’t miss how the corners of her mouth curl up, though she tries to hide it.

“You do realize you’re the only one in this whole department he has ever complimented, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Zach go the best reaction from him last spring, when he spent two weeks refactoring a fucked up code, Harry said it was acceptable. That’s all. The fact that he said you did a good job is just another proof that he is into you.”

“Would you stop talking about the head of IT being into me?” Y/N hisses. “Come on, let’s get a coffee before you start screaming it.”

They go down a floor where the coffee station has better options and once they both have a mug full of coffee, they settle by a high table in the common area.

“I have a confession to make,” Y/N admits, but avoids looking her in the eyes. “Okay, go for it.”

“I’m meeting Archer today.”

“Y/N! Not your fucking ex! Why?!” Linda gasps. “Do you really hate yourself that much?”

“I don’t hate myself,” she gives her a look, before returning her gaze to her mug. “He texted me the other day.”

“And you texted him back?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Boo! You should have blocked his number a long time ago!”

Y/N has thought about that. A lot. Her asshole ex has come back a couple of times since they broke up about a year ago, they shared one or two nights, but it always ended with him disappearing and leaving her shattered. His comebacks slowed down the process of getting over him a lot and though she feels like she is finally okay, she couldn’t just ignore his text.

“That’s not like me,” she shrugs, ignoring the thought that she knows Linda is right.

“Hun, what do you think will happen today that hasn’t happened before?”

The question stings, right in her chest, because she knows it’s true. Her logical side knows Archer won’t just magically apologize for the way he treated her, even though it’s the only thing she wants from him at this point. To admit that he was in the wrong.

“We’ll talk. That’s it.”

“Please don’t sleep with him,” Linda sighs desperately. “He doesn’t deserve your time.”

“I won’t,” she says, though she is not entirely certain it’s the truth.

“Uh-huh, okay.” Linda checks the time on her phone. “I gotta go, I have a meeting in ten.”

“I’m coming too, I have a lot to do.”

Grabbing their mugs they head out of the common area, back to the upper floor.

***

Harry didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He is the last person to be interested in anyone’s private life in the office.

But when he heard Y/N’s voice as he was about to walk into the room, he stopped and hid behind the wall, listening to a conversation that was truly not meant for his ears.

Hearing the two women talk about Y/N’s ex has ignited something new in him, especially when it became clear that he has hurt her in the past. Harry is not one to become violent, he channels all his tendencies in the gym while boxing, but from what he heard of the guy, he would have gladly punched him in the face. A few times.

Maybe more than a few.

The short conversation tickled his curiosity about what happened, but when he heard that they were about to leave, he quickly walked away so they didn’t see him.

Now as he is back by his desk he can’t focus on the code in front of him at all, his thoughts are only about this mysterious ex Y/N is apparently meeting today. At one point, he even considers giving her some extra work to keep her in late and preferably miss the meeting, but that would be too petty even for him. Instead, he spends the next hour pretending to work while he just keeps fantasizing about different scenarios of what happened between Y/N and the guy.

Slowly, the office starts to empty out as the end of the day nears. Desks get abandoned, lights are turned off and Harry is still there, since he barely got anything done that day.

He sees when Y/N packs up her stuff and leaves and his jaw almost breaks as he holds himself still and just watches her walk out.

“I’m fucking insane,” he mumbles under his breath, willing himself to do some work now that he can’t get distracted by Y/N every time she leaves her desk.

It’s all new to him. This obsession he’s been feeling since the moment he saw Y/N at the interview. An invisible string has been pulling him towards her and it’s unlike anything he has felt with his exes before.

He wasn’t obsessed. He didn’t think of them all the time. He didn’t lose focus when he was seeing someone. But with Y/N, he is losing his precious control and it’s almost scary.

He finally manages to lock in for some work and time flies by. Next time he looks up from his screen the whole office is empty, only his desk lamp giving light and the green haze of the exit signs. It’s past nine and he can hear the cleaner vacuuming somewhere on the floor, so with a tired smile he shuts his computer off, gathers his things and heads out.

He moved less than a year ago and the place he bought is within walking distance of the office. He knows it might have been a stupid idea to get a place just because it’s close to his working place, he probably won’t work there his whole life, but he doesn’t see himself switching for a long time, so it’s convenient.

With his backpack hanging off one shoulder he steps out into the warm evening, the afternoon rush is over, now the nearby bars and restaurants are full of workers desperately needing to let some steam off before heading home.

There’s a small park he walks through before reaching his street and it has always been dear to him, a nice change in the scenery of concrete and glass in the middle of the city. There’s even a small pond along the path that takes him across the park with benches and a handful of ducks are usually circling in the water peacefully.

Older people from around like to come here and sit or take a short walk and they are the only people Harry likes to watch. He admires their slow pace, no rush, just enjoying what they have, a state he dreams of reaching too.

Tonight, as he passes by the pond his eyes spot a familiar figure sitting on one of the benches. He stops in his tracks, questioning if his sight is right, because the person sitting there with her head hanging low looks just like Y/N. As he slowly approaches he notices the soft shaking of her shoulders.

She’s crying.

***

Y/N has been sitting on that bench for… God knows how long. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. She was planning to cry her eyes out at once, then move on by the time she gets home, but apparently, she needs more time to get herself over than she estimated. This spot seemed like a great one, it’s far enough from the lights so people don’t notice she is crying, but she definitely did not expect to be noticed by her boss.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice makes her jump and as her head snaps up, she finds herself staring up at the person she least expected to see. His eyebrows are furrowed, concern is written all over his face as he stands a few feet away from the bench, as if he can’t tell if it’s a good idea for him to get closer.

“Oh, hi!” She quickly forces a smile on her face, but she knows she is fooling no one. She wipes her tear-soaked cheeks with the back of her hand and prays her mascara is not smudged all around her eyes in panda style. “What–What are you doing here?”

“I live nearby, I’m on my way home. What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… I was just taking a walk and now I’m… not.”

Her brain does not function. She knows what she said didn’t make any sense, but she can’t think of something else to say. She is way too busy thinking about how Harry is standing right there just after her ex made her wait for him for an hour before texting her he is not coming and when she called him to confront, a woman answered his phone.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to draw the conclusions: Archer was only trying to hook up with her tonight, but apparently found someone else and ditched her. A classic move from an asshole like him, but that doesn’t make her feel less like shit. Mostly because she should have known better and not believe he would do anything other than hurting her.

Harry just stands there for a few moments and Y/N is expecting him to walk away and pretend like he didn’t even see her, but he surprises her when he walks over to the bench and sits beside her.

“Do you want to… talk about what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” she answers right away, but when she looks at him, it’s obvious he doesn’t believe her. With a sigh, she turns her gaze back towards the pond. She is hesitating between keeping it all to herself or just dumping it on Harry and then deal with the consequences later, but right when she is about to make up her mind, he speaks up.

“Is this about… your ex-boyfriend?”

She turns to him with wide eyes.

“How do you…”

A guilty look takes over his face before he shrugs.

“I heard you talking about him earlier. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“I shouldn’t talk so freely with Linda in the office,” she chuckles, shaking her head. They sit in silence, when Harry peeks at her she seems deep in her thoughts and he is desperate to get her to talk, but doesn’t want to push her too much.

As a last resort, he says:

“Do you want to have a drink?”

***

The tequila is burning her throat, she can’t help the frown as she bites into the lemon. When she looks at Harry, she is not even surprised he has the same, unbothered look on his face he had after the previous two shots.

“Uh, how are you taking it so well?” she coughs and then takes a sip from her beer. They were lucky enough to find a table at a bar nearby and she was quick to accept that maybe getting drunk is what she needs right now, even if the alarms are still going off somewhere in the back of her mind, because doing it with Harry might not be her brightest idea.

“I guess I still have some left of my college years,” he shrugs and she starts laughing.

“Don’t tell me you were a party animal in college,” she snorts. The three shots and half a beer has definitely set her tongue free and took away her sense of embarrassment after saying everything that’s on her mind. She will surely regret it in the morning, but right now she couldn’t care less.

Harry likes this version of her. She is always bubbly and talkative, but in his presence he often senses her nervousness. Now there’s no trace of that and he is sinking in every moment of it.

“What do you think I was like in college?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, the words slurring a bit on her tongue. “Like a… hot nerd?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her and she realizes only then that she just called him hot.

“I-I mean… I don’t–What I meant is–”

“I was a nerd,” he says, saving her from her rambling. “I was in the robotics club, spent a lot of time in the library, trying to hack their system so I didn’t have to return some books I wanted to keep.”

She can’t help, but laugh as Harry is smiling at the memory as well.

“Did you succeed?”

“What do you think?”

“For sure.”

“Correct,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “But I went to parties. I had this friend group from highschool, some of them were friends with the popular kids so we were always invited.”

“I can’t picture you with a red solo cup, filled with cheap booze.”

“But it happened,” he chuckles. “Luckily, photos have been deleted from social media.”

“Did you wipe the internet?” she asks, leaning closer as if she was asking him about a secret.

“No, but I did message those who had the photos posted when I was getting higher in my career.”

“Clever,” she nods and grabbing her beer, she takes a few swigs. Then her smile fades. “Maybe I should tell you what happened, right?”

“Only if you want to.”

Sighing she leans back, pursing her lips as she squints her eyes, looking back at him. She can’t think straight. Her thoughts are jumping, one moment she is thinking about Archer, the next all her attention is on how plump his lips look when they are wet from the beer, or the way his top two buttons of his shirt have come undone and she is seeing fucking tattoos, along his collarbones.

She wants to kiss them.

“I was stupid enough to think that I matter to him and he wouldn’t… hurt me. But he did. That’s it, lesson learned.”

She would love to look unbothered, like it doesn’t affect her, but she can’t. Her throat is closing up and when Harry calls out her name softly, she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and wobbling lips.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying, I know. I’m sorry!”

“Don’t apologize,” Harry shakes his head, but it’s like she didn’t even hear him.

“I know it’s stupid, but I just thought it might be different this time, that he might apologize and I can finally… I don’t know.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s not. You’re allowed to hope, to want to be treated the right way.”

“But I should have learned my lesson before!”

“You could have, but it’s okay. You will now. You’re smart, smarter than you think. You’ll get over it, doesn’t matter how long it takes, you will get there. I know it.”

“How?” she asks in a whisper, unable to break the eye-contact.

“I don’t know how you’ll do it, but–”

“No,” she shakes her head. “How do you know it?”

He slowly runs his tongue over his lips, thinking his words through before speaking them.

“I just do. Do you believe me?”

Without hesitation she nods.

“I do.”

***

“If someone said one day I would be waiting for an Uber with my boss, drunk out of my ass at two am, I would have laughed them in the face.”

Y/N is holding onto a lamp post with one hand, twirling around it like a little kid as Harry stands by the curb, one hand in his pocket, the other one holding his phone, tracking the Uber that’s supposed to pick Y/N up and take her home. He is watching her with a tiny smile, it’s great to see her so carefree after her breakdown earlier.

“Which part is so unbelievable?”

She stops and steps closer to him. She can’t stand still, keeps shifting her weight between her feet and Harry is on alert in case she loses her balance.

“All of it,” she grins up at him, blinking lazily. “Except the drunk out of my ass. That happens sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Am I in trouble?”

“Because you get drunk sometimes? You’re an adult, you can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, but… you’re my boss,” she giggles, then starts swaying as if she could hear some music. “It’s not professional to get drunk.”

“Not when you’re working. But you’re not at work right now.”

“Nope,” she shakes her head, popping the ‘p’ sound. “I’m on the street, with Harry Styles, after drinking with Harry Styles! And now I’m gonna go home in an Uber that Harry Styles ordered for me!”

“Are you enjoying saying my name?” he chuckles, glancing at his phone again, The car is five minutes away. He is already dreading the moment it arrives, because that means the night ends. But he knows she has to get home and sleep it off.

“I do,” she sings. “It has a nice ring to it. It’s a cool name for a cool guy.”

“Oh, so I’m cool?” He knows he shouldn’t take advantage of her drunken state and keep her talking, but he just can’t get himself to stop.

“Yeah. You’re cool and smart and scary sometimes and mysterious, but not tonight,” she giggles as she keeps swaying around, while Harry can’t take his eyes off her, not when she is talking about him. “People at the office are scared of you, but I think you’re great.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re amazing, I always look forward to seeing you. Sometimes I…” She giggles at whatever she is thinking about, completely oblivious at how intently Harry is listening to her. “Sometimes I ask you about things I know just so we can talk.” She shakes her head with a chuckle, but it’s enough for her to lose balance.

She gasps when she starts falling, but he is quick to grab her by her arms, yanking her towards him to keep her from smashing against the concrete. She is not laughing anymore, especially when she realizes that her chest is pressed against his, hands still holding her arms firmly. And his eyes are piercing into her gaze in a way that takes her breath away.

“I love when you come asking questions,” he admits. “That’s usually my favorite part of the day.”

Her eyes widen at his words and when his gaze shifts down to her lips, they part as she gasps for air. Her chest presses even more against his as she fills her lungs and she feels even more dizzy now than before.

“I want to kiss you.”

The words blurt out of her before she could think them through, unaware of the effect they have on Harry. His gaze darkens and it moves down at her lips again. But before he could say or do anything, the Uber pulls up beside them.

Harry lets go of her, then opens the door.

“Get some sleep, Y/N. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She blinks at him a few times as he just stands there, waiting for her to get inside. She is confused. Drunk and tired and the longer she stays there the more awkward she feels, so she finally gets into the car, then Harry shuts the door and the car starts moving.

Y/N turns around and sees him still standing there, hands in his pockets, his head hanging low. Then she slides down in the seat, closes her eyes and then replays those couple of moments when she was pressed up against him over and over again until the car stops at her apartment building.

***

Sunday evening Y/N contemplates calling in sick. Preferably with something that keeps her away from the office… forever.

Once she woke in the afternoon of Saturday, sobered up, with a killer headache, memories from last night came crashing down on her and the embarrassment took over instantly. She spent the rest of the weekend in agony, cursing herself out for being so stupid.

Did she really tell her boss she wanted to kiss him?

Yes, she in fact did. After getting drunk with him, crying about her ex and telling him all kinds of stuff she never planned on admitting to him. Like that she finds him cool and smart and sometimes scary.

But the kissing part is obviously the worst.

No matter how badly she dreads Monday morning, time doesn’t stop or slows down, the week starts and she has to go to work and face the consequences of her actions.

Maybe Harry won’t be there. But he is always there.

Maybe she can hide all day and avoid him… until the rest of her life or until she finds a new job. Very unlikely, but whatever.

Her palms are sweating as she swipes her card at the gates and heads up to her floor. She’s getting paranoid, thinking that everyone in the elevator knows what happened on Friday, even though no one even bats an eye in her direction.

Luckily, as she logs into her computer at her desk, work swamps her and provides enough distraction to stop her from throwing up when she sees Harry for the first time.

It seems like he is having a busy day too, he is in and out of meetings for the most part of the noon, she only sees him passing by or sitting in his office with his AirPods in, a sign that he is in an online meeting. But even when he is free for a short time, Y/N makes sure she avoids facing him. She even considers moving to another floor’s common room with her laptop for the day if it means she can survive without running into him and God forbid, talking to him.

But then comes an email.

It’s a bit after lunch time when it pops up in her inbox and her stomach drops to the floor right away when she sees it’s from Harry. Then another wave of anxiety washes over her when she reads it.

FROM: Harry Styles

Come to my office at your earliest convenience. -H

“Oh shit,” she mumbles under her breath and it catches Linda’s ears across from her, who gives her a questioning look. “Nothing.” She just shakes her head, grabs her laptop and then heads to Harry’s office with shaking knees.

Is this the part where he tells her behavior was unacceptable? Did he maybe report her to HR for what she said?

She knocks on the door with a sweaty hand, Harry looks up from his screen with a blank face and nods at her to go inside.

“Hey. I got your email.” She sounds like a frightened little girl as she closes the door behind her and stills, hugging her laptop to her chest.

“Thanks for coming right away.”

Harry pushes his chair back lazily, stands and rounds the desk before leaning against it leisurely, his eyes glued to Y/N who is still standing by the door, too scared to go further. He doesn’t like the distance.

“Come, sit,” he nods towards one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Obediently, she walks over and takes a seat, blinking up at him with wide eyes while he looks unbothered and almost… bored. He squints his eyes at her, tilting his head to the side a bit before finally speaking up.

“Is there a specific reason why you’re avoiding me all day?”

Her lips part at his question and her first instinct is to deny.

“I-I’m not–”

“Y/N, you are. Normally, you would have already asked me at least two questions, but instead you walk out of the office every time I step out of mine. You are avoiding me.”

She shuts her mouth, trying to come up with something to say that could save her, but nothing comes to her mind.

“I’m sorry.” Her gaze drops to the floor, his stare is too intense for her. “I’m so ashamed about… everything I said on Friday, I didn’t know how to face you. I said all that… inappropriate stuff you definitely shouldn’t have heard. like… ever. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N,” he softly says, but her gaze remains on her shoes. “Y/N, look at me, please.”

Finally, she dares to move her eyes back to meet his and then he continues… in the most surprising way.

“What I’m about to say, it’s going to be fully unrelated to work. Can you treat it as something outside of this setting?” Y/N nods. “Use your words, I need to hear you say it. Do you understand that this conversation is outside of work?”

“I understand,” she answers weakly, her mouth running dry.

“Good.” He nods and then continues. “Do not feel sorry for anything you said. I’m glad I know all of that. The only downside of it is that now I need every ounce of self-control not to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

This time her mouth hangs open. For a moment she is not entirely convinced she hasn’t just imagined it all. That it wasn’t just her sick mind playing tricks on her. But then he speaks again.

“Did you hear what I said? That I want to fuck you into oblivion on this desk?”

“Yes,” she breathes out, trembling.

“Good. Now I want you to go back to your desk and think it through whether you want that too or not. If you decide that you feel the same way, stay late and come back here when everyone is gone. Understood?”

“Yes.”

She feels dizzy, but not the same kind she felt on Friday, this is entirely different. Turning around she walks out of the room, but she’s on auto pilot as she returns to her desk. She leans back in her chair and slowly looks around.

No one in the room knows what just happened. Everyone is just minding their own business while Y/N is on the verge of fainting.

“You alright?” Linda peeks out from behind her screen with a concerned look on her face. “What did he want?”

If only she knew! Y/N thinks. She is dying to share, to take the whole conversation apart and analyze every bit, but she can’t. Instead, she forces a smile to her face.

“Just checked in with me about the migration.”

Linda examines her suspiciously for a second, but then her phone rings and she returns to her work while Y/N opens her laptop as well, but as she stares at the document in front of her she was working on before Harry’s email, she can’t even make out a word.

Instead, she is busy thinking about what happens when the office empties out.

***

Harry was dragged into some urgent issue sometime in the afternoon and it gave him enough work to take his attention away from prying outside, impatiently waiting for everyone to leave while making sure Y/N is still there.

He answers one call after the other while emails keep popping into his inbox and he loses track of Y/N. When he finally drags his gaze away from the screen he looks up and finds the whole floor empty. All of it.

Meaning that Y/N left as well. Groaning he stands from his desk and walks over to the window, staring out into the night that has slowly creeped up on him. He truly thought she would stay. That she felt the same desire and thirst as him and she wants to explore whatever it could be, but maybe he read it all wrong.

How will this affect their work? He should have thought of that before telling her he wants to fuck her on his desk. Who even does that? He is supposed to be her boss, her mentor, this was so incredibly inappropriate, he is thinking about reporting himself to HR and–

There’s a knock on his door.

Turning around he freezes when he sees Y/N standing there with doe-like eyes and with just one look she is already making his pulse jump. He nods, barely noticeably, but she sees it and lets herself inside, closing the door behind her even though it’s truly just the two of them now.

“Hey,” she sheepishly says, stopping exactly where she did earlier when he wrote her that email. This time however, Harry is the one to cross the room and then stop just inches away from her. She wonders if he could hear the wild hammering of her heart in her chest, the dizziness is back and she hides her hands behind her back so he doesn’t notice them shaking.

“Did you think about what I said?”

Harry talks slowly and clearly and she couldn’t tell just moments ago he was freaking out too. But now that she’s there, every racing thought is gone from his mind, all he is thinking about is… her.

“Yes.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” There’s a tiny bit of sassiness in her tone, just enough to start a fire in him.

She catches the way one corner of his lips curls up as he takes another small step towards her, his hands come up to cup her jaw on either side and he gently tilts her head back, angling it perfectly. Then slowly, he leans closer until his lips are almost touching hers, but then stops. As if he is giving one last chance for her to change her mind, but she is still there, waiting for him to finally break down the wall between them and he gives in.

He lets his hunger take over instantly. There’s no testing the waters, feeling each other up, he kisses her in a demanding, needy way that takes her breath away at first, but she is quick to react the same way.

Her hands move to his shirt, grabbing the fabric at his stomach while his hands are still holding onto her face, but then they slide down her sides, settle on the back of her thighs and she knows exactly what he wants her to do. So without breaking them apart, she jumps up, he catches her with ease as she wraps her legs around his waist and he blindly carries her to the small sofa by the wall.

He sinks into the cushion and she straddles him, giving her a bit of advantage in height this way, so now he is the one to crane his neck while she is leaning down to meet him.

It’s a mess, lip biting, tongues crashing, soft moans and grunts, his palms wander over his thighs and ass and then he sneakily peels her soft pink shirt out of her tight jeans so his hands can slip under the fabric and feel her heated skin.

She is desperate to feel more, to ease the aching throbbing between her legs, so when she starts rolling her hips and grinding against his rapidly growing bulge, he can’t help the moan that slips out of his mouth, right into hers.

His head drops to the back of the sofa and she takes the chance to kiss her way down the column of his neck. After dozens of fantasies doing the same thing during meetings, now she is finally tasting his skin, gently nibbling on a spot that has his hands grab onto her ass, pushing her even more into him.

When their lips meet again her fingers dance down his chest, feeling up his abdomen through his shirt and then settle on his belt, she starts undoing it, but he is quick to stop her, which breaks her out of her trance., scared that she did something wrong.

Reading her from just one look, Harry shakes his head softly.

“I know I said I want to bend you over my desk, but I don’t want the first time I’m inside you to be here. So we are gonna do it differently for now.”

As he speaks, his fingers work the buttons of her shirt, one after the other until the white, lacy bra is revealed underneath.

“Is it fucking Christmas?” he breathes out, hooking a finger into one of the cups and tugging it down so your breast spills out of it. An airy chuckle slips out of her, but it quickly turns into a gasp when he sucks her pebbled nipple into his mouth, even gently biting and tugging on it. Her fingers comb through his hair, his fingertips massaging his scalp as her grinding continues.

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” he murmurs against her chest, one hand freeing her other breast from the bra as well, so he can pay equal attention to them both. “You’re gonna grind that needy cunt of yours against me until you come, just so you can see what it is like when you’re not even undressed and imagine what will happen once I get to unwrap you.” He smacks her ass gently, a moan slipping out through her parted lips. “And I’m gonna leave marks all over tits and suck your nipples until they are so tender you can barely touch them, so when you go home and see yourself in the mirror, you’ll remember every moment of what’s happening right now.”

His hands grab her hips and make her roll them harder, his erection and the seam of her jeans rubbing into her soaking wet cunt. She eagerly takes the pace he dictated, desperate to chase her release that’s building in the pit of her stomach rapidly.

“Do you like that? Do you like my plan?” he asks, his lips brushing against her nipple, teasing her with his touch just enough to make her whine and ache for more.

“Yes,” he nods eagerly, hands clasping the back of his head to pull him closer to her chest and feel his lips on her heated skin again and he complies happily.

“Then let me feel how badly you want to come.”

If someone told Y/N in the morning, that tonight she would be dry humping her boss like a horny teenager, she would have checked that person into a mental hospital. Yet here she is, grinding against Harry’s massive bulge, shamelessly rubbing her cunt against his erection while his mouth is full of her breast.

He has already left a few marks on her and she knows she’ll have to wear turtlenecks for the next 2 weeks, but she couldn’t care less.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she cries out when she finds just the right angle where the seam of her jeans and the tip of his restrained cock rub her clit perfectly, sending sparks through her nerves.

“Go on, want to see you come undone.” He bites the side of her left breast and she hisses, but it feels so good, so fucking great she moans loudly, her head falling back at the sensation.

“Harry, I–Ah!”

His hands grab her ass and he pulls her in, making her fall forward, her chest pressing up against his as she buries her face into his neck, fastening her movements as her orgasm is nearing.

“Come on, Y/N. Let me see you come undone.”

“Wanna feel you inside,” she whines, but keeps moving.

“I know and you will. Just not now.”

She whines again in a disapproving manner, but doesn’t stop and Harry’s hips start moving as well. He encourages her a few more times, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine and right when she thinks she can’t take it anymore, the bubble pops.

She gasps and moans, her movements get dragged out and Harry forces her to look him in the eyes as she rides out her joy. She loses track of time, can’t tell if it lasts for seconds or hours. But when it’s over she collapses into his arms.

“You did so good. So fucking good,” he murmurs into her ear, kissing the side of her face wherever he can reach. When she finally catches her breath she sits up straight and looking down she sees that he’s still hard underneath her.

Instantly, she reaches down, ready to take him out and take care of him, but he stops her again.

“Not now.”

“But you… didn’t–”

“I know,” he smiles softly. “But if we go further now, I won’t be able to stop and I told you, I want the first time I’m inside you in a different setting.”

She understands and it’s flattering knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself if they continued, but it feels unbalanced now that only she came.

“Are you sure?” she asks, hands flattening on his stomach.

Smiling, he nods. “Very sure.”

She thinks to herself for a bit and reaching up Harry brushes a lock of hair behind her ear as a smile stretches slowly across her face.

“What is it?”

“So… this means there will be a next time?”

The playful glint in her eyes amuses him. She is sitting on his lap, her chest still exposed, lips swollen from his kisses while his erection is still straining against his pants and she asks if there will be a next time.

“Oh yeah. I will watch you come undone over and over again in every possible way. If you let me.”

She bites into her bottom lip, sheepishly blinking down at him, but her answer surprises him for a moment.

“I’m not letting you.” His face falls and his heart drops into his stomach, but she is quick to continue: “I’m begging you.”

“Oh baby, for that, now I’m adding spanking to when I’m bending you over my desk and fuck you.”

Her smile only grows wider.

“Please, Boss!”

PART II.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut

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badathumanemotions · 2 months ago

Text

Marked By Fate

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

MDNI MasterList CW: Soulmates, Awkward Soulmate Mark Placement, Accidental Groping, Slapstick, Awkward Spencer, Clumsy Spencer, BAU Reader, Awkward Romance, Smut, Fingering, Oral (f rec), Vaginal Sex, Creampie. WC: 21,798

You've always hated your soulmark, mostly because of it's placement. Knowing that's where your soulmate would first touch you left you dreading the day you'd meet. At least it'd be a funny story one day…probably. (Not Proof Read)

Spencer had always believed in soulmates. Not just in the theoretical sense, the way one might believe in gravity or quantum entanglement, but in the deep, unwavering way that only a hopeless romantic could.

His mother, an English literature professor, used to tell him stories about fate, about invisible strings tying people together across time and distance. She read him Tristan and Isolde, Chaucer, and Shakespeare, filling his childhood with grand tales of love and destiny. He had clung to those stories, even when the world made it hard to believe in them.

His soulmark had appeared the same as everyone else’s, soft, golden, shimmering like trapped stardust against his skin. It had settled onto his left hand when he was young, a delicate glow across his palm. A promise. A certainty. Proof that somewhere out there, someone was waiting for him.

But knowing that hadn’t made the waiting any easier.

The mark had been both a comfort and a quiet ache. It was proof that someone out there was meant for him, but it didn’t make the loneliness any easier. He had always felt a step out of sync with the world, his thoughts moving too fast, his words landing awkwardly, his presence somehow too much and not enough at the same time. He had been the kid buried in books while others played, the one who rattled off facts when people expected small talk.

But through it all, his soulmark had remained, gleaming softly under the light, reminding him that someday, someone would touch his palm, and they would be *his*. Someone would reach for him, hold him, connect with him in a way no one else ever had.

He had dreamed about it more times than he could count. Would it be a gentle touch, fingers slotting between his? Would it be an accident, someone catching his hand in a crowded room? Would he recognize them immediately, or would it take time?

He had spent years turning the possibilities over in his mind, longing for the moment it would happen.

—

Soulmates were supposed to be romantic. A cosmic thread binding two people together, ensuring that out of the billions of people on the planet, you’d find the one meant for you. For most people, it was a beautiful thing. Something to be cherished. Something to be shown off.

For you? It was a nightmare.

Everyone else had sweet, poetic stories about their marks. A brush of fingers across a wrist. A guiding hand on a shoulder. A reassuring touch at the small of the back. Cute, wholesome, normal. You had grown up surrounded by people who proudly displayed their marks, eager to imagine the moment their fated person would finally arrive. Kids in school would trace theirs absentmindedly, daydreaming about the love story that would unfold when they met their soulmate. You had done the exact opposite.

You had spent your whole life covering yours up, never wanting anyone to know where it was.

Because your mark—the physical sign of where your soulmate would first touch you—was right on your right boob.

And no matter how many times you tried to spin it, there was no way to make that romantic.

It was embarrassing. Mortifying, even. While your friends talked about their dream scenarios, you avoided the subject entirely. You became a master of misdirection, dodging curious questions and changing the topic whenever soulmarks came up. You kept it covered at all times, never letting anyone see even a glimpse of it. The idea of someone realizing where it was? Horrifying.

And as the years passed, the worry only got worse. How would it even happen? What kind of scenario would lead to someone’s first touch being *there*? You didn’t want to think about it. The possibilities ranged from awkward to downright humiliating, and you weren’t eager to find out which one fate had in store for you.

You had resigned yourself to dreading the inevitable. To constantly living with the anxiety of an unpredictable, embarrassing first contact.

And then, in the span of a single day, it happened and it was even worse than you ever could have imagined.

The elevator ride up to the BAU was smooth, but your nerves weren’t. You inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and resisted the urge to fidget with the strap of your bag. New job, new team, no big deal, right? You’d done this before. Well, not this exactly, but how different could it be from any other first day?

The doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the bullpen, busy but not overwhelming. Agents moved between desks, chatting, sipping coffee, typing away at computers. The place had a steady energy, something just shy of chaotic but still purposeful.

You stepped out and caught the attention of the first person who didn’t look like they were sprinting between tasks. “Excuse me, can you tell me where Agent Hotchner’s office is?”

The man barely looked up from his coffee. “Up the stairs.”

“Thanks.”

You adjusted your bag and started weaving your way through the bullpen, eyes scanning the space as you walked. It was all standard office stuff, desks, computers, a board covered in what looked like case notes. But then, about halfway across the room, your gaze snagged on something or rather, someone.

A man, standing near a desk, gesturing as he spoke to someone. Tall, lean, with soft brown curls that curled just slightly at the ends. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing like he was sorting through his own thoughts in real time. He had this nervous energy about him, but not in a bad way, it was almost endearing.

You didn’t mean to slow down, but your feet betrayed you for half a step. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that were far more attractive than they had any right to be. His lips parted slightly like he was about to say something else, but then he hesitated, head tilting just a fraction as if reconsidering his phrasing.

Oh no. He was adorable.

You forced your eyes forward and picked up your pace before you could get caught staring like some kind of weirdo. You weren’t here to develop a workplace crush within five minutes of arriving.

Reaching the stairs, you made your way up to the offices, stopping at the last door on the right. Taking a quick breath, you knocked.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside.

You stepped into the office to find Aaron Hotchner standing behind his desk, his expression serious but not unwelcoming. He was taller than you expected, somehow even more imposing in person, though not in an intimidating way, more like he exuded authority without trying.

“Agent,” he greeted, extending a hand.

You stepped forward and shook it, his grip firm, professional. “Sir. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

He gave a short nod, releasing your hand as he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

You sat as he picked up a neat stack of paperwork and set it in front of you. “Just a few things to sign. Standard HR documents, confidentiality agreements.”

You nodded, picking up the pen he offered and quickly scanning through the forms. The usual legal jargon, nothing surprising. As you signed, Hotch watched you with the same careful scrutiny you imagined he used in interrogations.

“So,” he said as you finished the last signature, “I trust you’ve been briefed on the expectations here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We deal with difficult cases. It’s not always easy work, but it’s important. We rely on each other here, you’ll find this team is more like a family than anything else.”

You glanced up at him. “That’s good to hear.”

He studied you for a second longer, then nodded in approval. “I’ll introduce you to the team.”

And just like that, your stomach flipped. You smoothed your hands over your pants, bracing yourself as you stood and followed him back out the door, back down the stairs, into the bullpen, where everyone was waiting.

As you followed Hotch down the stairs, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes flicking toward you, agents sizing you up as you entered the bullpen. Your stomach did a nervous little flip, but you kept your posture straight, your expression steady.

“This is the team,” Hotch said, his voice calm but carrying enough authority to command the room’s attention.

He stopped just short of the gathered group, and you quickly took stock of them, each one distinct, each one watching you with varying levels of curiosity.

“Jennifer Jareau, communications liaison,” Hotch started, motioning toward a blonde woman with warm eyes and an easy smile.

“JJ,” she corrected, stepping forward to shake your hand. Her grip was firm but friendly. “Nice to meet you. You’re in good hands here.”

Next was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a knowing smirk that practically screamed trouble—in a good way. “Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced.

Morgan took your hand but didn’t shake it right away. Instead, he held onto it just a second longer than necessary, flashing you a dazzling grin. “Now, how come Hotch didn’t mention we were getting someone this gorgeous?” His voice was warm, teasing, and effortlessly charming.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “That line work on a lot of people?”

Morgan chuckled. “You tell me.”

With a playful smile, you finally pulled your hand back, and he winked before stepping aside.

Next was Emily, who smirked and gave you a firm shake. “Hope you’re ready,” she said, her tone light but teasing. “This place has a way of keeping things… interesting.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,” you replied, grinning back.

David Rossi, the older man standing beside her, had a knowing smirk before you even reached him. Rossi stepped up next, shaking your hand with a knowing smirk. “Welcome to the team. If you’ve heard any rumours about me, don’t believe a word.”

“Oh?” you said, raising a brow. “Not one?”

“Not unless they’re good,” he said smoothly.

Then, there was the woman who had been practically vibrating with excitement the moment she laid eyes on you. She had neon-bright clothes, chunky rings, and an energy that could only be described as infectious.

“Oh, aren’t you just a vision?” she gushed, taking your hands instead of shaking them. “We are so going to be besties, I just know it. And if anyone gives you trouble, you just tell me, I have access to all the databases, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

You grinned, already knowing you’d love her.

And then, finally—

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch said.

Up close, Spencer was even cuter. His eyes were wide, warm hazel with flecks of gold, his hair a little messy like he’d been running his fingers through it absentmindedly. He had that awkward, gangly charm, the kind that made him look both brilliant and completely out of his depth at the same time.

And right now, he looked very out of his depth.

Spencer stepped forward, moving faster than he seemed to be thinking. “It’s, um—hi. I mean, I’m Spencer—”

And then, it happened.

His foot caught on the leg of a chair.

For a split second, you could see it happening in slow motion—the way his body pitched forward, the way his arms flailed uselessly. His hands shot out on instinct, and—

Oh. Oh no.

One of them landed. Squarely. On. Your. Boob.

A tingling sensation shot through you.

Not just any tingling, the kind that sent an involuntary shockwave down your spine, that made your breath hitch in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a workplace setting.

Your brain barely had time to register the mortifying zap of pleasure before Spencer, in his frantic attempt to not grope you, lost what little balance he had left.

His eyes went impossibly wide, his mouth opening in a silent oh no, and then—

Gravity won.

He collapsed onto you.

There was no graceful way to go down. One moment you were standing, and the next, you were flat on your back, crushed under the full weight of a long-limbed genius.

The bullpen went silent.

For a single, excruciating second, no one moved.

Spencer was on top of you. His face was hovering inches from yours, his body pressed against you in a way that should never happen in front of new coworkers. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and panicked.

And worst of all?

His hand was still on your boob.

A strangled noise escaped his throat as the realization hit. He jerked his hand back so fast you half expected it to break the sound barrier. “I—I didn’t—oh my god—I swear—I didn’t mean—”

You, meanwhile, were malfunctioning. Your brain had shut down. Your soulmark—the one you had spent years pretending didn’t exist—was buzzing, sending little pulses of heat straight through you.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even think about how to respond, something even worse happened.

A soft, golden glow lit up the room.

Not from just Spencer.

From you, too.

Beneath your clothes, under layers of fabric, you felt it glow, bright and undeniable.

You were still trying to will yourself into nonexistence when the entire team’s eyes snapped to Spencer’s hand, where his mark was completely visible, shimmering bright gold against his palm.

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“Ohhhhh my god,” Garcia shrieked.

You scrambled to get up, which only made things so much worse because Spencer was still on top of you, and in his panic, he tried to move at the same time, which led to a disastrous tangle of limbs.

“Kid,” Morgan choked, wheezing with laughter. “Did you just—”

“I DIDN’T—” Spencer’s voice cracked as he flung himself off of you like you were made of fire. He scrambled back so fast he nearly tripped again, his hands flailing uselessly in the air as he tried to word.

You, meanwhile, were dying.

Actually dying.

Because you were pretty sure your face had caught on fire, and everyone was staring at you, and Spencer Reid, your new coworker, had just met you in the most horrifically inappropriate way possible.

Your brain refused to form words, refused to process that this was how you found your soulmate.

JJ, eyes wide, pressed a hand to her mouth like she was holding in a gasp.

Emily covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Rossi just smirked knowingly, because of course he did.

Garcia practically vibrated with excitement, clasping her hands together. “Oh. My. God. This is amazing!” she squealed, bouncing on her heels. “Boy genius finally meets his soulmate, and it’s happening right in front of us! This is better than I ever could have imagined!”

Morgan, still laughing, clapped Spencer on the back. “You move fast, pretty boy.”

Spencer made a noise that was somewhere between a wheeze and a whimper.

Hotch, to his credit, remained utterly stoic as he calmly clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Well.”

You turned to him, desperately hoping he would restore some order to the situation.

Instead, he deadpanned, “That was not the introduction I had planned.”

Spencer, still wide-eyed and looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I—I just want to clarify that I did not mean to—” His voice cracked, and he coughed, his hand flying up to adjust his tie like it might somehow fix the situation. “It was purely accidental. I mean, statistically speaking, the likelihood of me tripping at that exact moment, at that exact trajectory, in a way that would cause my hand to—” He floundered, gesturing wildly, “—land there of all places is astronomically low.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “You don’t have to—”

“I mean, I—I don’t go around touching people’s—” He made a vague, frantic motion toward your chest before realizing what he was doing and immediately aborting it. His face somehow got even redder. “I have never—! I wouldn’t—! Not that I don’t want to touch—NO! That’s not—”

“Spencer.” You held up a hand, your voice dangerously close to a plea. “Please. Stop talking.”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I mean, obviously, I will touch them, statistically speaking, at some point in our relationship—not that I’m assuming we’re going to have a relationship! I mean, soulmates don’t have to be romantic. There are plenty of cases where soulmates are just platonic or even completely uninterested in—”

Morgan wheezed. “Kid, shut up.”

“I can’t,” Spencer blurted helplessly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god.”

There was no coming back from this. You were going to have to quit, change your name, and move to a remote island where no one knew what had just happened.

Spencer was spiralling fast. “I just—I want to be clear that I wasn’t trying to make a first impression this way! I had a whole range of hypothetical scenarios mapped out for meeting my soulmate, and none of them involved—” He gestured between the two of you before groaning and dropping his hands like he’d officially given up on controlling them. “This is literally worst-case scenario. No—this is worse than worst-case scenario because even in my worst-case scenario calculations, I didn’t account for—” He hesitated. “Accidental second-base.”

Morgan choked. Garcia gasped like someone in a telenovela.

You, on the other hand, wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

“Spencer,” Emily chimed in. “I am begging you to shut up.”

“I mean, I’m just saying that biologically—!”

You turned sharply to Hotch, your last hope for salvation. “Sir, with all due respect, can we please pretend this never happened and move on with our lives?”

Hotch stared at you. Then at Spencer. Then at the rest of the team, all barely containing various degrees of amusement. After a long, excruciating moment, he exhaled through his nose and said, “Get back to work.”

That was apparently everyone’s cue to start snickering openly as they dispersed. You, however, remained frozen, still reeling from what had just transpired.

Spencer shifted awkwardly beside you. “…So. Uh.” He swallowed. “Welcome to the BAU?”

As the team filtered back into their individual desks, you followed Hotch as he walked you through the bullpen. The sound of keyboards clacking and phones ringing filled the air, but it felt oddly... comforting. Hotch gave you a reassuring smile.

“Your desk is right here,” he said, gesturing to a spot directly across from Spencer’s.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you muttered, dread settling in your stomach. "I... I see."

To your horror, the desk Hotch had led you to was positioned directly across from Spencer’s. You were now squarely within his line of sight at all times.

Spencer, who had been sitting hunched over his desk with a pen in hand, suddenly looked up at you. His wide eyes locked on yours, and you both froze for a moment. There was a brief, awkward silence before he cleared his throat, looking more like he was trying to reassemble his entire sense of self rather than just continue working.

Morgan, who had been watching this exchange from his desk, immediately straightened up, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He threw a glance toward Hotch, then back at Spencer.

“Well, well,” Morgan drawled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “Looks like you two are gonna be real cozy, huh?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he almost choked on his own breath. “It’s—it’s just a coincidence,” he sputtered, clearly flustered.

Morgan only smirked, raising an eyebrow. “A coincidence, huh? Funny how that works out. So, Hotch, who’s gonna show our new friend the ropes?”

Hotch glanced over at the team, then back at Spencer. He sighed, clearly understanding where this was headed but deciding to go with it. “Spencer, why don’t you help her out? Show her around, make sure she’s settled in, whatever she needs.”

Spencer, looking both surprised and horrified, opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it. There was no way he was getting out of this. He gave a stiff nod. “Right. Sure. I can do that.”

Morgan leaned forward, not even trying to hide his amusement. “Good choice, Hotch. I’m sure she’ll be in good hands with Spencer,” he teased, practically grinning ear to ear.

The rest of the team was barely able to contain their snickers as they returned to their work, but not before Garcia shot Spencer a wink and Emily gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.

With a final look at Spencer, Hotch turned back toward his office.

Spencer stood there, his face as red as ever, clearly unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run for the nearest exit. He turned to you, his eyes wide. “Uh, so... coffee machine's this way, I guess?” He began to move toward the break room, clearly desperate to get something, anything, done to distract from the absurdity of the situation.

You followed as he led you through the bullpen, his posture a little too rigid, like he was manually controlling every movement. You weren’t sure why he was the one acting like he’d been groped in public, but at this point, you were too tired to question it.

The break room was empty when you entered, thank god for small mercies. Spencer exhaled like he’d narrowly escaped death and immediately went to the coffee pot, reaching for it.

You stepped forward at the same time.

Your hands brushed.

Spencer yanked his hand back like he’d been electrocuted. “Sorry! You—uh—you go first.”

You couldn’t help but notice how strong the pull between you felt just then. It was subtle but undeniable, a strange connection drawing you both closer, but the awkwardness was still thick in the air.

You eyed him. “…It’s just coffee, man.”

“Yes. Coffee.” He clasped his hands behind his back, as if he needed to physically restrain himself from further accidental contact. “A normal workplace beverage.”

You grabbed the pot before he could overanalyze hot bean juice any further and poured yourself a cup. Spencer, still standing there like he wasn’t sure how to exist in this room with you, cleared his throat again.

“So. Do you, um. Enjoy coffee?”

You turned to stare at him. “I—yes?”

“Right. Of course.” He nodded rapidly. “Most people do. Statistically speaking, caffeine consumption is highly common among FBI agents due to demanding work hours and the need for heightened cognitive function.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “…So that’s a yes on the coffee, then?”

“Yes.”

An awkward beat passed.

“…Would you like some?” you offered.

He startled like you’d just reminded him of the reason he’d brought you here in the first place. “Yes! Right. I’ll—I’ll just—” He reached for a mug, hesitated, then grabbed a different one, seemingly putting way too much thought into the choice. You caught a glimpse of the one he’d originally gone for.

Hot Stuff was printed across the front in big, flashy letters.

He cleared his throat so aggressively you thought he might hurt himself and quickly busied himself with pouring coffee. You decided to let him have that small dignity.

Unfortunately, fate was not so kind.

Just as he turned with his full mug, you shifted toward the sugar packets, and the two of you nearly collided. Spencer flinched, jerking back too fast. His coffee sloshed, spilling right over the rim of his cup—

And directly onto his tie.

He made a strangled noise.

“I’m fine!” he blurted, already yanking out a napkin like it might somehow erase the entire situation. “This is—fine! Totally fine! Very normal, in fact!”

You watched him with a mixture of sympathy and quiet amusement, the whole situation too awkward and funny to ignore, but also... strangely endearing. You could feel the bond, the unspoken connection drawing you toward him even more as you both fumbled through this moment.

You could feel your own heart rate picking up, not from panic, but from something else you couldn’t quite place.

Spencer, still trying to dab at his tie like he could somehow make it all go away with sheer willpower, cleared his throat again. “Uh. Right. I think we should—”

He paused, his eyes darting between you and his coffee-stained tie. It was like the connection between you two was too much to ignore, but neither of you were brave enough to act on it yet.

Spencer sighed. “Okay. Let's move on. Shall we?”

He tossed the napkin into the trash, and you both decided to leave your mugs behind. There was no point in finishing them now—both of you too distracted by the moment to care about the coffee anymore.

You nodded in agreement.

It was going to be a long day.

You followed as he led you through the halls, his pace brisk, like he was trying to outrun the mortifying events of the morning.

“This,” he said, gesturing stiffly as you passed a door, “is the copy room. If you need to print, scan, or make copies, the machines are all in here.”

You peeked inside. A row of printers and copiers hummed softly, an overflowing bin of discarded printouts shoved into the corner. “Got it.”

Spencer nodded, then pivoted so fast you barely kept up. “Restrooms are down this hall, men’s on the left, women’s on the right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not gonna walk me in? Thought you were supposed to be helping me with everything.”

He visibly choked. “That would be highly inappropriate!”

You barely contained a smirk. “Relax, I was kidding.”

Spencer made a noise suspiciously close to a huff and muttered something under his breath that sounded like why is it always me? before motioning for you to keep following.

He led you further down the hall before stopping at a plain, unmarked door. He knocked twice, then pushed it open.

“This is Garcia’s office.”

The room inside was an explosion of colour, trinkets, figurines, and twinkling string lights surrounded an impressive setup of monitors. Penelope Garcia turned from her screens, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw you both.

“Oh, look who it is!” she cooed. “If it isn’t my favourite pair of soulmates, stumbling through the day together.”

Spencer sighed. “We’re just—”

“Existing in the same space? Yeah, I know.” She smirked. “Listen, newbie, if you ever need help navigating the BAU—real help, not whatever awkward crash course this one’s giving you—my door is always open.”

You smiled. “Appreciate it.”

Spencer, clearly done with this interaction, turned on his heel. “We’re leaving.”

Garcia waggled her fingers at you in a good luck sort of way as you followed him out.

After a few more hallways and a very dry explanation of where the case files were stored, you finally made it back to the bullpen.

Spencer exhaled like he’d just completed a physically exhausting task. “That concludes the tour.”

You gave a mock salute. “Appreciate it.”

Morgan, who had clearly been waiting for your return, smirked from his desk. “So? How’d our boy do? Make you feel nice and welcome?”

You opened your mouth, but Spencer cut in before you could answer.

“She is now fully briefed on the layout of the building and equipped with all necessary information to function efficiently in the workplace,” he rattled off in a clipped, robotic tone.

Morgan blinked. Then grinned. “Well, damn. Sounds like she got the deluxe tour.”

You snorted. Spencer scowled.

Across the bullpen, Emily and JJ were blatantly watching, thinly veiled amusement written all over their faces.

As you settled into your desk, Spencer hesitated for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to start this next part of your “orientation.” He cleared his throat once more, probably for the hundredth time that day.

“So,” he said, pulling a chair out beside you, “this is, uh, the part where you’ll be doing a lot of the, well, paperwork. It’s not exactly glamorous, but it’s important.”

“Let's start with something simple,” Spencer said, flipping open a file with way more urgency than necessary. “These are reports from precincts around the country requesting a profile. Our job is to go through them, assess and start a preliminary profile then send it back with recommendations.”

You grabbed one of the files, skimming over the first page. “Okay, got it. So, I just—” You reached for a pen at the same time Spencer did, your hands colliding.

Both of you pulled back immediately.

“Oh—sorry—”

“No, you—go ahead—”

Spencer hesitated, then went for the pen again at the exact moment you did. Another collision.

You both froze.

From across the bullpen, Morgan let out a low chuckle. “Man, this is painful to watch.”

Emily, who had been mid-coffee sip, grinned. “It’s like a nature documentary. Two very awkward creatures trying to establish dominance over a writing utensil.”

JJ, passing by with a file, smirked. “Should we intervene, or just let it play out?”

Spencer, determined to regain some semblance of control, cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. Let’s—” He reached again, but you had the same idea, and somehow, in a tragic display of poor coordination, his elbow swung outward—straight into your chest.

You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening. Spencer, face going so pale it was almost impressive, snapped his arm back like he’d been burned.

“Oh my god—I—” His voice pitched slightly. “That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”

In his panic to put some distance between you, he pushed off the desk a little too hard. The chair, already slightly unsteady from his sudden movement, tipped dangerously backward.

The chair fully went over, taking Spencer with it. He hit the floor in a spectacular mess of limbs, momentum sending him rolling straight into an empty chair nearby, which immediately toppled over onto him.

The bullpen went silent.

Heat flooded your face. Your hands hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to help him or pretend this wasn’t happening.

Morgan let out a wheeze before cracking up. “Oh, hell no. Did that just happen?”

Emily had a hand pressed to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. JJ, pausing mid-step, blinked. “…Is he alive?”

Spencer, from under the chair, let out a weak, “Unfortunately.”

That was enough to set Morgan off. “Man, this is gold. I’ve never seen him go down that hard in my life.”

Your entire body was burning with secondhand embarrassment. “Should I—uh—” You half-stood, awkwardly gesturing toward the disaster zone.

Spencer, seemingly deciding he’d rather die than accept help, pushed himself upright, shoving the fallen chair away. His face was crimson. “I’m fine. That was—just—another minor miscalculation.”

JJ snorted. “Looked more like a full system failure.”

Morgan grinned. “Guess soulmate proximity messes with your equilibrium, huh?”

Your stomach twisted at that, embarrassment doubling. “Okay—um—can we not?”

Spencer shot Morgan a glare that was about as threatening as a wet cat. “Yes. Let’s not.”

Morgan just held up his hands, still grinning.

Spencer, still refusing to make eye contact with anyone, sat back down—carefully this time.

You hesitated, then picked up the pen, the cause of this entire disaster, and cleared your throat. “…So. Paperwork?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes. Paperwork.”

JJ patted his shoulder as she passed. “You’ll bounce back.”

Spencer muttered something under his breath.

You just exhaled, still trying to will away the heat in your face.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, casting a glance over at you. He'd helped you get settled with the paperwork, but now the silence between you was becoming almost unbearable. He cleared his throat again, the sound almost too loud in the quiet office.

"Well," he said, standing up a little too quickly, "I think you’ve got the hang of things here. If you need anything, I’ll be at my desk."

You glanced up, catching the way he looked at you—still flustered, but maybe a little more composed than before. He hesitated for a split second, his eyes darting between you and his desk, before he finally walked away, leaving you alone with your files.

As Spencer made his way back to his desk, you felt the weight of the connection between you both linger in the air.

Spencer sat back at his desk, his movements careful, like he was hyperaware of every single one. He stared at his screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, but he wasn’t typing. His pen, previously abandoned, found its way back into his hands, spinning between his fingers in a nervous rhythm.

You settled into your own work, flipping through the files. Every so often, your gaze drifted, just for a second, toward him. He was pretending to focus, but you could see the way his shoulders tensed whenever you shifted in your chair, like he was resisting the urge to look over.

Eventually, he did. Just a quick glance, but enough for your eyes to meet.

Spencer snapped his attention back to his monitor so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

Spencer sat at his desk, his notes scattered in front of him, trying to focus on the paperwork. The awkwardness from earlier hadn’t quite settled. It lingered in the air between you, thick and palpable. He adjusted the papers in front of him, trying to make himself look busy, but his eyes kept flicking toward you.

You felt it too. The pull, the strange connection that seemed to tie you to Spencer. Every time you looked up, you’d catch him looking at you, his gaze darting away so quickly that you wondered if you’d imagined it. Was he doing it on purpose? Did he feel it, too?

There was no way to avoid it. He was your soulmate. The bond was there, shimmering between you, even if neither of you was ready to admit it out loud. He was just as awkward as you, maybe more so, which somehow made the whole situation even more complicated.

You tried to focus on the papers in front of you, but Spencer was impossible to ignore. The more you tried to get lost in the task at hand, the more aware you became of the pull between you. Your thoughts kept straying back to him, wondering what he was thinking, whether he was struggling with the same feelings you were. What did he think of you? Did he feel as attracted to you as you did to him?

Spencer shifted in his seat, turning his attention back to his papers, but the tension in the room was too much to ignore. He cleared his throat, glancing up just as you happened to do the same. His eyes met yours for a split second before you both quickly looked away, as if the gaze itself had burned.

The silence continued on between you, both of you trying to pretend that everything was fine, that there was nothing to this strange, electric pull you were both feeling.

At one point you both stood at the same time. The movement was so synchronized it almost felt rehearsed, but neither of you had planned it. You both glanced at each other as you pushed back from your desks, eyes widening in surprise.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly in place. “Uh… coffee?” he mumbled, as though he needed to confirm the very simple action.

You nodded, a little too quickly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “Yeah… coffee.”

Neither of you moved right away, both standing there awkwardly, like you were trying to figure out what to do next. The whole moment felt ridiculous, and neither of you seemed willing to take the first step.

Finally, Spencer cleared his throat again, a sound that seemed to break the tension just enough. Prompting you both to move.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, both of you walking side by side but not quite together, the space between you almost suffocating. Neither of you had said a word, but the attraction was there, simmering just beneath the surface, as if the bond had wrapped itself around you both without either of you willing to acknowledge it just yet.

As you entered the break room, the sense of awkwardness only deepened, and you both stood there, pretending to be focused on something as simple as making coffee. You avoided making eye contact, each of you trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while the rest of the world hummed around you, completely oblivious to the tension that had overtaken the two of you.

The entire thing felt like an elaborate dance. One that neither of you knew the steps to, but somehow it was drawing you closer, whether you liked it or not.

The coffee break didn’t last long. Both of you seemed to realize at the same time that standing in silence, avoiding eye contact while sipping coffee, wasn’t doing either of you any favours. So, with an awkward shuffle and a few too many polite nods, you both turned back toward the bullpen.

The walk back to your desks was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of movement as you each settled back into your respective spaces. You slid into your chair, exhaling slowly as you picked up a pen, trying to will yourself to focus. Spencer did the same, tapping his fingers against the desk, his leg bouncing slightly beneath it.

For a while, you both managed to maintain the illusion of productivity. The tension hadn’t disappeared, but at least it wasn’t suffocating.

At some point, you stood up to grab a folder from the nearby cabinet, stretching slightly as you reached for it. And that was when it happened.

Spencer didn’t mean to. He really, truly didn’t. But his eyes betrayed him before his brain could catch up. His gaze dipped lower, drawn to the curve of your ass, the way your slacks fit just right. It was a fleeting look, barely a second, but in that second, his brain short-circuited. His grip tightened on his pen, his face burned, and a thousand panicked thoughts flooded his mind at once.

Then, horror of horrors, you turned.

You caught him.

The second your eyes met, his face went completely red. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He looked like he’d been caught committing a federal crime.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk threatening to creep onto your lips.

Spencer made a strangled noise, immediately ducking his head down, suddenly very interested in the absolute nonsense scribbled on his page. His ears were burning, his entire body stiff with the sheer force of his embarrassment.

You let the moment stretch, watching him squirm for just a beat longer before finally deciding to take pity on him. With a small hum, you sat back down, not saying a word.

Spencer, still looking anywhere but at you, cleared his throat—loudly. “I—I wasn’t—uh—I just—” He exhaled sharply and gripped his pen tighter. “Never mind.”

The next hour dragged on in a haze of forced focus and pointed avoidance. You worked through your files, sneaking glances at Spencer just to see if he had recovered. He hadn't.

Spencer was sitting impossibly still, his entire body rigid with what could only be described as a masterclass in sheer mortification. His eyes were glued to the papers in front of him, but he wasn’t reading them. His pen hovered over the page, unmoving. It was as if he had decided that any sudden movements might make the ground swallow him whole.

You bit back another smirk.

At some point, you had to stand again, stretching your legs and reaching for another file. This time, you did it slowly, just to see if he’d risk another glance.

He didn’t.

If anything, he overcorrected so hard that his head turned in the opposite direction, eyes trained on the most uninteresting corner of the room like it was the key to solving life’s greatest mysteries. His hand twitched, gripping his pen so tightly you were mildly concerned it might snap.

Alright, maybe you shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. But after everything, the fall, the soulmate marks, the tension—it was kind of nice to be on the other side of the awkwardness for once.

You sat back down, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He still refused to look at you.

The bullpen had settled into a steady rhythm, but Spencer still looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. The stiffness in his posture remained, his eyes locked onto his paperwork like sheer focus alone could erase the last hour.

For you, everything still felt off. The quiet murmur of the team working, the soft rustle of papers being shuffled, the distant sound of a printer. It should’ve been easy to focus. It wasn’t.

Across from you, Spencer sat at his desk, his eyes flicking between his notes and his paperwork in a clear attempt to look busy. He wasn’t. You could tell. Every few moments, his pen stilled, his fingers drumming absently against the page like his mind was anywhere but on the work in front of him.

You weren’t doing much better.

The awareness of him had settled over you like a weight, something pressing at the edge of your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shake it. It wasn’t just the fact that he was there. It was the bond, the pull, the quiet way his presence wrapped around yours like an invisible thread you couldn’t loosen.

You could feel when he looked at you.

And sometimes, you caught him.

It wasn’t obvious, not really. It was quick, subtle. A flicker of movement as he glanced up, his gaze barely landing on you before darting away. But the more it happened, the more you noticed. He wasn’t doing it on purpose. It was like his eyes had a mind of their own, betraying him before he could stop himself.

And every time it happened, your stomach tightened.

It was getting harder to ignore how attractive he was. You’d thought it from the moment you met him, but it was different now. More intense. He had this way of being awkward and endearing all at once, like he was constantly fighting against himself, caught between wanting to hide and being unable to look away.

And it was affecting you.

Every time he adjusted his tie, every time he ran a hand through his hair, every time his lips parted like he was about to say something but didn’t, you felt it. A pull, an ache, something unspoken that settled deep in your chest.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you almost didn’t notice when Spencer shifted in his chair, exhaling sharply like he was trying to physically shake himself out of whatever was going on in his head.

And whatever was going on in his head… was a mess.

Spencer had given up on pretending to focus. He knew it was useless. His mind had been running in circles all day, stuck on an endless loop that always brought him back to you.

It wasn’t just the soulmate thing, although, God, that was enough to keep his brain short-circuiting. It was everything. The way you moved, the way you talked, the way you existed in the space across from him like you’d always belonged there.

The bond was pulling at him, making him too aware of you.

Every time you shifted, every time you sighed, every time your pen scratched against the paper, he felt it. It was like his entire body had attuned itself to you, responding to the smallest movements without him meaning to.

And the worst part? You were beautiful.

He’d noticed before, of course. He wasn’t blind. But now, it was like his brain refused to let him think about anything else. Every detail was burned into his mind, the shape of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the way you furrowed your brow in concentration.

And then there was earlier.

Spencer swallowed hard, forcing his eyes down to his papers.

She caught me staring at her ass.

His face burned at the memory, the mortification still fresh. He had looked for one second. One stupid second, and now it was all he could think about. He hadn’t even meant to! His brain had just… done it, and now he wanted to disappear into the floor.

Had you noticed how red he’d gotten? Had you thought he was a creep? God, what if you thought he was a pervert—

No, no, no, stop.

He clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose. He needed to get it together. He needed to focus.

He picked up his pen.

It immediately slipped from his fingers.

Spencer closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if pleading with the universe to give him a break.

It didn’t.

Because the second he opened them, his gaze landed on you again. And this time, you were already looking at him.

His heart stopped.

Your eyes met, and neither of you looked away.

It was so brief. Barely a second. But in that second, the air shifted, something unspoken settled between you.

Then, just as quickly, Spencer tore his gaze away, his entire body stiff.

His mind was a whirlwind, and his breath caught. He couldn’t afford to focus on this right now. The bond was already too much. It was making it harder to get through the day.

So he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out everything except the work in front of him. The one thing he could still control.

The rest of the day passed without further incident. You focused on your work, occasionally catching glimpses of Spencer doing the same, both of you settling into the rhythm of the office. The initial awkwardness lingered, but with the steady hum of productivity around you, it was easier to push aside.

Now, as the workday wound down, the bullpen grew quieter. Desks were cleared, conversations turned to evening plans, and the weight of the day began to lift.

You gathered your things, telling yourself you had officially survived day one. But even as you slung your bag over your shoulder, a feeling of unfinished business settled over you, lingering like an unspoken question.

Across from you, Spencer was… lingering too.

His bag was packed, his work was done, but he wasn’t moving. Instead, he hovered near his desk, shifting his weight, fingers twitching like his own thoughts were betraying him.

He wanted to say something.

He needed to say something.

But every time he tried to open his mouth, his brain helpfully supplied the worst possible ways to start this conversation.

'So, about earlier when I—uh—accidentally groped you…'

No. Absolutely not.

'We should discuss our predestined spiritual and emotional connection…'

Nope. Horrifying.

You glanced up just as he let out a slow exhale, rubbing at his temple like he was trying to force his thoughts into order. The way he kept fidgeting made you pause.

“You okay?”

Spencer startled like you’d caught him committing a crime. “What? Yes! Completely. Totally.”

A beat.

“Actually… no.”

He shifted from foot to foot, adjusting the strap of his satchel like it might give him confidence. “I—uh—I was wondering if we could talk.”

You blinked. “Aren’t we talking now?”

His throat bobbed. “Yes, but—I meant tomorrow. Before work. Somewhere private.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh.”

“Not that—uh—! Not that it has to be—” He made a flailing gesture, his face going red. “I just want to have a conversation. A real one. So I can—um—gather my thoughts first.”

You studied him. He looked so nervous, but there was sincerity behind it. A genuine desire to approach this properly.

The bond between you hummed—like an unspoken thread pulling you closer.

You found yourself nodding. “Okay.”

His relief was immediate. “Okay.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

He hesitated, then straightened slightly, as if he’d just remembered an important fact. “There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks from here. It’s quiet in the mornings. We could meet there before heading in.”

You nodded. “That works.”

Spencer exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Great.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “It’s a date.”

Spencer froze.

“Not a—!” You backtracked, laughing at his full-body panic. “Not a date-date. Just… you know. A conversation.”

Spencer let out a breath like he’d been holding it for an hour. “Right. Of course. A normal, casual discussion between two people who happen to be soulmates.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Super normal.”

“Completely.”

You shook your head fondly. “See you in the morning, Spencer.”

He swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and then practically bolted before he could embarrass himself further.

You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes, rolling your shoulders as you step into your apartment. Day one was over. You survived. You should be relieved. But as you move through the motions of settling in for the night, your mind refuses to let go of the one thing that has lingered with you all day.

Spencer.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you flop onto the couch. You should be exhausted, but instead, you’re restless. Too aware of the way his presence still clings to your thoughts. The way he fidgeted when he spoke, adjusting his bag strap like it might hold him together. The way he tapped his fingers against the desk when he was thinking. The way his hair curled at the ends, falling into his eyes when he forgot to smooth it back.

And the way he looked at you.

It was subtle, but you caught it more than once. A flicker of his gaze before he forced himself to look away, like he was fighting something he wasn’t ready to face.

Maybe you were, too.

You exhale, stretching out against the cushions. He wants to talk tomorrow. In private. The thought sends a nervous thrill through you. What is he going to say? What does he think about all of this?

Because for all his awkwardness, all his nervous rambling, one thing is clear—he feels it, too.

Spencer stares at the ceiling of his apartment, arms folded behind his head, willing his brain to slow down. It doesn’t. It never does.

Today was a disaster. Well, not a complete disaster. He could have done without the public soulmate revelation via accidental groping. Could have done without the mortifying moment when he got caught staring at your ass. Could have done without the entire day feeling like an out-of-body experience.

But still. There were moments. Little things that kept looping in his head.

The way your lips pursed when you were focused. The way your fingers skimmed absently over the edge of your notebook as you listened. The way you smiled when you talked to the others, easy and warm.

The way you looked at him when you caught him staring.

You didn’t look annoyed. Or uncomfortable. If anything, you seemed just as caught in this strange, magnetic pull as he was.

Spencer continues to stare, unseeing.

What is he supposed to say to you tomorrow?

He rubs a hand over his face. He needs a plan. He needs to say something that isn’t completely humiliating.

'Hey, so, I’ve been thinking about you all day—'

No. That sounds obsessive.

'I believe we should establish an open dialogue about the nature of our soulmate connection—'

Too clinical.

'I don’t want things to be weird between us, but I also can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what to do with that.'

Too honest.

Spencer groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’s overthinking. He knows he’s overthinking. But how could he not? You’re his soulmate. He’s spent his entire life wondering about his soulmate. Fantasizing about the moment he'd meet you, the way it would feel, the certainty of it.

And now that you’re here, he has no idea what he’s doing.

Tomorrow. He’ll figure it out tomorrow.

…Hopefully.

The coffee shop is quiet, just as Spencer had promised. It’s the kind of place meant for lingering, for hushed conversations and slow sips of something warm. You step inside, your stomach tight with nerves, scanning the space until your eyes land on him.

He’s already here, seated at a corner table, hands wrapped around a to-go cup of coffee that’s barely been touched. Another cup sits in front of him, waiting. His fingers tap anxiously against the cardboard sleeve, a restless rhythm that betrays the thoughts undoubtedly racing in his head.

When he spots you, he straightens instinctively, like he’s bracing himself.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you make your way over and slide into the seat across from him. Your eyes flick to the second cup, and he follows your gaze.

“I, um—” He clears his throat. “I got you a coffee. The way you like it.”

Surprise flickers through you, quickly followed by something warmer. You reach for the cup, fingers curling around it. The heat seeps through, grounding you. “Thanks,” you say softly.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There’s an odd weight between you, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

Spencer forces himself to take a steady breath. He spent all night overthinking this conversation, running through a hundred different ways it could go, and yet, now that you’re sitting in front of him, he feels utterly unprepared.

Then Spencer clears his throat. “Thanks for meeting me.”

You nod, wrapping your hands around your own drink, grounding yourself in its warmth. “Yeah. I think we need this.”

He exhales, shoulders rising and falling as he gathers his thoughts. “I don’t want to rush into anything just because of the soulmate bond,” he says carefully, like he’s testing the words as they leave his mouth. “I want to get to know you—really get to know you—before we decide what this means for us.”

Your eyes study him for a moment, unreadable, and for a brief second, doubt prickles at the back of his mind. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if you expected more, something immediate and undeniable? What if he’s already ruining this.

But then you exhale, nodding slightly.

“I do too,” you admit. “Honestly, I’ve always been worried that my soulmate would expect something right away. That they’d take one look at where my mark is and assume that’s all this is supposed to be about.”

Spencer’s chest tightens.

You hesitate, fingers pressing into the side of your coffee cup. “I was afraid of being seen as just… a cosmic guarantee of sex instead of a person.”

Spencer inhales sharply, something in his expression twisting. “I would never—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head, forcing the words out more carefully. “I don’t see you that way. I never would.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and something in your gaze softens.

“I know,” you say quietly.

And the worst part? You do know. Because Spencer Reid, for all his fumbling awkwardness, has done nothing but try to keep his distance—to not make this weirder than it already is.

Still, the fact that you had to carry that fear at all…

Spencer grips his cup a little tighter. “I always wondered what meeting my soulmate would be like,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I spent a lot of time thinking about how it would happen, how it would feel.” He lets out a small, breathless laugh. “I didn’t expect it to be—” He gestures vaguely between you. “—this.”

You laugh too, because what else can you do?

“You and me both.”

Spencer exhales, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t completely ease. “I guess part of me was scared I wouldn’t live up to whatever expectations you might have had.”

Your brows pull together. “Spencer…”

He shakes his head quickly, like he doesn’t want you to try and reassure him. “I just—I don’t want this to be something dictated by fate alone. I want it to be our choice, not just something that’s happening to us.” His fingers tap against his cup. “And I don’t want to mess it up.”

Your breath catches slightly, because that, that is something you hadn’t realized you needed to hear.

“I get it,” you say softly. “I don’t want to mess it up either.”

He looks at you then, eyes searching, like he’s trying to make sure you really mean it.

And you do.

Because even though there’s a pull between you, something almost magnetic, you don’t want to rush into it. You don’t want to make this something predetermined. You want it to be real.

You let out a slow breath. “Friends first?”

Spencer blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it first.

But then his shoulders loosen, just slightly, and he nods. “Friends first.”

The words settle between you, a quiet agreement, but the bond doesn’t lessen its grip. If anything, you’re more aware of it now. The way the air between you crackles, the way every glance lingers just a little too long.

But at least now, you know you’re not alone in this.

Spencer watches you, his fingers still tapping absent patterns against his coffee cup. He wants to say something else, something reassuring maybe. But instead, he just nods, more to himself than to you.

As you both move to stand, your hands nearly brush, and for a split second, Spencer wonders what it would feel like to just give in. To let the bond take over, to find out exactly what fate has tied him to.

But he clenches his jaw, stuffing his hands into his pockets like it’ll stop the impulse.

You smirk slightly, amused by his obvious effort.

“See you at work, Spencer.”

His ears go red.

“…See you at work.”

You step out of the coffee shop, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the warmth lingering in your chest. As the door swings shut behind you, you take a breath, steadying yourself. That conversation had been… good, you think. Necessary. And yet, the undeniable hum of the soulmate bond still lingers beneath your skin, a quiet reminder that no matter how much you both insist on taking things slow, something bigger than either of you is already in motion.

You glance over your shoulder but the coffee shop window only shows Spencer still sitting at the table, his hands wrapped around his cup, staring at it like it holds all the answers to the universe. You smirk to yourself. For all his brilliance, he’s painfully obvious.

Still, you appreciate the effort. You both knew walking to work together would’ve been too much. Too soon. So, instead, he’s staying behind, waiting until enough time has passed for you to be comfortably apart by the time he leaves. It’s thoughtful in the most awkward way possible, so distinctly him that you find yourself shaking your head, amused.

With one last glance at the coffee shop, you turn forward and start walking. You don’t know what today will bring, but one thing is certain.

This thing between you and Spencer? It’s not going away anytime soon.

The bullpen hums with the usual morning energy. Agents shuffling papers, murmuring about last night’s game or the latest headlines, the scent of coffee lingering in the air. It should be like any other day, except for the way Spencer’s mind keeps circling back to you.

He tells himself it’s fine. He got here on time, sat down at his desk, and started working just like he always does. No one suspects a thing.

Except when he glances up, you’re there, sitting at your desk, sipping from the drink he ordered for you that morning. The sight of it in your hands sends a strange sort of satisfaction curling through him. He looks away fast, focusing on his paperwork.

Normal. He just has to act normal.

But the universe seems determined to make that impossible.

The bullpen moves around you like a well-oiled machine. Phones ringing, keys clacking, agents exchanging gossip and weekend plans between mouthfuls of burnt coffee. On the surface, it’s a normal morning. But the moment you sit down and take a sip from the drink Spencer ordered you, the illusion cracks.

You don’t even look up right away. You feel him.

When you finally do glance over, he’s at his desk, head down, flipping through a case file like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Which might be believable, if he weren’t holding the pages upside down.

Your lips twitch.

You’d laugh, but you’re not doing much better. Your brain keeps looping back to the coffee shop, the almost-touch, the way he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should say goodbye or sprint into traffic to avoid it.

He showed up after you. Purposefully, obviously. It doesn't take a profiler to spot a man avoiding awkwardness at all costs. And really, you don’t blame him. It was weird. You're both still pretending it wasn't.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You make it a whole ten minutes before you need something from the filing cabinet. It’s tucked against the back wall, awkwardly close to the corner of the room, and when you get there, you tug open the heavy drawer, scanning rows of neatly labelled folders.

You hear footsteps behind you and shuffle to the side without looking. A breath later, Spencer slides into the space beside you. He’s reaching for the same drawer, his fingers brushing against yours for a heartbeat before both of you yank your hands back like the other was made of fire.

You glance sideways. He’s staring at the folder like it just insulted his mother.

“…Morning,” you say.

His jaw ticks. “Morning.”

The silence stretches.

You tilt your head, watching the way he’s very pointedly not looking at you. He’s rigid. Like someone wound him up and forgot to let him out of the packaging. You can’t help but wonder if he's always like this, or is it just around you?

Eventually, you grab your folder and step away to spare him whatever internal malfunction he’s experiencing. His relief is palpable.

It’s barely past ten when it happens again.

You step out from behind your desk at the exact same time he does, and you almost collide. Your bodies halt a breath apart, close enough that you can smell the soap on his skin, see the way his pupils flicker wide before he flinches backward in alarm.

This time, he sidesteps so hard he nearly knocks into Rossi.

“Easy there, kid,” Rossi mutters without missing a beat, brushing past with his coffee. Spencer’s halfway to combusting.

You smile, far too amused. “Smooth.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. His ears do the talking—burning a deep, unmissable red as he mutters something that sounds like an apology before making a swift exit down the hall.

You watch him go, biting back a grin.

By the time you’re back at your desk, you’ve decided the universe must be bored. That’s the only explanation. There’s no way this many accidental run-ins can happen naturally. Not with an office this size. It’s like fate is running a slow-burn sitcom, and you’re the unwilling stars.

You try to focus on your work, but the quiet hum of conversation around the bullpen pulls you in. Morgan’s voice carries first.

Morgan’s voice cuts through first. “Okay, hear me out: stranded on an island, you get to bring one thing. What are you taking?”

“Not this question again,” Emily groans, though she’s already leaning back in her chair to join in.

JJ chimes in without looking up from her notepad. “A book. Something long. Preferably with a happy ending.”

“You’d be bored in five minutes,” Morgan shoots back. “Give me a hatchet or something useful.”

Rossi strolls past, coffee in hand. “I’d bring a bottle of scotch and a box of cigars. If I’m going down, I’m going down in style.”

That earns a round of amused groans.

You glance up just as Spencer looks over. He’s sitting across from you, posture perfect but his fingers are fidgeting slightly, tapping against a closed file. Listening.

Morgan raises an eyebrow in your direction. “Alright, your turn. What’s your one thing?”

You pause, glancing up from the file in your lap. “A survival manual I probably won’t read.”

That earns a few laughs from the bullpen.

You shrug, settling back in your chair. “It’ll make me feel better just having it. False confidence is still confidence.”

Spencer huffs something that might be a laugh, and when you glance at him, he’s watching you. Not mockingly, but with this soft, surprised kind of curiosity.

He speaks, voice measured but soft. “I’d bring a collection of classic literature.”

You raise a brow. “That’s ambitious.”

“It’s practical,” he replies. “You’d want something that lasts. Long narratives. Complex characters. Enough variation to keep your mind engaged.”

That piques your curiosity. “So you wouldn’t get tired of rereading the same stories?”

He shakes his head. “Not if they’re good ones. The kind that let you see something different every time. They grow with you. Or maybe you grow into them.”

You tilt your head. “You sound like someone who’s read them more than a few times.”

He glances down, like he’s not sure whether to be embarrassed or not. “A fair assumption.”

You smile. “So, what’s the appeal? Isn’t a lot of it just old language and people with too many names?”

He laughs, a short, surprised sound. “Sometimes. But that’s not what makes them last.”

You watch him now, genuinely curious.

“Most people approach them academically,” he says. “But that strips them of what makes them human. They’re not puzzles—they’re full of longing and desperation and hope. That’s the point. The imperfections, the contradictions.”

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t that. You watch him for a moment, struck by how earnest he is. How unselfconscious. There’s something quietly compelling about it. His passion laid bare like he didn’t think twice about offering it.

“That’s a lot of feelings for a stranded island situation,” you tease lightly.

He huffs a laugh, ducking his head. “Sorry. I know it sounds dramatic.”

You shake your head. “No, it doesn’t. Just unexpected.”

He looks like he wants to say more, so you let the silence stretch comfortably.

“I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who liked the classics,” you admit. “But I never really connected with them. It felt like I was waiting for them to make sense, and they just… didn’t.”

“That’s not your fault,” Spencer says. “A lot of them weren’t written to be accessible. But sometimes, all it takes is the right one. One that just clicks, and suddenly everything makes sense.”

You smile a little. “You make them sound worth another shot.”

He shrugs, then nods, a bit softer this time. “They are.”

You rest your elbow on the desk and lean in a touch. “Alright, then. What’s your pitch? If I was going to give one a chance.”

Spencer pauses, considering, and there’s something warmer than thoughtfulness in his eyes now. Something quietly delighted.

“I’ll get you a list,” he says.

You grin. “A curated reading experience?”

“Exactly.”

You glance down at your file again, but it’s useless now. The energy between you has shifted—warmer. Quieter. Easier.

Across from you, Spencer doesn’t go back to reading either. He just stays there, like maybe he’s not quite ready to stop talking yet.

And for once, neither are you.

The conversation between you and Spencer seems to flow effortlessly, like two people who’ve known each other for years, even though you’ve barely scratched the surface of your time together. With each laugh, each shared moment, the tension fades a little more. You feel more comfortable, more familiar.

“Wait—hold on. You can remember everything you’ve ever read?” you ask, your voice caught somewhere between awe and playful suspicion.

Spencer shifts in his seat, clearly bashful about it. “I… yeah. I have an eidetic memory. It means I can recall written material almost perfectly.”

You blink at him. “So, like… if you read the back of a cereal box once, it’s just in there forever?”

He gives a sheepish little laugh. “Unfortunately, yes. Even the part about riboflavin.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Okay, so you’re either a genius or a really charming liar.”

Spencer stumbles over his words, his face flushing a bit as he tries to recover. He looks away for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s not sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed. There’s a slight pause before he glances back at you, his eyes narrowed just a little, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being serious or teasing him. The corners of his mouth pull into a half-smile, but it’s clear he’s still trying to make sense of the situation, clearly flustered but not in an uncomfortable way.

Around you, the office moves with phones ringing, agents chatting, soft shuffling of papers and footsteps. But through it all, the conversation between you and Spencer doesn’t really stop. It shifts and changes, slipping into new territory without either of you needing to steer it. He’s already picked up on how quick you are with a joke, how you tilt your head when you’re genuinely curious. And you’re noticing him too. The way his hands move when he’s explaining something, the way his whole face gets animated when he’s caught up in a thought. Somehow, talking to him feels natural, like you’ve been doing it forever.

“You have how many PhDs?!”

Spencer shifts in his seat, suddenly preoccupied with aligning the edge of a folder. “Three,” he says, quiet but clear.

You blink. “Three. As in... actual, real PhDs? Not like honorary ones they give celebrities sometimes?”

He gives a sheepish nod.

Your lips twitch. “I don’t think I’ve ever committed to anything long enough to earn three of anything.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide the way his cheeks go a little pink. He’s not quite sure what to do with your reaction, but there’s something about the way you say it that leaves him slightly off balance—in a way he doesn’t hate.

It’s easy, somehow. The way your conversation keeps going, without effort or awkwardness, like you’ve skipped over the small talk and landed somewhere comfortable. Spencer isn’t quite leaning in, but his shoulders have lost their stiffness, his eyes tracking yours with soft focus. He listens like it’s an art form, picking up on every nuance, every half-smile and curious glance. You catch bits of him in return—how he thinks before he speaks, how he seems both shy and excited when something genuinely interests him. There’s a rhythm forming between you, unspoken but steady, like you’re both tuning into the same frequency.

“You know magic?” you ask, eyebrows raised in open delight. “You have to show me a trick.”

Spencer hesitates, blinking once, twice, like he’s recalibrating. “O-okay,” he says, a little cautious, a little sheepish, as if revealing this part of himself is somehow more vulnerable than anything else he's shared. “Just—don’t laugh.”

You don’t. You couldn’t, even if you tried. You nod, eyes wide, suddenly aware of how close the two of you have drifted without noticing.

His fingers skim the air near your ear, smooth and sure, and your breath catches at the sudden closeness. The office falls away, not literally, but enough that the hum of conversation, the tapping of keys, the distant ring of a phone, all of it fades into a soft, irrelevant blur. It's just you and him.

And then—there it is. A flower in his hand where there hadn’t been one before. Then, without a word, he offers it to you.

Your eyes widen. Your lips part in surprise. You know it’s a trick. It has to be a trick. But for one suspended second, it feels like real magic. You take it carefully, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. The stem is cool, the petals soft—real. Your brows pull together as you glance down at it, then back up at him. “Wait… this is actually real. How did you—?”

He just smiles, that small, knowing one that doesn’t give anything away. “Magician’s secret.”

And he keeps looking at you, like watching you hold that flower is the best part of the trick. Like you’re the magic he can’t explain.

The flower stays in your hand long after Spencer’s fingers leave it, soft petals warm from where his touch lingered. You glance at it again, half-expecting it to vanish like the illusion it seemed to be. But it’s real and the memory of how it got there keeps playing on a loop in your mind. The look in his eyes, the weight of his focus, the slight curl of his smile like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You’re definitely not imagining the way things have shifted.

Every glance between you now seems to last a second too long. Every brush of proximity, every slide of his arm as he reaches past you, the heat of him when you lean over the same file, feels electric. There's an unmistakable awareness pulsing in the space between you, something neither of you names but both of you feel.

Spencer is different now. Still the same stammering, brilliant, endearingly awkward man but there's a spark under the surface. Like he knows what effect he’s having on you and is maybe, just maybe, starting to lean into it. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of expression on your face, like he’s mentally cataloguing the sound of your laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re reading.

And you’re not exactly innocent in this either.

You ask questions you don’t need answers to, just to hear him speak. You tease him for fun, for the way it makes his ears turn red. You pass him things just so your fingers will touch.

It’s subtle the way it builds, slow, simmering, and sweet. But beneath all the half-smiles and sideways glances, there’s something else brewing. Something hungry. The kind of tension that coils low in your belly and makes you hyperaware of every little thing. The timbre of his voice, the slope of his neck, the way he licks his lips when he’s thinking.

You catch him looking at you more than once, his gaze slipping from your eyes to your mouth and back again. And each time, he looks away like he’s been caught but he’s not exactly apologetic about it.

Neither are you.

Because whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, you don’t want it to stop.

You're trying to focus. You're really, honestly trying. There’s a case file open in front of you, a half-finished note jotted in the margins, and a perfectly good pen in your hand, but none of it is getting through. Your body is warm all over, tingling with leftover tension from the moment Spencer pulled a flower from behind your ear. The petals had brushed your cheek like a kiss. He hadn’t touched you then, not really, but it still felt like he had. Like something had passed between you, unseen but tangible. Electric.

Despite it all, you both manage to get back to work. The pens, the papers, the case files, they’re all still there, demanding your attention. But you’re both distracted, even if you don’t openly acknowledge it. You look back at your notes, trying to make sense of the information in front of you, but your thoughts keep straying back to him, to that moment. And it’s the same for Spencer, you can tell by the occasional glance he throws your way, the brief flicker of his eyes meeting yours.

You push through it, focusing on the task at hand, but there’s an undeniable tension between you now. It’s subtle, but it’s there, building with every shared glance and every small gesture that feels just a little too charged. It’s as though the space between you both has narrowed without either of you realizing it.

It’s been a little while since the moment with Spencer, but things still feel different. The way he looks at you, the way you can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s changed between you. You’re walking down the hallway, file in hand, but your mind is somewhere else. You’re not sure where, really. Just caught up in the way things are now. How it feels like the air between you is a little heavier.

You’re not paying attention to where you’re walking.

You stumble forward, foot catching on the floor, and the momentum pulls you ahead before you can stop it. Your heart leaps. Gravity tips you into motion, too fast to recover. But then, just as the floor rushes up to meet you, he’s there. It’s as if he appeared out of thin air, like some force pulled him into place in the exact second you needed him.

Spencer.

He catches you like he was always meant to be there, like something beyond either of you decided he would arrive in the split second you needed him. One arm loops around your waist from behind, firm and unshakable, halting your fall and drawing you back into the warmth of him. His other hand grips your upper arm, anchoring you, steadying you, like he’s done this before in some forgotten dream.

Then, he moves. Slowly. Purposefully. He turns you in his arms until you’re facing him. The world blurs for a breath as he guides you, but the moment you settle against his chest, everything sharpens. Your chest brushes his, your breath tangling with his. You can feel the strength in him, the control he’s holding onto, the tension thrumming just beneath the surface. His hand slides lower, from your waist to your lower back, moulding you to him with a kind of certainty that makes your stomach flip.

The hand at your arm lingers. His fingers twitch slightly, like they’re reluctant to move on. Then they do. Slowly. Like he's testing the water, like he's giving you every chance to stop him. He traces up the line of your shoulder, so lightly you almost wonder if you imagined it. But you didn’t. Your skin tingles under the weight of his touch, nerves lighting up as his hand drifts across the curve of your collarbone.

When his palm finally cradles your cheek, it feels like the world stills. His hand is warm, fingers curling just slightly, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost impossible. He touches you like he’s afraid he’ll break something, but still needs to feel every part of you. Your breath catches in your throat, not from the stumble, not from surprise, but from the sheer intensity of this moment. This touch. This nearness.

This is the kind of moment you wish had been your first. Not the clumsy mess of limbs and apologies. Not the heat of humiliation or the accidental touch that made your heart sink instead of soar. You wish it had been this. The quiet awe of being seen, the way he steadies you like it matters, the feel of his arms around you like they belong there. Held like you were always meant to find your way to him. Like letting you fall was never even a possibility. Held like you were something he didn’t want to let go of. The closeness. The heat. The kind of moment that people write about, dream about, crave without even knowing what they’re craving.

Your eyes find his, and the moment shifts. Not soft. Not sweet. Heavy.

The tension that had simmered under the surface all day crests, slow and inevitable. It winds through you now, not subtle, not hidden, but full and real, like the charge before a summer storm. You’re wrapped in his scent, something warm and clean that pulls you in without trying. It clings to your skin and slips beneath your ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Your hands ache with the need to move, to reach for him, to follow the path his fingers traced and answer it with your own. Every inch of you feels pulled toward him, like your body is already making the decision your mind is still catching up to.

His gaze never leaves yours. There’s something in it that steals the breath from your lungs. Something hungry. Something tender. A kind of longing that makes your throat tighten. His thumb slides along your cheekbone, barely a touch, but your knees still threaten to give. You have to lean into him just to stay upright, and maybe that was the point all along.

Neither of you speaks. It would ruin the moment. There are no words big enough anyway. Just this: your bodies pressed together, the hallway holding its breath around you, the quiet hum of something that has been building and building and has finally found its place.

His forehead nearly brushes yours. You can feel his breath, the tension in his jaw, the slight tremble in the hand on your back that betrays the calm he tries to hold. Your own heartbeat pounds, steady and hard, loud enough to drown out the world. Your lips are so close you could lean in without thinking, could kiss him and fall and never look back.

You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he’s standing this still because if he moves, he’ll close the gap. Because he wants to. Because he almost can’t help it.

You don’t know how long you stand like that. Held. Gazing. Wanting. But it’s long enough for the rest of the world to fall away. Long enough for everything else to feel like static.

This is the moment you never thought you’d get. The one that feels like it was written for you.

The silence stretches, hanging between you, fragile and full. His hand is still on your cheek, and your heart is still racing, and you can’t quite believe this is real. You watch the way his lips part, the quiet flicker in his eyes like he’s trying to figure out how to hold onto this just a little longer.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking whatever this is between you.

You nod before you find the breath to answer. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m alright.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too soft, too quiet, but it makes something flicker in his eyes. His hand lingers just a moment longer, brushing once more against your cheek before he finally begins to pull away.

“Thank you,” you say, voice trembling.

The space between you shifts as he slowly lets go, but there’s a reluctance in it, a hesitance like neither of you truly wants to break apart. His fingers are the last to fall away, brushing your waist like they might change their mind at the last second.

Neither of you moves. Not right away. You’re still in it, whatever this is. The moment hangs between you, soft and charged, like it doesn’t want to end just yet.

Eventually, Spencer steps back. You follow suit. There’s no rush to the way you part, just a quiet understanding that you both have to move, even if neither of you wants to.

You make your way back to your desk, feeling every inch of space that grows between you. It doesn’t settle the way it used to. There’s something different now, something alive beneath the surface. Spencer sits across from you, same as always, but it doesn’t feel the same. Not even close.

You try to focus. You open the file you meant to bring with you, scan the lines, click your pen, jot something down. Your fingers go through the motions, but your thoughts are still there in that hallway. Still tangled in the way his hand moved so gently, so slowly. The way he looked at you like you were something worth catching. Worth holding onto.

Across from you, Spencer doesn’t speak. But every so often, you catch him glancing up. Not obvious, just quick flickers of his gaze, almost like he’s checking to see if you’re still feeling it too.

You are.

The hours pass. Meetings blur. Paperwork piles up. You answer questions. You nod at the right times. But your awareness never quite leaves him. It’s like there’s a hum beneath everything now. A frequency only the two of you can feel.

When someone speaks to him, his voice is just a little softer than usual. When you stand, he notices. When you sit, he shifts. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would pick up on, but it’s there. In every small moment. In the way your bodies move in relation to each other. In the looks that pass too quickly to be caught.

And you feel it. The way the tension doesn't fade. It stretches with the day, quietly building. There's a pull in the air between you, subtle but steady. A current. It winds through each breath, each glance, each pause that lasts a beat too long.

By the time the sun dips low enough to cast golden light across the desks, the air feels warmer. Thicker. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Your chest is tight, but not in a bad way. It’s anticipation. Something waiting at the edge of all this stillness.

You don’t know what happens next.

But the workday is ending. And whatever this is between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s only just begun.

You don’t know what happens next.

But the workday is ending. And whatever this is between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s only just begun.

People start to move around you, gathering their things, saying quiet goodnights. Chairs roll back, computers power down. Someone laughs faintly down the hall. You hear it all like it’s happening underwater. Distant. Muffled. None of it really touches you.

You stay seated. So does he.

Neither of you seems in any particular rush to leave, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe you're both hoping the other will wait long enough to make this more than just a day filled with glances and charged silences. You tidy up slowly, stacking papers, capping your pen, adjusting things that don’t need adjusting. Across from you, Spencer shifts his chair back just slightly, like he’s about to stand, then doesn’t.

It’s not choreographed. You don’t plan it. But somehow, you both stand at the same time.

That same quiet beat hits again, that tiny pause when your eyes meet. His bag hangs from one shoulder. Your fingers clutch your strap. The hum between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

You fall into step without speaking.

The office is quieter now. The buzz of fluorescent lights hums low overhead. The faint sound of someone typing carries from far off, but the main floor is mostly cleared out. Just a few stragglers wrapping up the last bits of their day.

You don’t speak as you walk. The silence doesn’t need filling.

When you reach the elevator, he presses the button with the same ease he does everything else, controlled, precise, but there’s a certain tightness in the set of his jaw. Like he’s holding back again. Like there’s something just under the surface he isn’t saying.

The doors slide open with a soft chime. You both step inside.

And just like that, you’re alone. The quiet feels louder now. The close walls, the faint metallic smell, the mirror-polished surfaces that reflect more than you want them to.

The doors close.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

The air shifts.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it happens at the exact same time, a silent agreement neither of you speaks aloud. One second you’re standing still, and the next your back is pressing against the wall of the elevator and his mouth is on yours.

It doesn’t feel planned. It doesn’t feel like either of you made a choice. It’s instinct. Reaction. The natural conclusion to everything that’s been building between you. His hands frame your face, not gentle but not rough, like he needs to be sure you’re real while he’s kissing you like he already knows exactly how. And you don’t hesitate. You’re already reaching for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still, because distance doesn’t make sense anymore. Not when it feels like your body already knows his.

It’s not just desire. Not just chemistry. It’s something deeper. Something that settles into your chest like recognition. Like you’ve been looking for this without realizing it.

His hand drops to your waist, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. But you’re not going anywhere. Your hands slide higher, over the slope of his shoulders, into his hair, threading through the soft strands like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like you were always meant to.

You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. It does. It all does. This doesn’t feel new, not really. It feels inevitable.

There’s a hum under your skin, like something golden and electric threading through you both, faint but steady. It’s not the mark. It’s something else. Something internal. Like your soul just leaned forward and said, finally.

His mouth slows against yours, just slightly. Enough for breath to return in shallow, uneven pulls. His forehead presses gently to yours, and for a second, neither of you moves. His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to catch his breath and memorize you at the same time.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. You just feel. The weight of his hands. The heat in your chest. The way everything around you has faded into something quiet and golden.

When he kisses you again, it’s different. Softer. Not because the want is gone, but because now it’s threaded with something else. Curiosity. Wonder. That ache that says I could get lost in this if you let me.

Your hand slides back down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and you finally look up at him.

“Spencer,” you breathe, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

His eyes flicker open, gaze already on you. There’s nothing rushed in the way he looks at you. Nothing uncertain. Just that steady, focused kind of attention that makes it feel like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Can we…” You trail off, but he doesn’t press. He waits, his hand still resting warm and steady on your waist.

“Can we go to your place?”

There’s a pause, not hesitation, just a beat where everything between you goes still. Then he nods, slow and sure, like the answer was always going to be yes.

“Yes,” he says, and the word settles between you like a promise.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. The yes still lingers between you, warm and certain, and your bodies stay close like they haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.

Then your brows pull together, just slightly. There’s something off. A quiet that doesn’t feel right.

Your gaze shifts over his shoulder, past him, toward the panel on the wall.

“Did we…?” you start, and then you see it. All the lights on the buttons are dark.

Spencer glances back, following your eyes. “We didn’t press anything.”

You both stare at the panel for a second before the absurdity of it sinks in, and your lips twitch, the beginning of a laugh bubbling up in your chest.

He exhales a soft breath of disbelief, a crooked smile forming as he reaches over and presses the button. “Right. Small detail.”

The elevator hums to life at last, and your laughter lingers in the space between you, quiet and breathless.

But the moment doesn’t fade.

It just folds back in on itself, warm and wanting, as he turns back to you. You don’t waste the time. His hands find you again, yours reach for him, and this time when he kisses you, it’s with that same promise in it. That same yes.

You don’t remember the ride. Not really. Just flashes. His hand brushing yours in the car. The quiet tension sitting between you like it might combust. The shared glances that said everything words couldn’t.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You turn toward each other at the same time, like you were pulled by the same invisible thread. And then his hands are on you and yours are on him and it’s like the hallway all over again, only more. No more stopping yourselves. No more reason to.

He kisses you hard enough to make your knees buckle, and you stumble back into the wall behind you. You don’t care. You grip the front of his shirt and pull him closer, needing the weight of him, the heat. He presses into you with a low sound in his throat that you feel more than hear, something rough and quiet that makes your breath catch.

You’re not thinking anymore. Not really. Just feeling. Want. Heat. The ache of being this close and still not close enough.

Your jacket slips from your shoulders, his hands helping it off in a way that feels impatient and reverent all at once. He doesn’t throw it. He lets it fall, then his fingers are back on your hips, your waist, your jaw. Like he can’t choose where to touch you first. Like it’s all too much and still not enough.

His mouth moves to your neck, slow and searching, and your head tips back instinctively. One of your hands finds the back of his neck, the other drifts lower, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin. Warm and tense and real. He exhales hard at the contact, his hips pressing into yours like he’s already forgetting what space is.

You manage to drag his shirt up, your hands clumsy with urgency, and he lifts his arms to help you pull it over his head. It catches for a second, tangled around his wrists, and you both laugh, just once, breathless and surprised, but then it’s gone and so is the pause. His mouth crashes back onto yours and your hands are everywhere again.

He walks you backward through the apartment, guided more by instinct than memory. You bump into a side table, the corner of a bookshelf, and he steadies you with one hand while the other stays pressed between your shoulder blades. You’re trying to get his belt undone, fumbling with the buckle, and he’s got your shirt halfway unbuttoned, his fingers brushing your skin with every movement.

By the time you reach the bedroom, your shirt is hanging open and his trousers are unfastened, and the air between you feels like it’s on fire.

You don’t fall into the bed. You sink, slowly, together, hands still exploring. He kisses you softer now, but it’s no less intense. It’s layered. Tender, hungry, searching. Every brush of his mouth feels like it means something. Like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

Your fingers thread into his hair again, tugging gently, and he groans against your lips like he’s been waiting for that sound from you. You part long enough for your clothes to come off piece by piece, tossed somewhere you’ll both forget about for now.

There’s no rhythm yet. No plan. Just heat and breath and the kind of touches that feel like they’ve been a long time coming. Like the path to this moment was always winding toward here.

He settles above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing along your ribs like he’s memorizing you. Your hand finds his face, thumb brushing his cheek, and his eyes close at the touch. Not because he’s overwhelmed. Because he’s home.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. It’s there. In the way your bodies move. In the unspoken understanding that this is more than just lust. More than just timing. It’s whatever has been humming between you since the second your marks aligned, now unravelling in real time.

When he lowers his forehead to yours again, your noses brushing, your breath mingling, he whispers your name.

You whisper his back, and it sounds like a vow.

Then he kisses you again, and you let yourself fall.

He finishes removing your open shirt, his fingers sliding along the fabric until it’s pooled around your waist. The cool air hits your skin, and you shiver, but it’s not from cold. It’s from the heat of his gaze as he looks at you.

Then, with the same kind of awe that had coloured his voice earlier, he unclips your bra. It falls away, revealing your chest to him for the first time. You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction. But instead of shock, his eyes fill with something like wonder as they trace over the gold mark on your right breast. It’s a perfect mirror to the one on his palm, a shimmering constellation of flecks of gold that dance together in the dim light of his room.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in to press a gentle kiss to the mark. It’s not sensual, not yet. It’s almost reverent. Like he’s worshipping something sacred. His thumb traces the pattern, sending sparks of sensation along your nerves. You bite your lip to hold back a whimper.

You’ve been so self-conscious of this part of you, always hidden away, and now here he is, treating it like a treasure. His eyes never leave the mark as he kisses it again, and then again, like he can’t get enough.

It’s strange, but as he worships this piece of your skin that’s been a source of fear and embarrassment for so long, something shifts within you. You feel your self-consciousness slipping away, replaced with something new. Something like... power. Like you’re not just a person anymore, but something divine.

Your hand slides down his bare back, feeling the muscles shift and twitch beneath your palm. You trace the line of his spine, down to his hip, and you can feel his body tighten with need. You know he’s trying to be gentle, trying to take it slow, but the bond between you is a livewire, electric and demanding.

You arch up to meet him, your skin brushing his, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your mark. It’s like he can feel it too, the power pulsing between you, urging you closer. His kisses become more frantic, his touches less tentative.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. The need to feel him everywhere overwhelms you, and you both rip the rest of your clothes away with the same fervent intensity. It’s a symphony of desperation that fills the room, and you don’t care about the mess. You don’t care about anything except for the warm, bare flesh pressed against yours.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he doesn’t resist. He slots himself against you, his erection pressing into your heat, and you can’t help but rock upward, seeking more contact. Spencer’s eyes darken, and he lets out a shaky breath. His hand slides down to the juncture of your thighs, and you spread them wider in silent invitation.

When his fingers touch you, it’s like a spark catches fire. You arch off the bed with a gasp, your hand flying to cover your mouth. His eyes never leave yours, watching the way your pupils dilate, the way your cheeks flush with colour. He explores you gently at first, learning the shape of you, the way you respond to his touch. You’re soaking wet, and he groans at the slick heat of you, his thumb circling your clit with a pressure that’s just right.

You want to watch him, but the sensation is too much, and you drop your head back, eyes squeezed shut. You can feel the way your body responds to him, the way it’s been waiting for this. His mouth follows the line of your neck, kissing and nipping as he works you closer and closer to the edge. His other hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb stroking over your soulmark. The feeling is indescribable—like he’s touching your very soul.

When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, you bite down on a moan. It’s perfect. He fills you just right, and you can feel yourself clench around him. He starts to move, slow and deliberate, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

You open your eyes to find Spencer watching you with an intensity that’s almost feral. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes dark with desire. His hand is a blur between your thighs, his fingers moving in and out of you with a skill that’s surprisingly gentle for someone who seems so lost in passion.

Every stroke of his fingers sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, and you can’t help but rock against him, silently begging for more. He reads you like a book as he adjusts his touch just enough to send you spiralling closer to the edge. You can feel your muscles tighten around his digits, the tension in your belly coiling like a spring about to snap.

Spencer’s gaze remains on your face, his eyes devouring every flicker of emotion that passes over your features. It’s like he’s peering into the very essence of your soul, and it’s a heady, exhilarating feeling. It’s as if he’s come face to face with the universe and found it in you. The intensity in his stare is almost too much to handle, but it’s also the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced.

And then he shifts down, needing to taste you.

His mouth follows the path his hand has set, kissing your stomach, your hips, and then finally, finally, he’s there. He looks up at you, question in his eyes, and you nod, desperate for him to keep going. So he does, his tongue swiping over your folds in a teasing lick before focusing on your clit.

You bite back a cry as he circles it with the perfect amount of pressure, his fingers still working inside you. It’s like he’s unlocking some secret part of you, something that’s been waiting just for him. You’ve never felt so open, so exposed. So wanted.

His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue a masterful dance that’s driving you insane. You can feel yourself getting closer, closer, until you’re not sure you can hold on anymore. And then he adds another finger, stretching you just enough to make you gasp.

Your nails dig into the sheets, your hips rocking up to meet his mouth. He seems to understand your unspoken pleas, his tongue swirling around your clit in a pattern that’s making your vision swim. You’re so close, so, so close, and all you can do is whimper his name over and over.

The sounds you’re making are obscene, desperate and wanton, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they only spur him on. His tongue flicks and laps, and you can feel the pressure building, building, until it’s a crescendo that’s going to shatter you into a million pieces.

And then he angles his fingers just right, rubbing against your g-spot, and it’s like a dam breaks. You cum with a scream, your body arching off the bed as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your eyes squeeze shut, stars bursting behind your eyelids, and you clench around him, waves of ecstasy rolling over you.

Spencer’s mouth doesn’t leave you as you come down, his tongue gentle now, soothing. He kisses your thighs, your hips, his way of saying sorry and thank you all at once. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with satisfaction, a smug little smile playing at his lips.

You lay there, panting, your body humming with aftershocks. It’s a strange sensation, like every nerve ending is vibrating in perfect harmony with your racing heart. You feel alive in a way you haven’t in a long time.

Spencer’s weight shifts, and you feel his body settle beside you. He’s looking at you with a soft smile, his eyes filled with something you can’t quite place—it’s a mix of satisfaction and wonder. He reaches out, his hand hovering over your skin, as if afraid to break the spell.

But you don’t let the moment linger. You beat him to it, grabbing his arm to pull him back on top of you. Your kiss is fierce, demanding. It’s like your bodies are speaking a language that’s been forgotten, and you need to relearn it with every touch, every caress. His mouth crashes against yours, and you revel in the feeling of his warm, firm body pressed against you. The scent of him, the taste of him—it’s intoxicating.

Your hand slides down his back, then lower, cupping his ass and pulling him closer. You can feel his erection, hot and heavy against your thigh, and it sends a bolt of want straight to your core. You need him inside of you. To fill you up. To complete this connection that’s been building between you since the moment you met.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it with the same urgency he had used on you. He groans, his hips jerking against your palm. You can feel the heat of his breath against your neck, the gentle nibbles turning into kisses, turning into love bites. He’s lost in the sensation, his body responding to yours.

And then he’s moving, aligning himself with your entrance. You can feel the tip of him, pressing against you, and you lift your hips, silently begging for more. He pauses for a moment, his gaze searching yours, making sure you’re okay. You nod, and with one swift thrust, he’s inside you.

You both groan, the sensation of being filled so completely stealing your breath. He’s thick, and the stretch feels incredible. You tighten around him, and he stills, his eyes closing for a moment as he fights for control. You can feel him, all of him, and it’s like your body was made to fit around him.

When he starts to move, it’s slow and deliberate. He’s not taking this lightly. He’s not rushing. It’s like he’s savouring every inch of you, every gasp and shiver that runs through your body. He’s watching you, reading you, learning you like he’s memorizing a new language.

You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in place, your ankles crossing at the base of his spine. You don’t want him to stop, don’t want this moment to end. You want to live in the feeling of him inside you forever. His strokes are deep and sure, each one hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head.

And through it all, you’re staring into each other’s eyes. It’s as if you’ve found a new way to speak—a silent language that’s more intimate than any words could ever be. You can see his love for you in those hazel depths, the way they darken with passion and burn with a fierce possessiveness that makes your heart race.

You hold on to him like you’ll be ripped away at any moment, like he’s the only anchor keeping you tethered to this world. Your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails leaving little half-moons in his skin, and you can feel the power of the bond pulsing between you like a heartbeat.

“Faster,” you moan, your voice barely recognizable. It’s a demand and a plea all at once, and Spencer seems to understand. His eyes never leave yours as he increases his rhythm, his hips moving in a steady, punishing rhythm that has you crying out with every thrust. He’s not just taking you, he’s claiming you.

You can feel your orgasm building again, the tension coiling in your belly. His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure. It’s like he knows exactly what you need before you do. Your hips buck up to meet him, your body begging for more.

With a sudden shift, Spencer rolls you over so you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you. The new angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and you gasp, your hands braced on his chest. He’s watching you with a fiery gaze, his chest heaving with every breath.

You take control, grinding down onto him with a primal need. The new angle has him hitting places that send sparks racing down your spine, and you can’t help but lean forward to take him even deeper. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, he seems to enjoy the way your body moves, the way your breasts sway with every thrust.

Leaning down, you brace your hands on his chest. You start to set a brutal pace, riding him like you’re afraid it’ll end before you’ve had enough. Your hips move in a frenzied dance, each grind and bounce sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Spencer’s grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your hips as he tries to keep up. His eyes are dark, his teeth bared in a grimace that’s part pleasure, part pain.

Suddenly, his hand slides up, his thumb brushing over your soulmark again. The contact sends a jolt of energy through you, and you throw your head back with a guttural moan. It’s like a switch has been flipped. The room seems to pulse around you, charged with more than just heat and hunger. It’s the bond, the soul-deep connection that’s been growing between you since the moment you found out about your soulmate status.

His other hand moves to play with your breasts, his thumbs circling the sensitive peaks. Each touch feels magnified, the soulmate bond acting as an amplifier for every sensation. The pleasure spirals through you, making your movements erratic as you ride him harder.

Spencer’s eyes never leave yours, even as the sweat gathers on his brow and his breathing turns ragged. His grip on your hip is firm but gentle, guiding you, urging you to take what you need. The way he watches you, with such fierce concentration and care, makes you feel cherished. It’s like he’s worshipping you, and you can’t get enough.

You lean forward, burying your nails into the taut flesh of his chest, and he gasps, the sudden sharpness of pain mixing with pleasure. You revel in the feel of his heart racing beneath your fingertips, the way his abs contract as he thrusts up into you. Your movements become more erratic, driven by a need so intense it’s almost painful. You’re so close, so very close, and you know he is too.

With each stroke, you feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of his cock inside you. The friction is perfect, the angle exquisite. You can feel him everywhere, inside you, on you, all around you. It’s like you’re drowning in him, and you never want to come up for air.

And then, almost as if he knows you’re on the edge, his hand moves. His fingers tease over your clit, and your eyes fly open in surprise. The sensation is intense, a spark of pleasure that ignites your nerves.

You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs, and you start to move again, your hips rolling in a sensual rhythm that’s all for him. You can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body on the edge of something massive. You’re so wet, so ready, and every stroke is pure agony in the best possible way.

He groans the second your body shifts, the new angle sending a jolt through him. His hands slip from where they had wandered, only to find their way back to your hips, gripping tighter this time like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s no use. The view of you above him, flushed and open and moving with purpose, sparks something raw in him. Something primal. His breath stutters, eyes locked on where you take him in again and again, and he can’t look away. It’s not just the way you move. It’s the way you look doing it. Every nerve in his body lights up, hunger curling hot and deep in his gut as the pace you’ve set pushes him closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, the words a rasp torn from his chest. It’s a whisper, but it feels like it echoes around the room. He can feel you tightening around him, and he knows you’re close. So close. His thumb traces lazy circles around your clit, and your hips jerk in response, your eyes fluttering shut. He loves the way you look when you’re lost in pleasure. It’s like watching the stars align.

“I’m... I’m... so close,” you groan, the words dragged from you with each movement of your body. Your voice is thick with need, and the sound of it sends a thrill through him. You’re riding him like you’re trying to outrace your own pleasure, and he can feel it building between you, a storm that’s about to break.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” Spencer whispers, his voice a hoarse rumble that makes your skin prickle. His thumb presses harder against your clit, his hips jerking up to meet your downward strokes. The way he says it, the desperation in his voice, it’s like he’s begging you, and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever heard.

You can feel it building, the pressure in your core reaching critical mass. Your eyes fly open to meet his, and you realize he’s watching you, his gaze intense, his pupils dilated with lust. “I want to feel you cum on my cock,” he says again, the words a command that sends a shiver down your spine. You can see the anticipation in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with restrained need.

With a final, purposeful stroke of his thumb, you shatter. The world goes white, and you scream, the sound echoing off the walls. Your vision swims, and all you can feel is the white-hot pleasure ripping through you in waves, stealing your breath. Your body clenches around him, muscles tightening and releasing in a symphony of ecstasy.

The orgasm feels like it lasts forever, your skin a live wire of sensation. Each pulse of pleasure sends a new tremor through your body, making your muscles quiver and your toes curl.

But even as your climax crashes over you, Spencer’s not done. He’s holding on, his eyes begging for something more. “Please,” he whispers, his voice strained with the effort of not letting go. “Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, the word a breathless gasp that’s barely audible. It’s all the permission he needs. Spencer’s eyes clench shut as he starts to move again, his strokes becoming more urgent, more demanding. You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten with every thrust.

And then it happens. He cums with a roar that fills the room, his release hot and thick inside you. It’s a claiming, a bonding, a promise of forever. You feel yourself contract around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. It’s a moment of pure unadulterated connection.

As your orgasm subsides, your body goes limp, and you collapse against his chest, breathless. Your heart is racing, your skin slick with sweat, your body still trembling from the intensity of your climax. Spencer’s arms wrap around you, his embrace strong and steady, as if he’s afraid to let go. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, in sync with yours, and it’s like your souls are dancing together in a rhythm that only you two know.

Your body is still pressed to his, skin damp, breath slowing as the last of the tremors fade. Neither of you moves. It’s not laziness, not really. It’s more that shifting feels like it might break something delicate that’s settled between you.

Spencer’s chest rises under your cheek, steady but uneven. One of his hands is on your back, palm spread wide, the other tucked gently around your shoulder. His thumb starts to move in slow, absent strokes, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You sigh, soft and almost sleepy, though your mind is anything but quiet.

He hums in response. Not a word, just a sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. It vibrates through your cheek, soothing in a way you didn’t expect.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence feels easy. Not awkward. Not full of things unsaid. Just full.

“I think I forgot how to move,” you mumble into his skin.

Spencer lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “You don’t have to. We can stay like this.”

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “Forever?”

He looks down at you with that little smile of his, the one that’s more genuine when he’s not thinking about it. “Or until we get hungry.”

You huff a soft laugh and let your eyes fall shut again, your fingers curling gently against his ribs.

There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the warmth of his body under yours, his hand on your back, and the quiet, shared understanding that whatever this is, it’s real.

Eventually, the rise and fall of your breathing starts to match his. The world doesn’t feel like it’s tilting anymore. Just warm and quiet, like everything’s settled in its place. You shift slightly, not to move away but just to get a better look at him, your chin resting lightly on his chest.

Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded but focused on you, soft in a way that makes your heart tug a little. His hand is still on your back, thumb brushing lazy lines over your spine. The kind of touch that feels like it’s always been there. Like it belongs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…” You trail off, searching for the right word.

He doesn’t press you to finish. Just watches you, patient and open.

“…content,” you say finally. “Like I can actually breathe.”

Spencer smiles, small but honest. “Yeah. Me too.”

You trace a slow, aimless circle with your finger against his chest. “I used to wonder what it’d be like. Finding my soulmate. I thought it would be terrifying. Or overwhelming. Some huge moment I wouldn’t know how to handle.”

“It was a little overwhelming,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You laugh, quiet and real. “Okay, yeah. It didn’t exactly start smooth.”

He lifts a hand and tucks some hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. “I used to think I’d be too much. That maybe it wouldn’t happen. Or that if it did, the person on the other end wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

The softness of his voice hits you more than the words.

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “That person would be an idiot.”

Spencer huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it catches on something more. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know it could.”

You let the moment settle between you, full and warm.

“I feel like I’ve known you longer than two days,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says. “It’s strange, but it’s not. You just… fit.”

You nuzzle into him, and he shifts slightly to make room, as if your body was meant to settle right there all along.

“I’m really happy it’s you,” you say.

His arms tighten around you, not possessive, just sure. “Me too.”

You lie there for another beat, your cheek pressed to his chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breathing as it finally begins to settle.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, but not heavy. “I know we’ve only known each other two days. And most of that involved some level of either humiliation or aggressively avoiding eye contact... but I like this.”

You smile into his skin. “Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you says anything else for a while. There’s no need. You’re wrapped in the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled.

“I should probably get dressed,” you say eventually, not moving at all.

“You should definitely not get dressed,” Spencer replies, his voice dry.

You laugh, turning your face into his neck. “We can’t stay like this forever.”

“Why not?”

“Because eventually I’m going to need water. And food.”

He hums like he’s weighing the pros and cons. “Fine. But I’m still going to sulk about it.”

You finally push yourself upright with a sigh. “My legs forgot how to work.”

Spencer stretches beside you. “I’ll carry you to the kitchen if you want.”

You give him a look. “Bold of you to assume I’d let you carry me anywhere after how we met.”

His laugh is easy, warm. “In my defence, I was tripping over the laws of physics. Not my own two feet.”

“You fell directly into my boobs, Spencer.”

He groans and pulls a pillow over his face. “Please never say that again.”

You’re still grinning as you both get up and pull on enough clothes to be considered decent. The air feels different now, looser somehow. Like the two of you have finally caught up to whatever this thing between you is.

Spencer bumps your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen. “You haven’t eaten since lunch. I should probably feed you.”

“You say that like I’m a stray you found sniffing around your porch.”

“You asked to come over,” he points out, giving you a look.

“Yeah. Because I was trying to be polite about jumping your bones.”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “Stray behaviour.”

You stare at him.

“I have cereal,” he offers.

“That’s not food. That’s a cry for help.”

“I have three kinds of cereal.”

“You’re not making this better.”

“I also have microwaveable rice.”

“Do you have anything to go with the rice?”

A pause.

“…I have a drawer full of granola bars?”

You groan, leaning your forehead against the nearest cupboard. “I cannot believe I just had sex with a man who lives like a feral academic.”

“I’m very resourceful,” he says, clearly too proud of himself.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Spencer leans against the counter, smug. “I’ll take it.”

You shake your head, still smiling as you pull yourself up. “Guess I’ll have to take over your kitchen. For your own safety.”

“Please do. I’ve been meaning to clean out the fridge, but I’m afraid to open it.”

You pause, halfway to standing. “You’re joking, right?”

Another pause.

“…mostly.”

You both eat something that barely qualifies as a meal, pieced together from the scraps of Spencer’s fridge and the questionable remains of his pantry. It ends up being better than expected, mostly because you’re both too busy laughing to care.

You end up on the couch, not so much by decision as by natural drift, like gravity knows where you belong. The television flickers quietly, casting silver shadows over the room while an old film murmurs in the background. Neither of you picked it out. Spencer just pressed play on something and then handed you the remote like it was a peace offering. Or maybe a thank you.

His fingers trail slowly along your arm, light and absent like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You think maybe you wouldn’t have liked that before, the mindless closeness, the way he keeps reaching for you even when there’s no need. But with him, it just fits. Like the silence doesn’t need filling. Like the stillness between you is full of something instead of empty.

“I feel weirdly… settled,” you murmur, not quite sure why you’re whispering.

“Me too,” Spencer says, lips brushing your hair as he speaks.

The movie carries on, a slow-moving plot that neither of you fully follow. It’s just background now. A reason to stay exactly where you are. Not that either of you needs one. The blanket shifts slightly as he pulls it higher around you both, like that’s all he needs to protect. Just this one corner of the world, this one soft moment.

You don’t mean to say it. The words just slip out, tucked between a breath and the shift of his fingers against your skin.

“I used to hate my soulmark was.”

Spencer doesn’t flinch. He waits, just like he always does.

“It always felt like a joke,” you go on, your voice soft. “Like someone somewhere decided to brand me in the most humiliating spot possible. It was always this… looming thing. Something I had to guard. Something I couldn’t even talk about without it sounding like a punchline.”

Spencer doesn’t speak. His thumb presses a little firmer against your skin, grounding you.

“But now,” you continue, your voice catching just slightly, “it feels... different. Like it’s just a part of me. And you—you're just... you’re more than I could have ever imagined.”

His thumb stills for a moment, but his gaze never leaves yours. “I’m glad it’s not a joke to you anymore. I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”

You smile, the warmth of it spreading from your chest. “I’m don't. Not anymore.”

His lips press against the top of your head, gentle and steady. He doesn’t rush it. He lets the moment stretch out between you both, filling it with everything unspoken. And you don’t need words now. Not when everything feels so right.

The movie on the screen is forgotten. Time slows down, and in its place, there’s only this: the rhythm of his breathing, the way his arm tightens around you, the sound of your heartbeats blending in the quiet space between you. This ,the two of you together, is enough.

You turn your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his. The faintest smile pulls at the corner of his lips, and you feel your own heart swell with a warmth you hadn’t expected to find. A tenderness, a trust, something deeper than you thought you’d ever feel in such a short time.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say softly, the words almost surprising you as they slip out. “About the future.”

He raises an eyebrow, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. “What about it?”

“About how... how this feels like the start of something. Something real. And how, every day, I’m going to fall more for you. I know that now.” You hesitate for a moment, then add, “I could see us—well, I could see myself... building something with you.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, the depth of his gaze catching you off guard. “You’re not scared of that? Of all the things that come with it?”

You shake your head, a small smile curving your lips. “No. I think I’m ready for it. For whatever comes next with you.”

Spencer’s thumb traces slow circles against your arm, as though he’s still processing what you’ve said, but you can see the certainty in his eyes. “I think we’ll be good at it. At building whatever comes next,” he says, his voice low, but steady. “I want that too. More than I ever thought I would.”

You nestle closer, feeling the steady warmth of his embrace, a comfort that feels like it’s going to last. It’s not just about this moment, but everything that could come after. And for the first time, you realize that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“You know,” you say, the words almost playful as you lean against him. “I never thought I’d be sitting here with my soulmate. Definitely not this quickly.”

Spencer chuckles softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Yeah, neither did I. But here we are.”

You pull the blanket up a little higher around you both, the room settling into a soft quiet. You know that no matter what happens, tomorrow will be just as good. Every day will be filled with moments like these, moments of connection, of laughter, of love growing quietly between you.

For once, you’re not afraid of the future. It feels like a promise, and all you have to do is keep going, together. You glance up at Spencer, and in his eyes, you see the same certainty you feel in your own chest.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” you whisper.

Spencer’s voice is full of quiet intensity as he responds, “I’ve spent my whole life imagining this. Imagining you. All the little things I didn’t even know I was waiting for. And now that you’re here... you’re more than I could have dreamed. You’re everything I never knew I needed.”

And, as the old movie plays on in the background, neither of you needs anything more than this moment, wrapped up together on the couch, knowing that the days ahead will only bring you closer. That each day, each smile, each touch, will only make you both fall further in love with each other. And for once, you know this is exactly how it’s meant to be.

#criminal minds #masterlist #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #mgg #mgg smut #soulmate #soulmate au #bau reader

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writerpeach · 3 months ago

Text

Sticky Sweet

IVE Wonyoung x m!reader

21k words

Part 9 of IVED Vanilla Latte

---

Read on AO3

“You’re coming with us.” That is precisely how they phrase it. No 'please,' no 'if you want to,' not an ounce of consideration. "I don't even like clubs—" "And?" Yujin interrupts, lifting a finger up to press against your lips to silence you. "This is non-negotiable." "What if I had other plans tonight?" "When have you ever had something planned that didn't involve either of us?" Wonyoung asks as she finishes applying mascara on her other eye. The two stare you down, arms crossed and unwilling to take no for an answer.

"Exactly," Yujin says as she disappears into the walk-in closet, returning a few moments later with two very different dresses. "Be ready in an hour."

That’s how you find yourself here.

You can hardly hear yourself think over the deafening music, blaring so loud you can feel it through the floorboards of the club these two finagled you into.

But you couldn't miss the chance for these two girls to show off, heels and tight dresses and heavy makeup, expensive jewelry dangling from their ears. Impossible for them not to be the center of attention the moment they step through the door, avoiding this massive line stretching down the sidewalk simply by flashing a smile to the bouncer, being let right through.

You're pretty sure these two could get out of almost anything with the right facial expression. Just a raise of an eyebrow and a flutter of those luscious lashes, and their wish is everyone's command.

Once the three of you find a booth in the private VIP section, Yujin waves over a server, ordering two bottles of their most expensive champagne without even batting an eye at the price. "Can't believe daddy actually came along," Wonyoung shouts across the table. "Like, actually went to a club with us."

"Like he could ever resist us. All it takes to convince him is a slutty dress like this," Yujin says as she gives this little grin, that confident stare she's mastered over time. "And maybe the promise of fucking me in the bathroom if he's lucky. Right, daddy?"

The two of them giggle, already working on their first glass of champagne while scooting in close. It's a cozy enough booth, enough space that you're all able to slide in on one side, bare thighs brushing against yours and leaving no gaps between any of you.

On your right, Yujin in this elegant white dress that matches the pearls hanging from her neck, the hem flirting past her hips. And to your left, Wonyoung in this tight, form-fitting black dress with sparkling gems that hug her curves, her long legs crossed so you can see every inch of them.

"Daddy could never say no to getting his dick wet," Wonyoung says as she tilts her head back, gulping the last of her first glass and sets it down. Yujin laughs at that, almost spitting out her drink.

She’s not wrong.

“It's too fucking loud in here," you complain, desperate to change the topic as you look around the VIP lounge.

"Daddy's getting old,” you hear, and it’s Wonyoung, of course, who says that while pouring another glass. And you know she's mocking you, that look of faux innocence that earns a giggle from Yujin beside you. “Or maybe you're just used to listening to my screams and not anything else."

Yujin nearly drops her glass at Wonyoung's brazen remark and doubles over with laughter.

It’s only after the first bottle is almost depleted, that you switch to a couple rounds of shots, with Yujin pouring one down your throat as Wonyoung makes quick work of a margarita, before you even think about getting on the dance floor.

That’s the excuse you’ll give for these two to grind up on you without hesitation in this packed sea of bodies, hands groping every bit of you they can, cupping your crotch while you return the favor and grab their tight asses, kissing both girls without giving the least amount of care for onlookers.

And you're definitely the luckiest person in here right now.

Almost better when you're not part of the main action, having your two favorite girls get all handsy while you watch. Seeing Wonyoung take the lead is always a delight, fingers running through those silky strands of Yujin's long, jet-black hair, holding her firmly in place as she dives in for a sloppy kiss, pushing her tongue in deep for more than a few moments.

You’re not left staring for long. Wonyoung isn’t afraid to pull you back in with a tight yank of your collar as she slips her tongue into your mouth without hesitation, the alcohol on her breath lingering.

Yujin's next to follow, biting your ear and whispering all the dirty things she wants you to do tonight, getting her tongue in the mix with Wonyoung, eager to swap saliva back and forth with either of you.

But Wonyoung isn't content to let her give all the attention, snaking behind you to suck on the exposed skin of your neck with those full, pouty lips that devour you. Her hands wander along your body, sneaking under your shirt, traveling wherever she pleases.

Yujin is equally relentless, licking and nibbling at your skin until she turns around to grind her hips, pushing that delicious ass on the bulge trapped by your pants. As if you needed a reminder of how turned on you are, your dick hardening with each move they make.

"Daddy's getting a little worked up, isn't he?" Wonyoung murmurs into your ear, leaning forward while the two get a handful of your crotch, and she's not wrong. Two sets of nimble fingers squeeze and stroke along the outline in your pants, so needy, so wanting, and it's almost embarrassing how quickly you've gotten hard, with little chance of hiding it in public.

"Need another fucking drink," you growl, knowing the last thing you need is them riling you up this much in a crowded space, not that you're going to stay on the dance floor much longer. Making a beeline toward the nearest bar, the two don't stop with all the attention, clinging to your side as you toss back a double shot, hoping the burn will distract you.

It won’t.

"There's a bathroom upstairs," Wonyoung says so quickly she almost swallows every word, clearly as needy as you are when she yanks on your wrist. "Come on. Both of you. Now."

In a blink, she's dragging both you and Yujin away, which only makes the alcohol hit harder as the anticipation builds. She shoves you both inside, shutting the door behind as quickly as possible, the lock clicking in place to let the magic begin.

But you’re happy to let them start without you, as Wonyoung wastes no time shoving Yujin against the sink for another drunken, heated kiss, purses thrown aside on the counter. The thud of Yujin's back hits the sink hard enough for her to groan, as the younger girl grabs her by the waist to draw her body tight, narrowing the distance while she shoves her tongue between those soft, willing lips.

Watching them devour each other is almost as intoxicating as the alcohol, and you're content to stand back and enjoy the show, listening to Yujin's throaty moans and needy sighs as the two lock lips, tongues exploring with impatience.

The two go at it, Yujin with that tight, low cut dress riding up and showing off a sliver of her perfect ass, her black lace thong doing nothing to hide. Wonyoung right beside her, squeezes every bit of ass she can get her hands on, both of them moaning into their kiss and almost completely oblivious to you, the youngest still having the lead this time.

That’s until Wonyoung beckons to get involved with a finger, calling you closer. "Don't just stand there and watch like an idiot, daddy. If you're gonna stare, at least touch, too."

Not an easy invitation to refuse as you step closer to join this scene that’s all tongue, lips and saliva. Your fingers trail up along Wonyoung's bare skin, and you can't help but kiss the curve of her shoulder, working a hand along her hip until you find one of her smooth inner thighs underneath that short dress.

Nothing in the world can distract Wonyoung at a time like this, grabbing your hand and shoving it right against the crotch of her panties with little thought, her body grinding on your fingers. The panties soak through in what feels like seconds as she groans into Yujin's lips from how you start to toy with her cunt, just grazing against it with each stroke, the wet fabric coating your fingertips with ease.

"Poor daddy must be so hard," Yujin coos, getting close enough for her perfume to linger as her hands wrap around the back of your head. Like she doesn’t know that already when giving your hair a gentle tug,and crashes her lips into yours, tongue forcing its way in.

And while she claims your lips, Wonyoung helps ease the stress on your dick, creating friction from outside of your pants.

Now you’ve got Yujin’s taste in your mouth, and this needy girl on her knees as she takes care of unfastening everything holding your cock hostage in these tight pants. Her long fingers pull at your belt buckle, quickly shoving your pants down to the bathroom floor, until your clothed cock meets her hungry gaze. With a lick of her lips, she runs her hand along every inch, a grin appearing as she gives a firm squeeze through the fabric that causes a muffled groan.

"Mm, must need this cock sucked so bad," Wonyoung says, digging fingertips into your boxers long enough to tear them off with a forceful tug. And the moment your cock is freed, she gives the attention you so badly crave, a tight grip around the base while her lips plant the first of many wet kisses.

“Good thing you're already on your knees then, slut," Yujin adds, chuckling before Wonyoung steals another taste, tongue flicking against your leaking slit as she pumps slow and steady. “Sucking off daddy is what our little brat is best at, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t agree more. There’s hardly any music to distract you through the bathroom walls, bass reduced to a dull thump that makes it easier to drown in every little sound filling the room. Yujin bites on your bottom lip, bringing you into another wet, sloppy kiss, the taste of liquor so prominent on her tongue. And during that kiss, you groan into her mouth when Wonyoung wraps her full lips around your cock, slurping it down with little difficulty.

“This is why we keep her around,” Yujin giggles while she wraps her arms around you, tracing her tongue up your neck. Wonyoung responds by sliding her lips farther down along the length of your dick, still stroking, leaving you unable to do much else but groan as you're engulfed in that hot, velvety mouth.

"Mmmph," and that’s all you can really hear as she swallows you down, warm mouth so sloppy, cheeks hollowed, head bobbing like there was never any other option but to take your entire length.

Yujin’s right there, a distraction as much as encouragement, whispering whatever filthy things she can think of, whatever it takes to keep you rock hard while Wonyoung works her magic. It’s hypnotic, the way Wonyoung bobs her head, getting so deep with ease, the wet heat of her throat as she takes these deep, hungry strokes that echo as her lips move to the base of your cock, a combined effort all doing their best to unravel you.

“Fuck, princess—“

And that’s all you can really do as she bobs her head so desperately between your legs, almost seeking approval.

“Must feel so good, daddy. Our greedy little cocksucker loves it,” Yujin says, smirking as she dives back into another liplock, all lips and tongue and the occasional nibble of your neck. “Spit on that fucking cock, princess. Show us what a messy little whore you’ll always be.”

It's almost a miracle Yujin even gets out the entire sentence with how much Wonyoung is moaning on your cock.

Whatever thoughts Wonyoung had prior vanish on the spot—unable to resist those kinds of commands. Not a lick of hesitation as she spits on your slick shaft, rubbing it in while you two watch, and she does it again and again, so damn eager to get her warm saliva dripping all over you.

You're more than thankful for the extra attention, because now Wonyoung takes the chance to pin your hips against the bathroom counter, getting nice and deep with the entirety of your dick shoved into her mouth.

“God—that bratty fucking mouth feels so good,” you manage when Yujin lets you come up for air, lips licking up your neck once more.

“Only thing she’s good for, right, daddy? A warm, wet hole for daddy to breed and that mouth getting us off. That’s what you’re best at, princess.”

And it sounds so demeaning out of Yujin’s mouth, but Wonyoung couldn’t agree more, pressing her nose into your abdomen every time she bottoms out, a hand fondling your balls as she does so like she needs to prove a point.

"Look at her go, daddy,” Yujin says right in your ear, taking a moment to enjoy the show. “Our little deepthroat queen, hungry as ever. On her knees, in a public bathroom. Right at home, isn’t she? Just needs to choke on it."

Wonyoung hums an affirmative moan, as if to agree, saliva hung down her chin while she pulls back slowly, a loud pop when you exit her mouth. And then she’s pumping so frantically, kissing your wet cock, tongue lashing up and down the length.

"Nobody gives a blowjob like me, huh, daddy? Nice and sloppy, making a mess all over this big cock—“

Yujin only laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, princess.”

“But it’s true, daddy tells me that all the time,” Wonyoung says with so much pride in her voice, but Yujin’s too busy playing with your earlobe between her lips to even care.

She’s not wrong of course, but you can’t admit it—at least not out loud. Wonyoung’s ego is inflated enough.

But she does have the oral expertise covered, able to drain a load from your balls down her throat in seconds, if needed. And of course, Yujin is also deadly with that mouth, regardless of who’s the lucky recipient. Equal or surpassing Wonyoung on any given day, a master at everything else. Able to get either of you off in a matter of moments, usually first thing in the morning when there’s not much time before class. A quick bounce on your cock or sliding you between those deliciously thick thighs, and you’re gone—ready to start the day with a hot shower and a smile on your face.

Wonyoung is back on your cock in an instant, so pretty on her knees, lips sealed tight, and moving faster than you can comprehend. She’s the definition of messy, eyes wide, slobbering on every inch, head bobbing, lost in her own world and loving every sound that you make. Not shy in her movements one bit, those lips move down to the base, just dying to please as the entirety of your cock stays shoved into her throat.

Spit drips off her chin in this greedy attempt to swallow every bit of you, gorgeous doe eyes staring up as she hungrily chokes you down. There’s a pause every now and again to drag her tongue along the tip, flicking so rapidly while your cock throbs desperately in her grip.

Your head falls back in pleasure, Yujin taking the opportunity to angle your face and shove her tongue in your mouth.

"Can't believe she used to be bad at this," she notes before your mouth is claimed in yet another sloppy kiss. "Now she sucks dick like a fucking porn star."

Wonyoung steals another glance as she pulls her lips away slowly, diving right back for several more strokes that confirm every word from Yujin’s lips. Her enthusiasm can't be matched, her fingers a little too eager, so much saliva dripping off her lips.

"I'm still better at taking it in the ass though," Yujin giggles as she nibbles along your neck and pecks along your cheek.

With each stroke and lick of Wonyoung's warm, slobbering mouth, you find yourself giving in to those obscene moans, unable to contain yourself, a relentless pace to push you closer to your limit. "That bratty fucking mouth really can't get enough, hm, princess?"

There’s no response, not that you need one when those full, luscious lips are heaven—wet and tight, so willing to please, choking down every inch so easily. And that tongue knows how to drive you wild, playing against the underside of your cock, flicking around to hit every last bit of sensitivity.

No one can deny the results either, leaving a mess of saliva behind, your cock glistening—a blowjob a porn star would be jealous of is about as good as it gets.

"Pretty thing is making such a mess," Yujin adds. "Got her sloppy fucking mouth drooling all over. Look at her, so hungry, choking on it, sucking down daddy's fat cock like she needs it to breathe."

“Brat makes me feel so good with this sloppy fucking mouth,” you groan, and can hardly speak the words out loud as they try to form, Wonyoung not giving the slightest sign of stopping as she delivers those unforgiving slurps.

"Won't it feel even better if you fuck her pretty face, daddy?" Yujin's voice is dripping with this wickedness, the lust getting the better of her when she keeps her lips right at your ear, hot breath right up against. "Make her really choke on it, get that throat wrecked, see how far you can really cram it down there, yeah?"

Wonyoung pops you from her mouth with a wet gasp, ready to catch her breath for just a second as she goes back in without a word.

“That what you want, princess? For me to use that bratty little mouth and make you a real fucking mess?” It's a rhetorical question, given how eagerly Wonyoung nods. The answer is already known, without a single word of refusal on her end.

Anything else is unacceptable.

"Fucking whore likes that idea," Yujin adds while she hops onto the counter and spreads her legs. "Give her what she wants, daddy—shove your thick fucking cock down her throat. Ruin her, she’s begging for it. Aren’t you?”

Wonyoung doesn't have a moment to reply. You give no warning whatsoever, too gone on shoving yourself back in that warm mouth, grabbing that silky black hair with both hands, fingers threaded tightly, holding her still as your hips take over.

You thrust.

Wonyoung chokes and sputters, spitting all over the base of your cock while Yujin laughs and kicks her feet in excitement, watching intently as the brat struggles.

"She can handle it, don't let up. Make her fucking gag. Wanna see that makeup all messy, fuck her throat like you do her cunt.”

That’s really all the instruction you need. Pumping your hips gets you so deep from the start, and Wonyoung doesn't have much choice but to accept every inch, that tight little throat being tested on how good it can take you. Turns out, like a fucking champ—not that anyone in the room expected anything less.

So you don’t let up. Because why would you when Wonyoung can take whatever you give and more, inhaling every last inch stuffed down her throat, gagging so beautifully while her gaze never falters.

And that look—her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and teary, and she's swallowing your entire length, surrendering to your every desire, your hips driven by lust.

Yujin couldn't be happier to see her this way, the girl who prides herself on being perfect, now looking so debauched, cheeks stained with tears, several strings of spit dripping off her chin, mascara running so beautifully.

“Jesus, fuck,” you groan, and it’s you who needs a break from these forceful thrusts, not Wonyoung, letting the image burn into your mind—this perfect canvas being ruined. “Your throat feels so goddamn good, princess.”

“Of course it does, idiot,” Wonyoung manages to say through all the tears, wanting you back down her throat before you can even blink again. But you’re quick to guide her back, grabbing her head and repeating this all, hips snapping forward, your cock shoving as deep as it’ll go into her mouth.

She’s completely at your mercy and wouldn’t have it any other way. “Arms behind your back, princess. Let daddy do the work, let him fuck that throat the way I know you love," Yujin demands as your cock makes its way back between those swollen, soft lips, hitting the back of her throat over and over.

Tear-struck, mascara-run face and all, Wonyoung reaches back obediently and hugs her arms behind her, looking up, waiting to do nothing but take this.

“Pretty fucking toy,” you say, you can vocalize while you're fucking her throat like her watery eyes desperately beg for, every thrust picking up a little bit more speed, as her face becomes a perfect combination of saliva, tears and ruined mascara that looks so gorgeous staining that porcelain complexion.

"Looks so fucking good, seeing this brat used like this," Yujin chimes in, eyes never looking away from Wonyoung, on her knees, taking every rough, wet slap of your hips that slam against her hungry lips.

Your words fade into grunts and groans, as your hips thrust on repeat into her face, not slowing down for anything—

And Wonyoung has no qualms about her position, able to take the brunt of these unapologetic slams right down her throat while you palm her head and she gags so shamelessly, balls smacking her chin with each slap, tears falling free.

“Such a good girl,” Yujin says, with this little smirk, wide and proud, Wonyoung with her mouth stuffed so full to argue otherwise. "Your pretty little toy. Keep going, fuck that face, daddy. She must be so fucking wet from all this."

She’s not the only one, either.

There’s a familiar, slick noise that almost breaks your focus, and you know exactly what it is��Yujin, who's not shy about sitting on that counter and shoving her hand beneath her dress. She groans, quite loudly, pushing aside the lace of her thong so her fingers can pump in and out of her greedy pussy, eyes not leaving the debauchery happening below her.

And as bad as you want to take a peek at just how wet Yujin has gotten for the show, you keep your eyes on Wonyoung—forcing her head down the base of your shaft, nose shoved against your stomach, hair tussled with no plans to release the tight grip that's driving you insane. She can't do much but stare up when her lips stay perfectly sealed, up against your balls.

Muffled gargles escape from her mouth stuffed so full as you continue this relentless motion and spit drooling out like a faucet while you keep her firmly locked into place.

“God, princess—these lips, this tight fucking throat, feels too fucking good," you groan, throbbing deep in her mouth.

Wonyoung struggles to catch her breath as you pull away, saliva staining that little black dress of hers, more strings still attached to her mouth and chin. "Hey—wasn't finished with that cock yet," she protests, reluctant to leave her pillowy lips from your length.

“But daddy must be ready to burst, can tell from those fucking groans," Yujin says, her own breath a little labored from touching herself. "So you get that cum right in your stomach and we can worry about your next load of jizz later."

For Wonyoung, the disappointment fades in an instant at the prospect of getting her stomach pumped full. She licks her lips and wipes the drool from her face before kissing a trail down your shaft, lips lowering, until they latch right onto your sensitive sack, wet tongue running over every bit.

"This should help empty these heavy fucking balls," Wonyoung murmurs between those loud suckling sounds, humming so contently. Her lips suck and slurp with hunger, lost in the taste, looking up innocently with her smudged makeup and hair a complete mess, hot breath lingering on every bit.

"F-fuck, that fucking mouth, keep going—" You almost lose the ability to speak when her hand grips you firmly, mouth so ravenous on your balls. All of the warm, wet slobber that's been collecting on your shaft makes this so easy, her hand gliding up and down the length while you groan louder.

The strokes only get faster, these sinful slurps much louder, so lewd, so filthy, while your fist takes over, balls ready to be emptied while the pressure builds with every passing second.

“Daddy’s gonna blow his fucking load,” Yujin says with so much excitement, watching this all unfold. But all you can focus on is Wonyoung, the heat of her mouth, swallowing each of your balls in sequence while your cock aches with these furious strokes.

"Don't fucking stop, I'm so damn close," you moan out, feeling it all building to a point of no return. So close—right there, her mouth playing on each side of your heavy balls, knowing exactly what will send you over the edge.

"Open that bratty mouth," Yujin commands from the side, rubbing her clit all the while. Wonyoung responds exactly as ordered, leaning back, her tongue hanging out and ready for you to dump your load into her greedy mouth. And that's exactly where you aim, cock right between those pouty lips, resting the head along her warm, waiting tongue as the last couple few strokes finish the job.

You unload right in her open mouth, and she moans at the first shot that lands on her outstretched tongue, the next thick spurts reaching into the back of her throat. A series of groans follows, as you pump out all you have to give into her mouth, some hitting her lips, the rest pooling onto her tongue.

It’s euphoric, the intense spurts that leave your cock, and Wonyoung keeps her tongue out obediently, every hot, creamy spurt landing where it belongs, waiting until you've fired the very last of it.

"Swallow it all, princess," Yujin orders, as if she ever needs to encourage anything of the sort. But that's exactly what Wonyoung does, making this sweet little moan when her head tilts back, and you watch your cum go straight down her throat, tongue swiping across to clean any trace. "That’s our good fucking girl."

Wonyoung glares daggers right at Yujin for those words, knowing exactly how she feels about them. "Sh-shut up, I'm not—"

"Good? Yeah, we know. Princess gets her face destroyed in a bathroom and daddy's fucking cum right down her throat. Little slut is anything but good."

And that's the praise that Wonyoung prefers, what she craves, tongue out to show you the emptiness, swallowed all down before she gets her lips right back on your cock to make sure she’s got the last of it, every bit. When you can’t take anymore of this insane suction, you push her head off your oversensitive shaft with a groan, trying to catch your breath, hoping there’s no going back for more.

"You're a fucking mess," is all you say and both Wonyoung and Yujin chuckle, so amused at that obvious observation.

"Because I was choking on your dumb fucking cock. Not my fault daddy likes to be so rough," she says so proudly, trying to pin her insatiable desires on you. Even through all the ruined mascara, smeared lipstick and smudged eyeliner, there's still this innocence that drips from her lips when they smile.

"Pretty sure that's exactly your fault, princess," Yujin says as she helps Wonyoung to her feet, grabbing a tissue to help clean up her face a bit. Not that there's much she can do to fix such a disheveled appearance in a short time.

"Ugh, whatever, let's get out of here. This place was nice enough and all, but I wanna get railed somewhere we're less likely to get interrupted," Wonyoung says, as she takes a quick glimpse in the mirror, admiring the work you've done. "Maybe somewhere with a little less fucking noise."

"And you called me the old one," you reply, earning the standard eye roll and huff from Wonyoung.

"Because you are old, dummy. This music is fucking horrendous, and my feet hurt," she complains, struggling to stand upright as she leans over the counter.

"God, you really are such a brat. Next, you're gonna want me to carry you out of here."

"Well—if you're offering, daddy."

"I'm not."

Yujin is all giggles again, leaning over to kiss your lips. It's a tender, soft kiss, a nice juxtaposition to everything that's gone on in this room.

"I choke on your cock, swallow every drop, and I can't even get carried outside? What's the fucking point then?" Wonyoung whines, a pout forming that does its best to change your mind.

"Could you be more spoiled?" Yujin asks, stealing your words as if Wonyoung is the only brat in the room.

"Whatever," Wonyoung growls, reaching for her purse and storming out of the bathroom with an exaggerated stomp of her feet. "Daddy better give me a foot massage when we get back then."

You take a moment to look at Yujin as she jumps down from the counter and does a quick glance in the mirror, fixing her hair. Pants zipped back up, you have a final look around to survey the damage done before following these two out the door. "Let's go, daddy. I think our princess might explode if she has to wait much longer."

With another sigh, you make your exit, no concern for anyone who sees the three of you coming out at the same time, heading back out the club as fast as possible.

"Fucking hate clubs," Wonyoung mutters the moment the cold breeze hits, adjusting the neckline on her dress as the taxi pulls up.

"Get in then, you fucking brat, before you freeze to death."

All you can do is laugh with Yujin as the door shuts and your bodies squish into the backseat.

✦ ✦

The three of you are more than a little tipsy by the time you finally get back, making it back to your penthouse apartment where the quiet is so very welcome. Once inside, the one very obvious thing you all notice when the three of you step in is how goddamn dark the entire place is.

The blinds are closed, lights all off, not a hint of moonlight coming in. You glance around in confusion as all three of you come to the same realization—Wonyoung flicking a nearby light switch and having no luck. And again—nothing.

"Power's out."

Yujin states the obvious, the more sober one at the moment. Wonyoung immediately sighs deeply, like it's the biggest inconvenience of her life as she rummages through her purse in search of her phone.

"Yeah, no shit. I see that."

Using her phone as a flashlight, Wonyoung walks further into the entrance and discards her high heels like trash at the doorway, as Yujin drops off her bag and tosses her coat off.

"I'll check the break—"

"Don't you touch a damn thing," Wonyoung interrupts, grabbing at your shirt and practically yanking you off balance. "Not until you give me my foot massage. My feet are fucking killing me."

Somehow, you've been roped into this, and you barely have time to take off your coat before she's pulling you onto this huge sectional sofa where you take a seat. In the meantime, Yujin is over by the fireplace, getting it set up, lighting up the whole living space in no time. Now Wonyoung takes a seat on the sofa and throws her legs on your lap in a blink, like she's some kind of royalty expecting service, pointing at her bare feet in desperate need of attention.

"You know, you don't always have to wear heels all the time," you say as Yujin laughs from afar, setting up the last touches on the fireplace as she sits on the opposite side of Wonyoung. And that look you get in return—sends a bigger chill than the lack of heat in the apartment.

"Daddy, why would I not wear them? These long, sexy legs without heels? A fucking waste,’” Wonyoung says, knowing she'll get what she wants regardless, wiggling her toes so you get the message loud and clear.

She lifts the heel of one foot, raising it higher so there’s no ignoring it. You sigh as you get your hands on her, giving in and pressing your thumbs deep into her sole, massaging slow circles into the soft, sore skin. Just when you begin, her head drops back, letting out a satisfied, exhausted little moan like she's just run a marathon in those stilettos.

"Comfortable, princess?" Yujin asks sarcastically from the other end, legs crossed as she watches in amusement.

"Very," she answers. "That's amazing, god. Daddy always takes care of his princess, doesn't he?"

Utterly ridiculous. For better or worse, that answer is always yes, because you’re weak—and that’s putting it lightly, how she has a way of convincing you to do anything she asks. Whatever it is. The princess always gets what she wants.

"This isn't a spa, you know. You're not getting a full treatment," you warn, but it does little to discourage as Wonyoung just smiles, closing her eyes while your thumbs dig in, kneading every tired inch of her arches.

"Shh, let me relax. Less talking, more rubbing my feet. That's all you need to be doing," Wonyoung says as you pick up the pressure, this spoiled brat looking so happy getting her feet pampered.

As ridiculous as it is, there's something comforting in taking care of Wonyoung. You love watching how her eyes flutter shut as she lets out this satisfied groan, savoring every touch. Her delicate feet are so soft, and so well kept, her nails painted with a fresh coat of polish, a deep red matching the color on her lips. Honestly, there are worse things you could be doing.

"Don't act like you don't love spoiling me. So does Yujinnie. Both of you just love to take care of me like this."

"Speak for yourself, brat," Yujin fires back, but can't even do so without a smile on her face that tells otherwise.

All you can do is give her a weak glare in response and go back to giving her that touch she craves. You spend extra attention on the bottom of her foot before switching sides, firmly massaging every part of her heel, her high arches, then digging your thumbs into the ball to work out all the tension.

At this point, the room has more than warmed up, a roaring fire that feels so nice and cozy as the crackle fills the room. Your focus stays on Wonyoung—who looks oh so good in this light, stretched out on the sofa, legs in your lap and melting at your touch.

"Princess shuts up so quickly when she's pampered and relaxed,” you say, trailing the pads of your thumb along the curve of each foot, taking in how soft, pale, and perfectly pedicured her feet are.

“Why do you think she acts like such a brat? Because we both give in and spoil her," Yujin muses, with this smirk that you can barely catch while you continue with this massage. "Especially you."

You'd be a little hurt if it wasn't so goddamn true. Even right now, as the three of you sit on the huge sofa, Wonyoung has you under her complete control. She has the real upper hand in this relationship, despite what it might look like from the outside. Yujin might not cater to her the same way, but the truth is she's as bad as you are—but you'll never pry that out of her.

But not even that can break the trance she's fallen under from this foot massage, these content sighs while her head remains against the pillow, almost drifting off. The noises alone are better to gauge her reaction, these cute little hums while you dig into a particularly sore spot, making your way to those long toes, tugging them gently, twisting back and forth.

"Does daddy like my painted toes? I did them just for you," Wonyoung murmurs out of the blue, just now glancing up, eyes narrowed and relaxed. You don't say a word and admire the color, how the dark polish contrasts with her milky skin. Those toes curl from the stimulation, a clear sign you're hitting all the right spots. "Answer me, daddy. Don’t you love them? Love kissing my feet and worshiping them?"

"Brat," you mutter under your breath, knowing she'll never drop it. "Do you want me to stop rubbing your feet? Because it sounds like it."

She ignores your threat completely, pressing a foot directly in front of your face with her toes spreading, wiggling around to give you this taunting challenge. "You could never stop, I know. Too addicted to my pretty feet. Now kiss them. They need it, after all the walking around tonight. Kisses. Lots of them."

God, she's really pushing it. Yujin is stifling a laugh at your expense from all this and doesn't even do a single thing to assist, about ready to burst with laughter while Wonyoung's commanding instructions. But you can't deny any of it, in no position to go back on all the devotion you've shown.

"Well, I'm gonna go check on the power," Yujin finally says, escaping while she can, taking her cue to leave the two of you alone.

And so here you remain alone with this stubborn little brat, getting her wish when you plant a few, chaste kisses on her freshly pedicured feet. And her expression changes immediately, a clear satisfaction written across her face. She makes it so hard to resist the temptation to pamper, guiding her other foot to your mouth to press your lips against that delicate arch, planting kisses on the sole of her foot.

"Much better," she comments, stretching her legs out and using you as her personal footstool. "My cute little masseur, kissing my pretty feet."

You know she's loving it, not even able to hide any moans for a second, content that she doesn't even have to dictate your actions anymore, just lying back and letting you worship her like a goddess. Her toes wiggle and spread apart as you kiss each one, taking a moment to give each equal attention,

"Keep going, daddy, they still feel so sore. Need more kisses to make them all better."

99% sure that isn't the case. In fact, she doesn't look in need of anything else but attention, with her hair falling perfectly, messy strands framing her doll-like face. Wonyoung gives you a smug little smile while her feet angle upward, perfectly positioned for you to plant wet, slow pecks right on her soles, and you're not about to admit she has you so wrapped around her finger, despite evidence to the contrary.

This would be ridiculous to anyone looking in, but the reality is you can hardly tell who is more spoiled here. And so here you sit with Wonyoung's long legs dangling, sitting lazily in your lap. Your lips on her soles, moving up her feet, languid and careful, kisses pressed on each inch.

"Perfect," Wonyoung exhales, those soft sighs gradually picking up as you pay close attention to her delicate arches, still massaging all the while with your hands. You can't exactly resist those gorgeous feet, and the kisses never cease, showing no indication of pulling away from your wandering mouth.

That is, until you hear the hum of electricity around you, the whole living space of this apartment coming back to life. Although there's no Yujin in sight when it happens, and no lights in the living room—which you're pretty sure are both related.

No complaints here, as you don't mind keeping Wonyoung in the dark and lit up by just the fireplace, turning this into something much more romantic.

With a final few presses of your lips, Wonyoung wonders why you're slowing down on the attention to her feet, already shifting to reposition herself upright in a bit of a pout. You don't say anything, just guiding her foot back to your lips with your focus elsewhere, on a massive rug sitting in front of the fireplace that somehow, has never been put to good use.

"Up," you command, and Wonyoung follows your line of sight, curious but not protesting with the attention you've already lavished on her. She stands to her bare feet with a tiny wobble from the lingering alcohol.

"Dress, off."

"Not even a please?"

You sigh. "Dress off, pretty please," you try again, earning a rather calm tilt of her head. Wonyoung complies in seconds and works on the zipper, lowering the straps down her shoulders. And in no time flat the whole thing is draped at her feet, standing there in just her bra and panties, this pretty set that's pink and silky with cute little bows. "The rest too, now."

Every word that slips off your tongue you expect her to resist in some way, but she doesn't even flinch, unhooking her bra next. Her breasts fall free, the perfect size for her slender frame—just right, perky and delicious, nipples pink and utterly appetizing.

Then her thumbs loop into the hem of her underwear, and that comes off, all at once. With a lift of her long, slender legs she's tossing them off, standing naked and practically glowing in the light of the fireplace.

"Is there a reason I'm naked and daddy isn't?"

Your eyes soak her in, and the question hardly registers. Wonyoung, to her credit, has not one shy bone in her body. Her expensive little outfit that sits in a pile on the hardwood floor, nothing left covering that porcelain skin, standing so proud, so bare, so confident.

Fuck, what a sight—luscious legs that go on for miles, tight stomach that's as toned as can be, curves to die for, a little more meat on her thighs and ass than usual, her wide hips perfectly accentuated. You never tire of staring. Not one single fucking inch goes unnoticed, especially where you draw attention to most, her clean-shaven, tight little pussy that makes your mouth water.

"I'll get to it. Just get on that rug first," you insist, sending her eyes on an inspection of this fancy rug that's been neglected. White and round and enormous, her toes sink in when she steps onto its surface, soft to the touch. It's so cozy on her bare feet, and the fire keeps her naked skin warm.

"On my knees?" she asks with a glance back, a step further in the middle of this fluffy rug.

"No, not this time. On your back. Get nice and comfortable, princess."

That's all you say as she lowers herself to the rug, getting on her back and laying against the plush material, sinking into this comfortable surface that feels amazing against her naked body. Her thighs spread wide almost on instinct, so invitingly open for you, arms resting on her elbows.

You take the time to follow in suit, slowly undressing as you watch her get herself set. Her eyes narrow as she waits patiently, watching closely the more bare skin reveals with every bit of clothing tossed aside, a pile of clothes not unlike hers. Until you're fully naked yourself, staring once more at the outline of her naked body illuminated in the light that the fireplace gives. So goddamn beautiful. How could someone not spoil her when she's such a work of art?

Yujin was right—you do spoil her too much, but who gives a shit? Not you, not ever.

Your feet touch the edge of the soft, white fabric as your body lingers between her spread thighs. Now you're the one getting on your knees before settling on your stomach, right between her long, beautiful legs as you kiss along the soft flesh, gradually working higher, up the inside of her creamy thighs.

"So pretty, princess," you mutter under your breath, soft kisses at her smooth thighs that make her quiver a bit. "So, so pretty. Love your body, these long fucking legs... and this pretty little cunt. Love everything about you."

You don't know whether it's the alcohol, or how good Wonyoung looks naked, covered in darkness with only the fireplace for illumination, but you just want to lavish her in praise as you mark up her thighs. Each one is met with a kiss, a slow press of your lips to that creamy skin, while you get so close to where you need to be.

"Mm, daddy. All this is yours, you know," she says, breathing a little heavy. And you kiss up her beautiful skin as your mouth inches even nearer, hearing a faint gasp, knowing what's about to happen. You can't help but oblige, can't seem to control yourself when she's so slick and wet already.

Wonyoung is beyond stunning, flat on her back on that rug that cost a small fortune, every inch of her skin exposed to your hungry gaze. The view itself is enough for you to savor, watching her chest rise and fall, her long legs parted like an invitation. That's all the teasing you can handle.

So without a word, you lower yourself between her spread thighs, hearing the anticipation in her shaky breaths, her head leaning back when she senses how close you are, closing her eyes.

And she cries out so desperately once you make contact with your tongue flat, dragging slowly between the delicate, wet folds of her delicious little cunt. Addictive is the only way to describe this sweet, familiar taste as you shove your tongue deep inside her, so dripping and delicious, glistening from the arousal that you gather from each lick.

"Oh god—"

Wonyoung can't hold a moan for even a moment. She tastes so fucking good, all this nectar dripping from the source as your mouth laps it all up, these noises that escape her mouth with each flick of your tongue, just begging to be devoured.

You don't even hesitate to give her everything she needs, latching your lips onto that sensitive clit and suckling with all your strength, mouth working hungrily as her fingers tangle into your hair.

"D-daddy—don't stop," Wonyoung moans, gasping, both her hands around the back of your skull, pressing you into that velvety flesh to keep your face buried. It isn't that hard to follow directions and stay where she wants, and you fucking love the way she pulls at your scalp, trying to grind into your mouth.

You feed that addiction, and with every frantic flick of your tongue into the slippery, hot depths of her pussy, you keep this feast going. These slurps and whimpers fight for supremacy, leaving her so overwhelmed. Fuck—her scent, that taste, and these desperate whimpers drive you insane, the perfect combination. The moans continue while you eat her out like you're starved, absolutely consumed with pleasuring her.

There’s nothing better than this.

"Sh-shit, just like that, you're so f-fucking good, daddy," Wonyoung breathes out, melting on the rug as the grip in your hair only gets tighter, relentless. Her thighs hold you in place, firmly clamping onto the sides of your head to ensure you're not going anywhere anytime soon. Not that you would ever—not when this taste is on your tongue, so intoxicating, her juices an endless stream in your mouth.

"You taste so goddamn good—so wet, fuck," you murmur into her wet cunt, lips all coated as your tongue parts her soaked folds with rapid swipes, taking another series of harsh slurps, lapping it all up. "Can't get enough of you, princess."

This is where you make the most of spoiling Wonyoung, not that she hasn't been getting enough of that tonight. But eating her out like this—diving in, slurping away, there's just nothing like hearing the way she falls apart, squirming beneath your hungry mouth.

"Please, m-more," she whines, eyes screwed shut while your tongue shows no mercy on her drooling little cunt. You shoot a glance up every now and then from between her legs to drink in her reactions, nothing more beautiful than the bliss etched on her face, mouth hanging open, thighs squeezing so tight around your head.

“Fuck, princess—” Barely able to breathe anything but her scent—it's exactly where you need to be, head between her legs, her taste lingering, devouring this pretty girl like nothing else matters.

"D-don't fucking stop," Wonyoung gasps, which isn't ever a plan when she tastes this good, her grip on your hair borderline painful as she tries to ride your face, struggling to form words. "Don't stop, god—please, daddy, please don't—"

That's the best encouragement you can get. Your lips get so greedy, so messy in the process, dragging from the sensitive bud of her clit all the way back down, sinking deep into her deliciously wet pussy with no restraint, lapping up and swallowing every drop.

"Oh g-god, daddy!"

She cries out so loudly you can feel it echoing through the large apartment, arching her back while she writhes against the surface of the rug, rocking her hips into your tongue. All it takes is a couple more ravenous licks until those thighs tense, refusing to let go, toes curling right at the moment of release.

That's when Wonyoung moans the loudest, hands clutching at your head to hold you right there while she makes a mess all over your mouth, hips bucking, body trembling with a sudden surge as you work through every violent spasm. God, she looks gorgeous while you help her through this bliss, with lips sealed around her clit, suckling just the right way. She holds you in place, grinding on your tongue, riding it out while your tongue gathers it all up, all this arousal that won't go to waste.

"Shit, I'm—fuck, oh god," she continues to moan, breaths so erratic, and you don't stop lapping at this mess until she can't take any more stimulation. You look up, still slurping away on her clit, her entire body still twitching while her grip in your hair loosens, and only then do you ease up—giving as many more licks as possible, getting your fill until she forces your head away.

"F-fuck, daddy's so good, made me cum so hard," she says after a breath, shaking through the last of this pleasure. And you're not done with her, cleaning up her soaked thighs, licks and kisses along every bit of flushed skin when your mouth finally stops devouring her dripping little cunt. "Felt so fucking good, love making a mess on your face like this..."

The feeling is more than mutual, and that's exactly what you've done, left her breathless, in a heap of exhaustion, her juices sliding down your chin, smeared everywhere. "Nothing better than having your tasty little cunt all over my lips."

"D-daddy's too addicted, god," she gasps again, just as your tongue swipes back against her overstimulated clit, causing her entire body to jolt. "So s-sensitive, fuck, so—"

Another flick and she's a trembling mess again, and you have to fight the urge to bury your tongue right back in. You could do this for hours if given the chance. But the throbbing ache in your cock distracts—getting impatient while you rise, using every ounce of willpower to keep your mouth away.

"Looks like daddy needs to be taken care of too," Wonyoung says, observing how hard your cock has grown as you lift your body upright, knees right on this luxurious rug. "Come here, let's fix that—get your cock nice and wet."

That's the kind of offer you just can't pass up. Not when you have this girl's messy, delicious cunt eager for you to slide into. You get right into position, stroking your cock from base to tip while you stare right at her perfect little pussy, all parted and exposed, ready to be filled up.

Neither of you can fight the shared desperation as you run your swollen cockhead along the wet flesh of her pussy, not pushing into her tightness quite yet, just taking it slow, tracing it along those slick lips. Wonyoung lets out a whimper that’s anything but subtle from this tease, and you don't know how much longer you can take, either. Because you know once you do push in—that familiar warmth around your cock, those tight, wet walls sucking you in, you'll never be able to leave without pumping a load deep.

"Fucking fill me up, I want it," Wonyoung pleads, taking the decision off your hands. And god, that's all you need to hear as you shove yourself right inside that tight little cunt, parting her drenched folds to bury every inch at once, bottoming out with ease. "Oh g-god yes, make me cum again, fuck."

Wonyoung is every bit as tight, just as perfect and wet as the first time, and you can't even handle pulling back out, needing a moment just to savor this sensation before moving a single inch. "Feels so good, your tight little cunt—"

You cut yourself off with a groan, pulling out so agonizingly slow, but almost on instinct you give a deep, rough thrust, burying deep into this heat that's so incredibly addictive. One, and then a few more, both of you taking the time to enjoy the way your cock stretches her open, the wetness, how easy you glide through, the perfect warmth of her cunt begging for more.

"This feels too good, princess," you breathe out, almost not sure you can take the way she tightens around you, how all the wetness drenches your cock. And really, you're the one being spoiled now, pulling out and slamming back in with these full thrusts, savoring every inch of this girl you're addicted to—

It’s unfathomable how good her pussy feels, those moans, her slick walls clinging to your length. "Wet little cunt squeezing me like that. Can't just wait to milk the fucking life out of my cock, can you?"

A moan answers before she gets a chance to, and you really pick up the momentum, hips a little rougher, a little faster, your body unable to resist the temptation, letting lust overtake everything else. There's no holding back when you're buried so deep into her pussy, tossing a leg over your shoulder while you grip her thigh for leverage, getting that much deeper.

"Never can wait for daddy to finish inside my tight pussy," Wonyoung groans, such a perfect mess lying flat on her back, her breasts hypnotically bouncing every time your bodies collide. All this heat you're buried in, the wet sensations of her cunt taking you so eagerly, it makes it impossible to show any sort of restraint. "I love it when you're inside me, so big and stretching me out—more, daddy, need your cum. Don't stop."

With a leg perched high on your shoulder, that's an easy request to fulfill, the tightness you plunge through demanding nothing else. Just fucking your cock into her, staring at her flawless face that contorts in pleasure, her pink pussy lips swallowing you whole. An addiction to your own demise and you know it. "God—so tight. Your perfect cunt always drives me fucking wild,"

"I know it does, daddy. You can't help yourself, can't help shoving this fat cock deep, filling me up with every inch of you, breeding me over and over. Fill me, fuck—"

Your eyes drift to hers, a stare that's so overwhelming, and she knows she has you right where she wants you—your hips might be the one pumping into this soaked warmth, but Wonyoung is clearly the one taking you apart with her little moans.

So fucking pretty, when she takes you like this, so easy to bury your shaft in her cunt, lost in all that velvety tightness. The moans pick up as you slam into her, driving yourself back in again and again as each thrust pulls more cries from her parted lips, little gasps and whimpers pouring out, chants for you to not stop.

"Need daddy so deep in me, need that cock right up my guts," she says in such a demanding tone, eyes needy and wide, and there’s no possible denial when your cock is drowning in her juices. "You love pounding my pussy—being balls deep in me, isn't that what you need? What daddy needs to pump me full of that hot cum?"

And there isn't anything you can say to deny that claim.

The last bit of self control you possess is drained from hearing that—all it takes is a quick adjustment, lifting her other leg into a similar position, until they're both hoisted in the air, feet dangling, granting you unmatched depth. This angle works wonders on the both of you, giving you unfettered access to her cunt, spreading your legs to really slam deeper than before.

Your thrusts start slow, taking a moment to gather yourself, knees firmly planted on this soft rug, Wonyoung’s perfect legs balancing in the air. Then you take these rapid snaps of your hips, groaning with every inch you piston in her dripping little hole, taking in the sight of her completely bare body.

"Oh my god, that's—love you stuffing me so deep, faster, daddy!" Wonyoung gets out with more desperate, incoherent cries of approval that guide your hips as she gets all folded up and takes you, every thrust jolting her petite body.

You don’t hesitate and do just that, sliding almost all the way out before slamming back in. The force pushes Wonyoung further into the rug, legs almost to her chest, with each slam of your cock causing this lewd, slick noise when you fuck your cock into these slippery depths.

"Please don't stop," she practically sobs as the next series of deep thrusts go on and on, rough and urgent, nothing gentle about the way your cock plunges straight in. “S-so deep—fuck, feels too good. Don't ever stop fucking me, wreck my pussy, please, unload everything into my womb.”

Your response is only to drill her harder, impossibly deep, that wet heat just pulling you in and not letting go. Her greedy pussy beckons you to bury yourself to the hilt with each slap of flesh, while your heavy balls bounce against her bare ass.

"My god, princess, your fucking cunt—“ It's damn near impossible to slow your pace now, not with how your cock impales Wonyoung’s tight pussy as she just takes every vicious stroke, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

All you can manage is another groan before trailing off, hips pistoning so frantically, and before you know it—she's already cumming on your cock, feet shaking in the air as the second orgasm rocks her body. And it's followed by another, the sensations too intense to bear, so overwhelmed by your relentless thrusts, toes curling while you keep drilling into her clenching little hole.

By this point, your bodies are covered in sweat, and not because of the warmth of the fireplace.

Your hips spiral out of control, and you try so fucking hard not to let this end yet, but there's no holding out. Not when you look down and take in this view, seeing Wonyoung taking your cock like her pussy was made for you, tears rolling down her cheeks from how she can't stop gushing all over you, one orgasm melting into the next.

Those long legs of hers are shaking so hard as you pound her cunt without restraint, the poor rug soaked from the mess she’s making—and you know it's going to be even worse once your release joins hers.

"D-daddy—"

You can hardly make out her voice all broken as she tries to form words to no avail, sounding more and more fucked out by the second.

"F-fuck, gonna cum," you bite out between deep, unstoppable groans, eyes glued to her beautiful face as you ram deep into such overwhelming wetness. God, it's never felt this good, this tight, making you lose it as you drive all the way back inside with an even harsher clench surrounding your cock, a promise not to let your cock go anywhere, no chance at escaping until your balls empty.

"Fill me up, fucking make me a mess—want it deep in my cunt, don't stop until you’ve bred me." Her words trigger this primal urge in you to give in, the lewd squelches between the two of you increasing, no stopping the inevitable.

You can’t take anymore—one last set of thrusts, a final plunge, and you bury yourself as deep as you'll go. The tight grip of her greedy cunt is what makes you unload, a hefty load emptying out from your balls. Matching the intensity in her eyes, you pump massive, hot spurts inside Wonyoung that join her arousal in a thick mess that oozes around your length, nothing left in you but to fuck it deeper inside.

Every shot empties right where she wants it, all your seed delivered in such a deluge as her clenching walls milk it all out of you, craving it, desperate for it. So much of it floods her to the brim that her cunt swallows up. Once you finally empty that last spurt and relax into your thrusts, you can't even begin to think about doing anything but staying buried deep inside.

"Shit, all of that is—"

“Inside me. Mm, daddy pumped me so fucking full of his cum," she finishes, panting heavily, so worn out and yet the smile on her face tells you she's nowhere near satisfied. When you lower her legs down gently, they immediately wrap around your waist, holding you hostage inside that heat, keeping your creamy load safe in her cunt.

"And it's all yours," you say, but that's all you have the energy for as you collapse forward, burying your face into her neck. Wonyoung isn't going to let you go anytime soon—those legs are not letting go even after you're totally spent, cock still throbbing inside the grip of her cunt.

That's more than fine with you, too exhausted, too breathless. There's no complaints here. Wonyoung kisses whatever sweaty skin she can find, soft and gentle pecks as she basks in your mess, dripping everywhere and getting this rug more than a little ruined. Something you won't be sorry about tomorrow.

The fireplace is burning still, but it's nothing compared to the heat still emanating between the two of you. Her hands cradle your head and rake through the mess of hair as you remain a tangle of limbs and fluids.

"Did that feel good, daddy? Feels so hot and sticky—my pussy full of you..." she mumbles into your ear, kissing up your cheek while you stay sheathed within her warmth, not daring to slip out.

You don't have the energy to say anything coherent, not that she ever needs an actual answer.

✦ ✦

And now you’ve both made your way back on the couch after resting up a bit and a much needed shower, lights on but dimmed, fireplace flickering in front of you. Yujin is here as well, back in her pajamas and a makeup-free face, indulging in the view of the clear, starlit night sky that looks so gorgeous through the apartment’s massive double-pane windows. Wonyoung is nestled in your lap, only in her bathrobe, holding a cup of fruit that she snacks on while a bottle of wine gets passed around.

"So, daddy," Yujin starts, sitting so close that her hand rests on your thigh, fingers squeezing as she steals kisses and giggles. "Did we have fun tonight?"

You grab the bottle from Wonyoung and chug some before turning your attention to Yujin, needing a moment to stare at that pretty face before answering. "More fun once we got home."

"Better once we left that dumb club and daddy folded me in half and made me cum like, six fucking times."

"Only six? Daddy should have tried a little harder," Yujin teases, taking a long sip from the bottle, looking so good when she does.

"As if it takes much effort for her."

Wonyoung groans, grabbing the bottle back and finishing what's left. “Not my fault it takes nothing to have me creaming all over his fucking cock."

Yujin chokes out a laugh at how Wonyoung is turning this around and accusing you. “Who's the one begging for this dick nonstop? And who's the one who always makes us late for class because your legs can't stay shut for five minutes?"

"Whatever," Wonyoung pouts, only proving you're right. "Can't help if I wanna be dripping your cum down my thighs for these dumb lectures. It's the only way to not be bored out of my fucking mind."

As per usual, Yujin can't stop laughing at this whole exchange, content to just sit and watch. "Just admit you're both insatiable and leave it at that."

Wonyoung just glares like she's being falsely accused, kissing you before she can form her argument. She doesn't even have to when she can just crash her lips against yours, stealing every moment to slip her tongue in and taste the lingering sweetness of wine on your breath. "Says the slut who can't leave the bed in the morning without swallowing daddy's thick load."

There's no counter to that but a grin on Yujin, not the slightest bit ashamed for all the times you wake up to her skilled mouth between your legs before you're fully awake. "Caught me. Guess all three of us are hopeless."

"Two cumsluts and daddy who can't stop emptying his load in us every chance he gets. Guess we're just stuck with each other," Wonyoung says thoughtfully as she starts peppering soft kisses along your jaw, and Yujin runs her fingers through your hair, as if there's ever been any question.

"Couldn't ask for anything better."

✦ ✦

The morning hits like a truck. Even the littlest bit of sun peeking through the curtains is too fucking bright, with every movement you make forcing another groan out as you grab the sheets to avoid getting up. But when you roll over, you realize Wonyoung isn't here, nor is Yujin, the bed far too empty and cold for your liking.

So there’s really no choice but to find strength somewhere and peel yourself out of the sheets.

Every step down the stairs gets heavier, no less drowsy as your feet finally land in the kitchen and spot Wonyoung who isn't faring any better, Yujin still nowhere to be seen. She barely grumbles out a little acknowledgment when you approach, slumped over the kitchen island, resting her head in her hands. The coffee pot is already halfway gone, away from its original spot, and thankfully, a bottle of aspirin sits alongside an empty mug.

You reach for the pills, popping a couple and chugging a glass of water while Wonyoung just stares at her steaming coffee cup, blank and mindless, struggling to function. Taking a seat next to her, you lean in for a quick kiss to her cheek, brushing dark hair out of her face. A glance over finds her looking worse for wear—wearing the same clothes she went to bed in, a little white tank top and black boyshorts with a pair of Yujin's fuzzy purple socks you gave her on her last birthday.

"H-hey," you murmur, and pour a cup of coffee with what's still left. A grumpy nod is the only reply you’re getting as you stare into that cup like a trance.

"Never drinking that fucking much again," Wonyoung groans under her breath. And you can't help but chuckle, because that's the most absurd thing you've heard since the two of you met. Yet, you're surprised to even see her in this state, given Wonyoung and hangovers typically don't co-exist.

"Heard that before," you say, barely having the energy to sit upright as you rub your temple.

"I mean it this time. Feels like a train ran over me," she sighs, still staring ahead without even taking a sip. "That club was a fucking stupid idea."

She sounds so out of it, that it's almost adorable. So very not Wonyoung. Hair all over the place, makeup all but gone, eyes puffy and dark. It's certainly strange seeing her like this, lacking her usual spark.

"Where's Yujin?"

Wonyoung looks up briefly to answer, but even that is a little laborious. "Getting us breakfast from that café around the corner and whatever else will get me out of feeling like death. Because apparently she's perfect and doesn't get hangovers anymore."

That makes sense, but also comes as a bit of a surprise. Wonyoung, so perfectly put together and reserved at times, with Yujin more on the outgoing, spontaneous side. Rare are the moments where roles are reversed like this.

And while you share Wonyoung's pain, there's some solace in knowing Yujin is doing far better.

"... you've just been sitting here until she gets back?"

There's as much annoyance mixed in as there is fatigue when she makes her best attempt to shoot a glare, not quite nailing the usual impact. "Daddy—it's either sit here with coffee or spend the next two hours fucking throwing up."

It’s almost comical how there’s a little brat left in her even in this state. All you do is nod in sympathy and caress her messy, tousled hair, stroking idly.

A few moments of comfortable silence pass, until the door interrupts. At once, her face changes. The mere sound of keys fiddling is enough to grab her attention, looking at the door, and that glare fades away.

Sure enough, Yujin emerges, dressed far better than either of you can pull off in jeans and a sweater that does wonders for that gorgeous frame, a hint of makeup and perfectly styled hair, looking so refreshed. For a moment, you're even a little envious, at how not one hint of a hangover shines through those eyes.

"My poor babies. Looks like you could use this," Yujin teases with a grin on her face, putting down brown paper bags on the kitchen island, clearly enjoying every bit of this a little too much. She pulls out a container and sets down a massive stack of pancakes, followed by two bottles of orange juice, a bowl of fruit, scrambled eggs, and everything under the sun to pick and choose from. "Yujinnie is going to take good care of you two."

When she finishes unpacking everything, already you feel back to life just by how good everything smells.

"About fucking time," Wonyoung replies rather bluntly, grabbing both a bottle of juice and aspirin, unsure which to be more grateful for at the moment. You, however, have never been happier, stabbing a piece of the pancake and shoving it in your mouth as quickly as possible, a heavy dose of sugar and carbs the cure to fix everything.

"Daddy's favorite. Eat up," Yujin adds, kissing your forehead before she leans next to Wonyoung to do the same. Despite the grumpiness, there's a faint hint of a smile that appears on her lips. Just the faintest. It's hard for that sparkle to not appear when there's whipped cream, fresh strawberry slices, and syrup layered on each delectable morsel that she shoves in her mouth.

"Th-thanks, Yujinnie—" Wonyoung barely manages, a rare expression of gratitude given her current state, voice muffled by the ravenous bites that she consumes in such quick succession.

Yujin sinks into the spot right next to you, and waits for your next bite so she can feed it to you, cutting a piece and then putting the fork back in your mouth. Again and again, while Wonyoung devours hers on the opposite end. You don't necessarily need her to baby you, but it's sweet nonetheless. And clearly, she enjoys feeding you like this, giggling before dipping more pancake into a puddle of syrup, a generous amount for the next bite.

Bite after bite, you feel less like you've been run over and more your old self. Yujin continues, almost on autopilot as she feeds you a continuous supply of pancakes and bacon that gets washed down with plenty of juice, a quick kiss or threading fingers through your hair in between. And Wonyoung, she’s recovering nicely as she uses her fork to shovel some banana slices into her mouth after dipping them into a healthy dollop of whipped cream.

"Feeling a little better?" And before you can answer, Yujin steals a bite the next time the fork stops, sporting a grin as it disappears past her lips.

"Getting there, thanks. Fuck, really needed this," you mutter back, not quite coherent yet, but words getting easier to forn the more food you get into your system.

"You should rest up," Yujin says, keeping her attention on you, and you’ve never been more thankful to be on the receiving end of her loving care. “Want me to go start a nice, hot shower for the two of you?"

On any other day, that offer might be too good to pass up, an extended, lazy shower together with Wonyoung. But today? You'll be lucky to manage anything other than collapsing face-first on the first comfortable surface you find.

Wonyoung seems to share the unspoken desire to do absolutely nothing for the time being, and can only shake her head, refusing in total. "Too much effort," she grumbles, brushing hair out of her face and adjusting the tight white tank top clinging to her skin.

Yujin just laughs. "You two are so cute when you're this helpless."

You don't even have the energy to respond.

And when the pancakes are all gone, your head still pounds, but less like a jackhammer and more of a dull ache you can almost tolerate. There's only one thing on your mind as soon as you stand and head for the couch, Wonyoung following shortly after. Meanwhile, Yujin disappears for a moment, returning with a pile of throw blankets, extra pillows, bottles of water and more aspirin she sets on the coffee table.

"Okay, yell if you need anything else," she says, and with a final kiss to each of your cheeks, she’s already disappearing on her way upstairs. "Love you both."

Barely able to answer, you mumble out an incoherent sound and find your way to a comfy spot on the couch, sinking into the cushions. Wonyoung joins, easily collapsed under this warm blanket with her body pressed against you without a word and her head resting on your chest. All snuggled up, it doesn't take long for your eyelids to start closing.

Sometime later, you start to stir, eyes opening just slightly as you realize a few hours must have passed. By the sight of the floor lamp dimmed, the lights in the living room and kitchen off, all signs point toward nighttime, sunlight no longer flowing through the large glass windows in the living room.

There's a weight holding you down that makes it impossible to move, and you know there’s only one culprit—it's Wonyoung, still knocked out, in no hurry to get up either. And that wouldn't be a problem. If not for all that coffee and juice from earlier.

"Princess—gotta get up for a bit," you mumble, nudging Wonyoung in hopes it'll do the trick.

"N-no," she groans in protest, so utterly immobile. "Sleep. Don't move. Daddy's too comfy."

"I'll be right back. Need the bathroom, won't take long."

But that doesn't do a thing. Wonyoung refuses to budge, cuddling even tighter to trap you. "Stay. You're warm. Five more minutes." Not like you have an option, with this girl clinging to you, showing zero interest in letting you free.

But five more minutes could easily turn into more—so when those are up, there's not a choice. "Fucking brat, let me out. I'll be quick, promise." You force yourself away regardless of protests, a bigger struggle than necessary.

"You better—can't sleep well without you."

Not even a minute passes before you return, and she's already stolen every inch of the blanket, all wrapped up, legs outstretched with her fuzzy socks peeking out. You crawl back under the blanket, returning to where Wonyoung demands your warmth the most, and she instantly clings to you again, one arm draped lazily over your chest. This time, for sure, she's not letting you escape anytime soon.

"Missed you, daddy."

"Wasn't even gone that long."

"But it felt like forever," Wonyoung mumbles, using your body as a pillow. “Now daddy can't leave, ever."

And she goes back to sleep like nothing ever happened, snuggled into your chest with a leg thrown over you. You pat her head, and now all that’s left is to sleep until you hardly even remember what having a hangover even is.

---

"Oh, hello, handsome.”

That sultry, playful tone can only be one person, Yujin right by your side once you’ve awoken again. "Thought you were gonna sleep an entire week."

There's a kiss planted on your cheek when she steps in view, and that's what sends your eyes fluttering awake—right along with her hand running a comforting path along your face. "Almost did."

Yujin smiles before you push yourself upright, eyes landing on Wonyoung's mountain of blankets, with no sign of her inside. She ruffles your hair as you try to regain your senses, already knowing what you’re about to ask. “She’s in the shower. Taking a long time though… even for her.”

You don’t think much of it, given that Wonyoung taking long showers is about as common as the sun going down. But there’s this look on Yujin’s face like she knows something you don't.

A mischievous smile is how that ends, with Yujin placing an arm behind you on the couch. "How was your nap? Feel better after a bit of rest?"

"Way fucking better," you sigh, finally relaxing fully upright in the couch.

While you wait for Wonyoung's return, you grab a bottle of water sitting on the coffee table—tossing back a couple painkillers to help with any lingering discomfort. And almost on cue, you hear footsteps echoing down the stairs, growing louder.

Standing at the top of the steps is Wonyoung in a black silk robe, the material thin but not enough to hide what's underneath, stockings hugging her slim legs as the tie of her robe sits loose.

Her face is all dolled up, perfectly styled hair framing her flawless features, with a sheer red lipstick and dark eyeshadow to finish it off. She still looks stunning—a confident smile on her pretty face as her eyes land right on you.

"Finally awake, I see. Took long enough," Wonyoung says with the slightest hint of annoyance, as if she wasn’t begging you not to leave before.

Yujin is laughing right next to you as Wonyoung saunters over. "Don't act like you two hungover idiots didn't both sleep the entire day."

Wonyoung barely acknowledges Yujin, striding toward you in these black stiletto heels, like a graceful model taking every step to perfection. There's a mystery hidden under the robe, and you can't wait for it to be revealed. "Daddy kept me waiting, so I came up with a little something..."

You raise an eyebrow. "You could have woken me—"

"You think I didn't try, dummy? Thought you were dead for a while," Wonyoung says and grabs your wrist to yank you up. Before you get another word out, she's peeling you off the couch and guiding you upstairs towards whatever bedroom is her target.

A shut door and a deep kiss on your lips later, and you’re being backed up towards the bed. A playful shove comes next, then you’re scooting back on the mattress, eager to learn what's under that silk. And so begins the slow process, where she unties the belt of her robe, tantalizingly slow as she draws out each second.

The black satin falls right off her perfect body and crumples in a pile at her feet. You're left with quite the image to take in—Wonyoung looking like absolute sin in this set of black lingerie that covers so little, lace and garters and sheer stockings, the whole package, those stilettos emphasizing everything.

The finishing touch, the image captured in the tall mirror on the door, Wonyoung’s tight little ass that fills out her lacy black underwear, your attention traveling up from head to toe, absolute perfection filling the reflection.

"Surprise, daddy," Wonyoung says, hands resting on her hips while you marvel at her sexy little ensemble—a finger tilting your head up to her face for a kiss, right on your shocked lips.

There's no way you're not staring.

“Fucking hell, princess.”

Not that you even know where to stare, because there's lace everywhere—pushing up her tits, hugging her slender waist so tight, clinging to every delicious morsel of her petite figure. Those stockings alone are pure filth that you indulge yourself in, drinking in how they accentuate those endless legs, leaving you foaming at the mouth to kiss every inch of them.

The thing about Wonyoung's brazen displays of confidence is that they're well earned. She knows what her body does, knows how good it all looks—especially when covered in lace and the sexiest fucking stockings you've seen. This tight body can make anyone drop to their knees.

"Daddy's fucking drooling," she says, amused and basking in this view of you helpless and stunned. And what can you really say—what can you really do but just stare shamelessly?

"Because my princess looks fucking gorgeous. So goddamn beautiful, god, you're just—“

“I’m everything. I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

That doesn't even feel like enough praise, but Wonyoung lights up regardless, clearly enjoying the attention as you caress one leg, fingers running over the soft, sheer fabric of her stockings. It’s hard to resist the temptation to rip them all off with your teeth.

"I would look so good in this on my knees, sucking daddy's fat cock. Looking up while I choke on it—you can picture it, can't you?"

Without a doubt, the thought of Wonyoung's perfect, pouty lips sliding over your cock in this lingerie gets your dick throbbing hard. It's almost pathetic, how much it stirs at the smallest of things, and she barely needs to tease when you're already salivating at the idea.

"Daddy needs to bend me over the bed and rip this thong right off, doesn’t he? Shove his huge cock in me, fuck me raw, rough and hard till I cum all over it—"

And god, does she know exactly what to say. The filthy imagery fills your head as you lick your lips, a hand brushing up her thigh, slowly to that tiny strip of lace covering her gorgeous pussy. "Princess—"

"Or maybe daddy is still too tired to do all that," Wonyoung interjects before you can think, chuckling as her voice turns more wicked. "Maybe you need me to jump on that hard cock, ride it like a good little whore. Use it the way I want. Until I make you pump another load inside this perfect pussy. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

You can’t possibly be expected to form an answer when she looks like this, all wrapped up and not a thing left to the imagination. A gentle squeeze to her stocking-clad thigh is about the only thing you can do that constitutes a response.

With the aching arousal surging between your legs as your imagination runs wild, she doesn't miss a moment to place your hands directly on her ass, letting you get a plentiful handful of the flesh in your palms.

"I want you to strip. Right now. Leave the boxers,” Wonyoung commands as she watches the lust grow stronger, not even having to look down to see you've got a massive erection that’s her job to relieve. Now it’s your turn to do as you're told, giving a brief nod while taking your shirt off, then the rest as quickly as you can while she watches every moment.

"On the bed, daddy. On your back."

Naturally, that comes without argument or resistance. Not like there's much you can really offer, thrown for a complete loop the moment Wonyoung slipped off her robe. Just as soon as you've relaxed back against the pillows, Wonyoung climbs onto the bed, crawling towards your position, close enough so the tent in your boxers is mere inches away from her beautiful face, admiring as she nears.

"Look at that perfect fucking cock. Looks so big in those boxers," she murmurs, palming it as she speaks, every single word getting to your throbbing shaft. "Should I put these pretty lips on your hard, aching dick? Make it nice and wet before I straddle it and show exactly what a good cocksleeve is?"

Your mouth opens, but you manage little more than a small groan in acknowledgment. It's more than difficult to think straight when she looks at you like that, with these sultry, seductive eyes that just aren't fair, stroking ever so lightly over the front of your underwear.

“Feel good, daddy? I know you want to fuck me. God, I want that so bad too—but I have a few extra things planned.”

When you see that smirk on her face as she grips your cock, you know she hasn’t planned this alone. You don’t even know where her accomplice is right now, knowing how Yujin loves to watch as much as participate. The fact is, you'll let Wonyoung take all the credit, because you know she’s more than capable of this.

She’s got you all riled up, on her own, with a slow squeeze around the head of your cock that’s unbearable.

You want those beautiful, plump lips wrapped around your cock, more than anything. The image can’t leave your mind—Wonyoung between your thighs, making a mess. You’re distracted. Barely noticing as she leans over to the nightstand to slide open a drawer.

And then she pulls out a set of pink padded leather cuffs, dangling from her fingers. "Here's the real surprise. Yujinnie was kind enough to let me use her toys... and I know daddy wants to get his greedy hands all over me. So that's why we're using these. Now, arms up.”

You can't say this is what you were expecting, but you're not exactly protesting either.

Another attempt to form words fails, and you need a moment to hesitate—something Wonyoung doesn’t care for. She crawls over your body, kneeling over your chest as you make your eventual decision.

“Daddy, I said arms up—“

Wonyoung repeats the demand with a surprising amount of calm and patience. And this time, you don’t think it over any more than necessary, wrists held up above your head. In a heartbeat, the soft leather straps clasp around both wrists, keeping them secured to the headboard. You'd be lying if you claimed this was totally foreign territory—but you're used to seeing Yujin with a smile on her lips putting the cuffs on you, not Wonyoung, who's become far bolder in the bedroom since.

So once you feel the leather securing your wrists to the back of the bed, Wonyoung runs her hands along them, testing them a few times just for good measure, unable to hide her satisfaction in watching you struggle.

"There we go," she purrs. “Daddy looks so good in these…”

She's already moving down between your legs, eager to get you naked as her fingers slide under the waistband of your underwear. a slight pause while she eyes the massive tent she's caused, thumb massaging idly.

And with a forceful tug, your underwear is only a brief memory as Wonyoung tosses the garment aside. Her nails trace up your naked thighs, her cold hands lingering right below where you ache the most.

"What should I do first, hm? Suck your dick? Play with these heavy fucking balls? Or maybe just tease daddy’s big fucking cock through my panties—you think that'll drive you crazy?”

So many options, you're not sure how to even process anything beyond the blinding arousal as she stares with those devilish eyes at your throbbing, desperate cock leaking between her fingers.

"Maybe daddy doesn't get a choice. Maybe I just fuck you the way I want," she says, fingers squeezing your shaft, precum oozing out with no end in sight. "Keep you tied up and ride the fuck out of this huge fucking cock. Or if you're lucky—maybe I let you in my ass, since you like it so much."

That's the thing that makes you squirm with need—

Having her tight little ass sinking down on your cock, balls deep, clenching around you and milking you dry—that's a thought that refuses to budge. But while you're imagining all that, Wonyoung focuses on bringing these thoughts to life and slaps your cock hard, not afraid of the reaction as it throbs even stronger. "Daddy gets my pussy first. So I guess you’ll just have to earn my tight asshole."

You're only left staring with eyes wide open as she peels off her barely-there panties, sliding them down so agonizingly slow, revealing every delicious detail hidden underneath. And for your own benefit, her heels stay on as she spreads those long, long legs to give the full view, pussy pink and glistening wet, and oh so inviting.

"Princess—"

"No talking, daddy. That mouth is only for licking my pussy or sucking my tits. Nothing else, okay?"

There's no time to react as Wonyoung lifts the black thong to your mouth, forcing you to take in her scent while her soaked panties drag against your lips. "Can't wait to have this throbbing cock filling my tight little pussy. Doesn't that sound perfect?"

All you can offer are a couple muffled nods while she stuffs those lacy panties into your mouth. The thought alone is intoxicating, especially with how you can taste her arousal on them. She knows you're at her mercy, taking the time to slide up your body, grinding her bare cunt against you on the way down, stockings rubbing against your bare skin.

But this isn't Wonyoung's usual play—you know she doesn't have the restraint for much else, which only works to your advantage. She’s not Yujin. She isn’t going to drag this out. The urgency in her movements tells you that she wants you buried deep inside her as much as you do, but that doesn't mean she can't savor some moments along the way.

"Daddy needs this, doesn't he? This beautiful cock buried in my pussy—squeezing you so fucking tight, like it was made just for me," Wonyoung tells you like she's teasing herself, a few rapid pumps while her hand leans it against her toned stomach, showing how deep you’ll reach inside.

You struggle for a response, not that you can say much with these soaked panties stuffed in your mouth. Wonyoung lets out this devious little smile as she grinds her slick pussy along your shaft, the warmth so abundant that it has you thrusting upwards on instinct.

"Aw, daddy can't answer, can he? Want to fuck this tight fucking pussy? Want me to sink down, nice and deep, balls fucking deep—that's all you can think about, right?"

Again, a desperate nod is the best answer you can provide in your stupor, a cloud of desire slowly creeping over your ability to think straight.

"Daddy doesn't even need to say—I already know you're so fucking desperate for this," she says, lifting up and rubbing that wet little cunt against the sensitive tip that throbs under the littlest touch.

Desperate doesn't even begin to cover it, pent up from the littlest stimulation Wonyoung grants. And you couldn't even beg with these panties in your mouth even if you wanted to.

"Mmm, looks so big in my little hands—and all of it is going to stretch my pretty little pussy. Because that's what daddy's needy cock is best for, right?" This time, you can't even get out a nod, eyes glued to how she rubs you between her sopping folds, this final tease when she drags you through all that arousal.

Then, a few lazy strokes. No friction, no satisfying stimulation to alleviate this overwhelming craving. It's infuriating.

"Wonder how deep it will reach. How deep your fat fucking cock will reach inside—splitting me wide open. Until daddy can't resist and spills his cum into this warm hole."

God, it’s exactly what you’re desperate for, those tight lips parting to fit your aching cock. Wonyoung raises her hips and guides your swollen cockhead, not patient enough to let the teasing linger. Her weight drops, and then you’re inside her—every inch she can take, so deep as you both crave.

You don't even fight back a muffled groan while her hips take over, rolling to savor the stretch, the deliciousness of being filled, a perfect straddle with a leg on either side to take you to the hilt.

"Oh—so fucking full. I can't, f-fuck, daddy feels so fucking amazing, god—this huge fucking cock stuffed inside me where it belongs."

One slow lift of her hips follows another, the sinful wet sounds filling the room with how deliciously slick her pussy is. She envelops your length with ease, the tight grip her cunt holds making your whole body shudder, making your wrists jerk against the restraints, utterly helpless.

That puts a smile on her face. There's no end to this warmth or the slippery glide that swallows you up with no need for adjustment, alternating between harsh drops of her hips and the rolling that sinks every inch of your cock, squeezing you like she knows you need.

“God—how deep is your cock reaching, daddy?" Wonyoung asks through uneven, staggered breaths, head hanging over your own, braced and riding you at this angle where you reach the best place possible.

Her head snaps back in pleasure, red lips parting as each calculated movement hits just right. And you can't look anywhere else as her entire body slams down on repeat, nothing that could bring herself to stop.

"Love when this fucking cock fills my wet little pussy—“ A simple groan escapes when she slides up halfway, pausing for impact before dropping down hard again. "When this cock splits me open and makes me cum my fucking brains out. When your heavy fucking balls spill everything in me—god, I love being a slut for daddy to breed, a perfect little cum dump for those huge fucking loads."

"Princess—" you try to say through the fabric, though it comes out every bit muffled, the sound inaudible through these endless bounces.

"What is it, daddy? You wanna breed me already? Is this tight fucking pussy too much to handle?” she asks and gyrates her hips, clenching tight on the way down. Her palms rest on your bare chest, nails digging in while she impales herself on your length with these harsh bounces.

Another tug on instinct that jerks the headboard back, as if you have any hopes of pulling free, left to watch as she does whatever she wants. With your mouth crammed with lace, there's no fighting these sounds, no chance of anything you say becoming audible. All the same, Wonyoung understands every little muffled noise, finding the perfect angle, every fucking drop that keeps your cock drowning in this slippery warmth.

"Almost there, daddy. You're doing so well—such a good fucking stretch, making my pussy so wet," she breathes out with her head tossed back, ass bouncing on your lap. Whenever your length goes impossibly deep, Wonyoung groans with each rise, these delicious noises that you can’t get enough of. "R-right there, that's the spot."

She bounces that petite frame with reckless abandon, hair a total mess falling around her, hips moving as fast as they can. The bed frame rattles, creaking from how hard those thighs slam down, letting out an audible slap of flesh on every impact, juices glistening from your cock as you stay stuffed in her tight cunt.

Again, you try in vain to utter the words. It's a hard enough task through this balled-up fabric in your mouth, and yet she senses the effort. But that doesn't mean she acknowledges it, far too lost in the sensations as those strokes come with intent—hands pressing down, palms splayed on your chest to guide each slam into her cunt.

"You're gonna make me cum, fuck—so deep in me, daddy. Oh my god, feels so fucking good,” Wonyoung cries out, slick gliding her effortlessly down every inch, using her cunt in the most selfish way possible as the edge looms.

And that's enough to have you straining harder against the leather cuffs. She's close, the look of desperate, endless bliss etched onto her features when she gets her hips on autopilot, losing all sense of control.

"Oh fuck, g-gonna fucking cum!” Then she’s right there, the fabric of her stockings rubbing against you when your bodies collide with such frantic desperation. Wonyoung bounces and bounces, refusing to let up, fucking you so goddamn good to chase own release.

Her orgasm hits, and it hits hard—fucking herself through a blinding rush of bliss. It's wet, messy, and god, her pussy just keeps spasming around you, that high going and going while her body shakes, thighs quivering so violently.

She doesn't ease up on you either, riding like she’ll never get enough, eyelids heavy and head tossed back as she tries to keep going—too delirious to get another word out. Her warm little hole clamps like a vice on your entire length, overwhelming you with all these intoxicating sensations. Such a vibrant image, the sight of Wonyoung struggling to not fall apart while she rides your cock, mind filled with nothing but endless ecstasy.

"F-fuck," is all that comes out from Wonyoung when she brings her hips to a sudden halt and falls forward, removing her panties from your mouth and pulling you into a deep kiss. It's every bit intense and heated, your lips so easily captured, her tongue shoved in your mouth like it belongs there. "S-so good, so, fucking good—daddy made me cum so fucking hard."

Wonyoung is breathless, sweat beading all over, the glow on her skin and satisfaction in her features when her gaze meets yours once again.

"Now daddy must be dying to cum," she finally says through all these pants and gasps while her forehead rests against yours, that impossible to break eye-contact trapping you as your hard cock throbs so deep inside the snug, velvety grip of her cunt.

"You have no idea, wanna fill you, cum deep inside—"

"Poor daddy. Your balls must be getting so heavy," Wonyoung laughs, giving an overwhelming roll of her hips, as if you weren't aching enough. She cups your face and leans in close, looking at the pink leather wrapped around your wrists. "Daddy must need those off—do you deserve to get your hands all over me when your cock fills my ass?"

"Yes, fuck yes—wanna be buried in your ass, wanna feel how tight you are,” you reply almost instantly, because like hell would you choose otherwise. Wonyoung simply smiles at the desperation on display, taking her time as she carefully undoes the handcuffs and sets you free, one at a time, tossing them aside.

“Is that where daddy wants to cum? Deep inside my tight little asshole? Sounds so good—fill my ass with all your sticky fucking seed, wanna feel it flood right out of me. Don’t keep me waiting then.”

As much as you love this tight cunt, the urge for something more has been clawing away. And now that you've been given free rein to do what you please, there's only one place your cock needs.

So just like that, Wonyoung climbs off, all that wetness dripping everywhere when your swollen cock springs free from her heavenly cunt.

She crawls over to the far end of the mattress, knowing what has to come next as she unhooks her bra, tossing that off and out of the way, leaving nothing on her but delicious heels and stockings. You see every curve from behind, watching closely while she gets on all fours, ass looking like absolute perfection, leaving you to salivate once Wonyoung gathers some pillows to hover over.

"Pound me—fucking pound my ass hard. Daddy doesn't need to go easy. I want that dick in my ass, wanna feel all of you stuff me fucking full," she breathes out.

And even while she says that, you need a moment to stroke your cock and stare, marveling at those creamy cheeks that are about to be your new home. But like the brat said—don't keep her waiting.

Shuffling over to the bedside table, you barely need to search, finding the small bottle practically empty. Enough left to slide your cock in, and that’s all that matters. And then you’re in position right behind Wonyoung, her sinful little body all there for you to take—

The cap opens, and your hand grips her supple ass, squeezing for a good moment before slicking your length with the cool liquid. Wonyoung, of course, shows impatience when you slide a slippery finger past that tight ring of muscle—a second one quick to join after, both working into her knuckle deep and sinking them in further.

It's a routine you could do blindfolded. In your sleep, so well rehearsed at this point. The rim of her puckered hole accepts you with such ease, a slight moan slipping when you're halfway, quick to escalate the impatience you both share.

"Hurry up, get your big fucking dick in me, god—"

That's the plan.

But that's difficult when your fingers have a mind of their own, pumping in and out to enjoy the tightness, how good her ass looks taking them deep. After all, it’s only fair to return the favor and tease her. Not like your cock isn’t aching to get inside either—so a momentary detour is plenty justifiable. Especially with these pathetic whimpers while you finger her asshole.

Her ass just feels too good to let up, a thumb running along her tight little rim, playing and toying until you reach the breaking point.

And then you take your cock, slapping it against those cheeks to get any kind of relief you can get—a few more teasing smacks before you line up. She's ready for it, pleading to be filled when you press your swollen cockhead right along her slicked-up back entrance, ready to sink into heaven and lose yourself.

But there’s just one more thing missing—

Looking back, you spot the discarded handcuffs, abandoned on the edge of the bed and practically calling out to you. You don’t think twice about making use of them, picking them up in haste.

And Wonyoung doesn't even see this coming. Her eyes widen with anticipation as you seize her wrists one by one, pulling them behind her back and securing them in place, the click from the final clasp far too satisfying.

"Fucking brat thinks she's the only one allowed to surprise people," you say, giving her plump ass a sudden spank as a startled gasp fills the room. She tries to look back from over her shoulder, struggling with the way her arms are bound.

"Daddy, p-please, need your cock—“

"Shut up, little fucking slut." Another sharp hit on each side of her ass makes the flesh redden with bright handprints, each more aggressive than the previous. These perfectly round cheeks on total display the best canvas as your palm does as it pleases.

There’s no protesting on her end despite this ambush, and she knows exactly what she’s started, riling you up like this, driving you to such actions—desperate to be put in her place.

You can't say you've seen a better sight. Wonyoung's back arched with those slender arms held together behind, no choice but to keep that round ass in the air, ripe for the taking. That's the part you focus on most of all, these pale cheeks reddening with your strikes, squeezing them apart, her hungry little hole awaiting your thick cock. "Now the princess gets to be all helpless, doesn't she?"

Not that she doesn't enjoy the restraint, she revels in it. Hell, she's the reason these handcuffs are even here in the first place. Because they look so good on her when she's begging to be fucked.

"Fucking brat actually likes being handcuffed and punished, huh? Being all helpless and vulnerable when she's taking this cock." She has no counter to that, no means to reply—and her entire demeanor shifts, voice coming through with this timid, flustered tone.

"Daddy, p-please, shove your cock inside, fuck me, pound my asshole—"

“I said shut up, slut. Do I have to gag you with your own fucking panties, princess? Or maybe something else, I'm sure Yujin has something useful around."

Another harsh slap, hitting the exact same place. The red hue only grows darker while you give another, even harder, followed by a half-dozen more, each one stinging more than the last.

"N-no, need daddy to hear me when that cock stretches my ass, p-please…"

She melts into submission without any real effort, losing any hope of resistance with the dozen or so smacks on that tight little ass that make her body jolt with each one. “Gonna open you up so wide, ruin daddy’s pretty little fuckdoll, make sure you can’t sit straight for a fucking week.”

And that’s your cue to end this teasing.

When the whimpering gets desperate, and the torture has lasted for too long. Pressing the swollen tip to her puckered entrance, Wonyoung groans when you inch in slowly, until her ass swallows you up.

"God, princess," is all that you choke out as she slowly takes every inch without issue, letting out a sigh with you buried to the hilt. Every breath is ragged, shallow, and unsteady when you start thrusting, everything so warm and tight around your throbbing length.

But the tightness, god—there's no greater sensation than this hot little asshole welcoming you, all of you. Each stroke becomes an impulse, sliding slowly and deep as you pull out halfway, just to enjoy the way she sucks you back in.

"Mm, fuck, daddy—s-so good, so full," is all Wonyoung can manage, face into the pillows with her hands behind her back, turned enough so you can still make out her features—and all the pleasure etched there as you pump. "God, more, need you pounding me hard. Didn't I tell you to not take it fucking easy?"

That's what earns her another hard slap on her ass, one with plenty of force behind it at that sudden defiance that loves to creep up. A reminder that even when her wrists are bound together, she takes what she wants. And once you slide out and right back in, a smack comes down so hard she clenches tight around your shaft, anticipating the pain that follows while you stay buried to the hilt, balls pressed up against her ass.

Because even as you reward her with more punishing smacks to those creamy, pale cheeks already tarnished with fresh handprints—you know the one thing she hates most is denial.

So that's what you'll do, stay lodged all the way up inside, not moving a single inch. And from the look on her face, Wonyoung catches on, expression fading into something disappointed when she tries to push her hips back.

"Don’t even think about it, princess," you warn, holding her hips firmly in place. "Not moving an inch until you learn to behave."

"Daddy wouldn't. Know you need to fill up my tight little asshole until I’m gaping and leaking with cum."

Her entire demeanor changes on a dime with those words, looking back like she's the one in control, despite her situation.

"Wouldn't I? Don't test me. I can easily walk out that door and leave you like this for as long as I fucking want. Find Yujin instead and fill her cunt with the load that's meant for your ass."

"You wouldn't dare—"

"Wanna try me and find out? I'll go track her down, throw her legs over my shoulders and pound that beautiful pussy while all you can do is listen. It'll be her hair I'm pulling, not yours. Her pretty toes in my mouth. Her gorgeous face I'll be painting with my cum—not your slutty fucking holes.”

"D-daddy, p-please!" she says, voice trembling at the threat. "Need you to stay in my ass, use me like a good little whore—"

"Oh, so now you're good? Only when it's convenient to you, is that it, brat?"

"N-no, just don't leave—don't go fuck Yujin instead. Need you to stay in me and finish."

Like you could ever do anything but that. That ass is absolutely fucking irresistible, the strength required to deny its grasp—it's impossible.

Besides, you've had your fill of games. Not one more second to waste, your cock needs that tight fucking ass. So once again, you pull those hips back with you and slam into her ass with even more force, shoving every last inch to bury deep. And then you do it again and again, the resounding slap filling the room, hearing her helpless little moans after every thrust.

"There you go—daddy's in my ass so fucking deep. Knew you couldn't go without your favorite cum dump," she murmurs through another strained moan, and that only makes your thrusts come harder, these unforgiving slams that are anything but gentle.

If this is how she wants it, then it's a gift you can deliver. Because you're not going to have it any other way either, wanting to make good on your promise to make sure she can’t walk straight and then some.

"Gonna fucking open you up so much, god, can't take how good this asshole feels, princess—"

Each thrust that buries deep feels so impossibly tight, suffocating your cock when you get balls deep, only staying for enough time to bottom out so you can pound back in once you slide out.

It drives you fucking mad how tight and warm this hole you’re plunging yourself into, pulling her entire petite frame back whenever you withdraw. Another animalistic groan follows your hard pumps, burying yourself and stretching out her asshole as she's reduced to a moaning mess below you, head buried in a pillow and taking everything you give.

"F-fuck, love daddy's huge fucking cock," Wonyoung groans, taking the rough strokes you dish out with pride. “Love when you get so rough, when you lose control fucking my ass. I can't even do anything but take it like a good little slut."

She gets it, god, she does. She knows exactly what all these moments do to you, get your body moving like you’re possessed. The way her reddened cheeks bounce when they meet your hips, and the mere sight of these fucking stockings on her never-ending legs makes it even better.

You’re drunk on the bliss her body brings, and the feeling is mutual. Wonyoung is so eager to take everything you can give, gasping and pleading for even more, as if her ass isn’t the best thing you’ve buried your cock in. And you need more as much as she does, lifting yourself into a squat and leaning forward over her ass, pounding away with reckless abandon in this new angle that gets you even deeper.

"F-fuck! Love this little asshole getting slammed, daddy’s fucking me so hard—mm, fuck, just like that. Fucking use me, use your greedy little slut, please—“

As if you’re even capable of anything else but pounding away at her ass while she drips all over the sheets. All you can even think about is getting deep between those cheeks while your heavy balls smack against her wet cunt, and you’re not sure you’re ever going to be able to leave even after you’ve left a hot, creamy load inside her.

“Gonna cum so fucking hard in your ass when I’m done with you, slut. Fill it with my load and fuck it deep,” you growl, accentuating your words with a harsh slap to her cheeks, not letting her forget about the painful pleasure she’s addicted to.

"Don't s-stop," she pleads, crying out when a palm collides again on her ass, craving that harsh sting more than anything. But that’s all she gets for now, putting your all into your hammering thrusts that slam her into the mattress.

Wonyoung is taking it all like a champ, unable to even touch herself with these bound wrists, forced to endure whatever you give. All she gets to do is take what she deserves and more with every hard, unforgiving stroke that fills her. You need this—god, she fucking needs this just the same, each slam into her greedy little asshole getting more ferocious than the last, bordering on uncontrollable when her ass devours everything.

Not that she'd have you any other way.

"Just like that, nngh—oh god, fuck my ass, fill me up,” she begs, downright delirious from having this cock shoved up her ass, as you fuck into her little hole without any concern, pistoning deep in her tight depths. “Need you to ruin this ass—fill my gaping fucking asshole with cum, please—daddy, use me however you fucking want."

Those words really do you in. Almost as much as the tightness of her ass does. You’re completely lost in these mirrored desires, in the thrusts that spiral beyond control, so rough in her warm little hole that demands more, refuses to relent from such an unforgiving grip.

You can’t even think about holding back anything now as you grab her handcuffed wrists and use them for leverage. And somehow, that gets you even more merciless—watching how those manicured nails form a fist, desperate to clench onto anything as you drill her from behind, your eyes glued to where your shaft disappears.

“You’re mine, princess, you hear that? All fucking mine, every little inch of your tight body.”

"All yours," she manages out through the mind-numbing thrusts. "Always was, daddy. Just don't stop fucking me like this—"

Wonyoung can't help the desperate sounds that escape. She’s whining and whimpering, drool spilling onto the sheets when you get so deep, when her petite frame nearly gives out, almost unable to keep pace with her own demands. She really does struggle against her own self-control, and you're pretty sure if these handcuffs weren't on, there's not a doubt about the sheets she'd ruin with a hand between her thighs.

You're fucking her into absolute incoherence, moaning between each harsh thrust and knowing there's no goddamn way to last. As you keep a wrist in your grasp, you reach down to give another hard spank across that pristine, pale flesh, not letting those bright red handprints ever fade. Because she deserves it, she's fucking earned every last one. Every single yelp that follows, the sting all over her sensitive skin that makes her clench tighter—the raw, crimson blush on those cheeks intent on making sure she’ll feel it for days.

She lives for these spanks, the way your palm marks her, this soreness that feeds her arousal. The only way it could get better would be if Yujin were here—with a paddle in her hands, delivering as many as she can count.

It's that sensation of your hand connecting on each tender cheek, your cock impaling her ass while she remains so helpless, the stuttered little sounds when she takes it. All these things lead right up to the point you can't hold back a moment longer. With your hands back on her hips, the spanks cease in favor of giving your all, to ram in as deep and as hard as this little body can take.

"D-daddy's gonna cum so hard In this tight little hole, isn't he?" Wonyoung asks, more of a plea than a question, every word a little more slurred and broken.

"Gonna pump you full, brat, fuck—" You feel it building, a steady pressure that has no chance of being contained. One more slap on that sore ass echoes through the room when your fingers dig into her sweaty flesh, and then you're holding her still, slamming your throbbing cock into her ass until the very last moment.

Then you unload everything inside her.

You let out a breathy groan as you pump it all deep inside her warm little asshole—one after another, each leaving you satisfied and breathless. Cum spills out in sticky, hot violent spurts as Wonyoung just moans with each shot her ass wrings out, working to empty your heavy balls inside this incredible tightness.

She claims it all, her tight ass draining everything so desperately, every second a constant squeeze to milk you completely dry.

It's filthy and sticky and, god, it's everything you need. What you both do. It never seems to stop, each heavy spurt bringing a new violent jerk of your hips that pounds it deep as those reddened cheeks swallow up the final remnants of your release.

"Mmh, fuck—so full of daddy's cum, deep in my fucking ass. Daddy really destroyed my tight asshole and pumped me full, just how I needed.”

Wonyoung still slurs her speech while not even thinking about letting you go. Not just yet. You'll stay here, buried in her ass knowing not to even try pulling away. Because those tender cheeks look so amazing stuffed full—nothing compared to what you’ll see the moments after you pull out.

"Good girl."

That's all you mutter before leaning forward to press your weight down further on Wonyoung, increasing the angle enough so her body is flattened into the soft pillows below. There isn't an inch to move in this new position, your cock so snug all the way inside, still impaling her petite body to keep that creamy white load where it belongs.

"N-no, not good—can't say that now," she murmurs, every word breathless with this fucked out expression etched on her face, biting her bottom lip and pressing her ass back the slightest. "Daddy's little fucking cumslut, you mean. Don't know the first thing about being good."

And what can you do but laugh while you pepper her flushed skin in kisses, some traveling down her shoulder, ending at the crook of her neck.

For now, you stay in that position, catching your breath as she finally lets go, her hot little asshole gripping so harshly like it never wants you to leave when you slide out. There's a beautiful trail of sticky white of left behind, leaking right between her cheeks that you spread apart once you finally withdraw your length.

There's no greater sight, the creamy white dripping from that stretched out little hole, seeping between her pale thighs and onto the sheets, while your cock rests against her ass.

"Fuck, you really did wreck my asshole, daddy," Wonyoung almost laughs out in disbelief.

"Not my fault you love it like that, princess."

"Of course I do, dummy. Whatever makes daddy cum the hardest," she adds, panting between words to catch her breath, looking so goddamn gorgeous even through the brattiness that will always lurk. The only thing better is those red handprints all over her pale ass, left there as a reminder of what she’s earned.

You give a firm squeeze of her ass one last time, a slight gasp leaving her when you force a bit more cum right out through her stretched hole, pushing the sticky mess right back in with a thumb that makes Wonyoung clench back around. “You always make me pump you so damn full, brat. Can't control myself around you."

"Wouldn't want you to," Wonyoung mumbles, leaving that thought unfinished as you savor these last moments, how good she looks face down, ass up like this, covered in sweat and cum dripping everywhere, even down her stockings and on the sheets below.

After you've finished enjoying the view, you glance down at her wrists and realize there's still the handcuffs on, wondering whether you should even bother taking them off.

"Daddy…" she whines, reminding you to make a decision when the silence lingers.

"Yes, princess?"

"I'm still handcuffed."

Quite the obvious fact—but you play oblivious. "You are. They look good on you, though."

You're not entirely sure you want to free Wonyoung. The pink leather looks gorgeous wrapped around those dainty wrists, her head against the pillows while she remains helpless, bent over with your cum dripping out. There's an appeal to watching her struggle—if only a bit.

"Daddy! I can't kiss you like this," she complains, and you guess that’s a good enough reason as any to reach over and undo them.

So you sigh, hoping to not regret it when you shuffle behind Wonyoung to uncuff her. With the restraints off, you kiss her wrists one at a time—rubbing your thumbs over the skin. She's back on her knees in no time at all, facing you on the bed so she can throw her arms around your shoulders, ready to pepper your face with soft kisses.

"Daddy wanted to leave me like that?" Wonyoung asks, this subtle shift into a sweeter tone when she kisses the corner of your lips.

"Thought about it."

The handcuffs aren't a stranger to being around Wonyoung’s wrists, nor is the color pink—all too fitting on her.

Regardless, she keeps that pout, so unfairly cute when she wears it, a bit too irresistible.

And so you let those pillowy lips meet yours again. One long kiss leads into another, and there's little effort to fight the hunger in each one as they press deeper. "Don't act like you don't love me fucking you when you're utterly helpless, princess."

"Never said I didn't," she says, cupping your face in both hands without doing anything else. So you reciprocate, this slow kiss taking over, neither of you eager to end the exchange. That's the effect her lips have on you, so dangerous, more trouble than they're worth, in the best way possible.

"Brat. Should have really gagged you earlier. When my cock was fucking you senseless."

"You won't. Daddy loves making me scream when he ruins me," Wonyoung murmurs against your lips. “Handcuffs or not."

That's news to nobody.

✦ ✦

It's not the first time, and definitely won’t be the last that Jang Wonyoung wants more—

Not even an hour later and she's bent over the kitchen counter, right next to the leftover pizza from that one place Yujin loves that stays open after midnight.

There isn't a single moment of rest for you with your cock back to splitting her ass open as you thrust rough and fast, wanting nothing more than to fill it all over again. Her fingers grab tight on the edge of the counter, your fist in her hair while your hips piston like a fucking train.

The kitchen counter is more of Yujin's territory, wearing a cute apron without anything beneath while she's making breakfast for you, that sinful, round ass staring you right in the face.

But Wonyoung insists this is the spot—the moment the two of you wander out of the shower. You're not picky when it comes to railing her into next week, finding the nearest surface, her perfect ass practically demanding your tongue before anything else.

You're more than happy to indulge, burying your face in between those cheeks and devouring her asshole, craving all her delicious little moans as you find yourself back where you belong. A handful of hair, your cock lodged nice and deep In a mixture of saliva and lube, and those juicy ass cheeks being slapped. That's all you need.

Wonyoung, as expected, gets demanding fast, and it doesn't take long to move things back towards the living room.

To the couch, and a little detour where she ends up in a familiar position, legs stretched out, head over the armrest, hanging right over the edge—all for easier access to that warm little mouth. Then she's upside-down, laying back comfortably to the point where all she can do is wrap her pillowy lips around your cock, taking you so deep down that tight throat and gagging around it. A repeat of earlier last night.

And before you know it, Wonyoung has you thrusting those hips while buried inside that tight ass yet again, her long legs spread so wide on the living room couch, bare feet up in the air and pointed toward the ceiling while you pound away.

Fucking her face, her ass, wherever, whenever, Wonyoung seems incapable of quenching her insatiable needs tonight, demanding you use her petite body like she knows no limit. You're not about to tell her no, her warm little asshole sucking you back in at every given chance.

The couch, to nobody's surprise, becomes a wet fucking mess when you're buried so deep in Wonyoung's ass, staring at such a pretty face while she rubs her swollen clit, squirting all over you and the couch cushions in a loud, violent rush.

After she's cum twice more, things move over to the armchair right next to the sofa—another piece of expensive furniture you're ready to defile. With Wonyoung clinging tight as your cock gets back inside that needy asshole, it's easy to sit her right on your lap, bare back against your chest and pound her like your life fucking depends on it. It's the perfect position to get so close, so intimate, staring at each other while your cock hammers away.

"Can you two keep it down over there?" Yujin asks, not even able to finish the sentence without laughing. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

You know that's a goddamn lie. Yujin steps in from the kitchen, not dressed for bed whatsoever, walking over to your side as you don't slow a thing. With a bowl of cereal and a spoon, she plops down onto the floor when she notices the couch is out of commission.

"What did you two do to the couch?"

"S-shut up and eat your cereal," Wonyoung manages in between whimpers as her asshole gets wrecked right in front of Yujin's calm demeanor. And she's using the two of you as her own entertainment, the spoon dipping into her bowl, watching like it's all a movie on screen.

Yujin laughs again. "Didn't answer the question."

“F-fuck you,” Wonyoung fires back, voice hoarse from all the screams and moans.

Your eyes lock with Yujin's gaze that watches, eating up every second of this visual treat as your hard cock reams into Wonyoung, and you can barely contain how close you are to pumping her full. But Yujin just smirks, giving a quick, amused glance while she's crunching down. "Maybe later. You're a little preoccupied, princess."

Wonyoung doesn't respond right away, slapping her cunt when you slam into her so fucking hard. "If you wanted daddy to yourself, then you should've asked. “A-ahh, f-fuck—this big, thick cock stretching my asshole so much—"

"Don't worry," Yujin says, after an overly dramatic crunch. "I'll empty daddy's balls in the morning. Looks like you two are gonna be busy for a while."

Yeah, you could say that. At this rate, the sun will be up soon and Wonyoung is in one of those moods, you can tell. Every surface is in danger—and the same could be said about your poor cock that won't be given even the slightest hint of mercy.

“God—still haven't stopped, you're fucking addicted to being in my ass," says Wonyoung, locking an arm right behind your neck, whimpering and whining as your shaft pistons away.

"Me? You're the one wanting round whatever since we got out of that shower, you insatiable fucking brat. Taking my cock nonstop was your idea."

"This cock fucks me too well not to," she gasps out, before letting another filthy moan follow through.

Yujin keeps laughing through all of this. At this point, she's used to the sound of your cock splitting Wonyoung’s asshole with a merciless series of thrusts, happy to keep playing spectator. "Both of you are so fucking ridiculous. Two horny roommates obsessed with fucking each other’s brains out."

"Nnngh, fuck—and you're not? If you didn't have that stupid spoon in your mouth it would be on my fucking clit. Y-yes, ah—god, shit, shit, just like that, destroy me, daddy."

But she isn't wrong. That damn smirk is painted on the entire time, and Yujin knows how bad she can't wait to have a turn once Wonyoung finally gets satisfied enough.

Which might be a while.

For now, you can only wrap your hands under Wonyoung's thighs, spreading them even wider to pound up harder from below. Who even knows what ungodly hour it is, how much lube has been used, or how many more rounds you have in you.

Your cock in Wonyoung, that cereal, and Yujin. A perfect trifecta, and a perfect ending to a perfect night.

#ive smut #wonyoung smut #kpop smut #reader insert #wonyoung x reader #male reader #girl group smut

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maybanksprincess · 8 months ago

Text

seven minutes in heaven

warnings: suggestive but no actual smut, mature themes, dry humping, tongue kissing.

summary: a game of seven minutes in heaven leads to reader and jj stuck in a closet together.

pairings: childhood!bsf!jj x childhood!bsf!reader

requested by this ask (thank you anon!) i dont know much about the game, so if i got one of the steps wrong, im sorry in advance.

you and the rest of the pogues gathered together on a saturday night to drink beers, smoke weed, and play spin the bottle. typical pogue shit.

all of you were sat in a circle on the carpet in the living room floor of the chateau. there was a glass beer bottle in the middle of all seven of you.

for a half hour, the game was spin the bottle. everyone's facial expressions quickly grew bored. John B, and Sarah were talking about something totally different, Pope and Cleo gone to grab a new crate of beers.

After a few more moments of all of you staring at the wall blankly, Kiara's the first to break the awkward silence. "hey what's that game we all used to play when we were sophmores?" she asks, twirling a piece of her curly hair around her pointer finger.

after kiara speaks, jjs facial expression changes to one of interest. he thinks for a moment and then speaks, "the one where you get locked in a closet for like ten minutes?" he asks

Pope rounds the corner with a few beers tucked in his arm. Cleo not far behind him "seven minutes." he corrects, pointing a finger at him.

jj rolls his eyes at the correction and mimics a mouth with his hand, mocking his words "seven minutes" he says, trying his best to sound as much like pope as possible.

you flick the back of jjs neck, mumbling a shut up to him. he lets out a high pitched ow and rolls his eyes, but ultimately he stops his mocking.

John b turns back towards the group at the mention of the new game. "are we finally gonna play something other than spin the bottle? im kinda tired of landing on Sarah." he teases

Sarah shoves him playfully, and then turns back to the topic of conversation. "Yeah we should play, it sounds fun. how does it work?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Pope speaks up this time, "we spin a bottle for two people, whichever two people it lands on, they go in a closet together for seven minutes to do whatever they want." he adds with a hint of suggestion at the end of his sentence.

jj smirks and turns to look at you, memories of the last time you two played this game when you were fifteen, when you shared your first kiss.

it was the first kiss for both of you, so it was sloppy and had a lot of teeth and tongue, it was sickening to think about, but never forgotten.

jj pipes up next, "yup we can play. this games borin' anyways." he says with a shrug.

everyone else agrees and shifts themselves back into a circle on the carpet. Pope places the bottle in the middle, then darting his eyes from one pogue to another.

"so whos first?" pope speaks

jj doesn't waste a second in volunteering to go first. "me! uh- ill spin first." he says, clearing his throat. everyones eyes fly to jj, giving him a questioning look.

"dude you answered that way too fast." john b says with a growing smirk on his face, his eyes now flickering between me and jj sitting beside one another.

"dude shut up!" jj says, before reaching forward and spinning the glass bottle, he crosses his arms and sneakily crosses his fingers hoping, praying, that it lands on you.

everyones eyes are glued intensely to the bottle, the tension in the small room palpable.

eventually the bottle comes to a stop, the tip of it pointing right to your knee. jj has to hold back from jumping up and saying something like hell yeah!

he instantly stands up, holding his hand out for you to take. "cmon m'lady." he teases, and looks at you with his typical shit eating grin.

you roll your eyes and take his hand, standing up and walking to the closed closet with him.

"i bet everyone can guess what they're gonna do in that closet." john b says with a smirk, as he watches jj open the closet door and enter.

"gross! i dont even wanna think about it." kie adds on, then everyone starts to whisper about both of you in the open circle.

as you both get in the cramped closet, jj takes a seat on stacked boxes that clearly say "fragile" but he obviously doesn't seem to mind. he looks up at you still standing there awkwardly in the dimly lit space.

"seems oddly familiar, doesn't it?" he teases. your brain floods with memories of you and jj in the same situation back in sophomore year.

you both had been in this exact crammed closet, deciding you could both share you first kiss together. it was sloppy, uncoordinated, and you both were trying to figure out a comfortable spot to place your hands. it was an awkward and uncomfortable kiss, but it was stuck in your brain nonetheless.

"yeah, really familiar." you chuckle nervously, looking around, and tapping your foot on the ground. you avoid eye contact with the blonde, hoping this seven minutes would pass by quickly.

he notices your shift in mood, and he smirks. he spreads his legs and moves his arms behind his head as he speaks.

"you know, were in here for a whole seven minutes. we should put it to good use, right?" he was enjoying making you nervous, and teasing you.

when he doesn't get a response, he gently pulls you onto his lap so your straddling him. he looks up into your eyes in the dimly lit closet, with something you cant quite describe.

before you know it, your both leaning in slowly, jj is the one to connect his lips with yours. the kiss was gentle and chaste at first, your mouths moving passionately against one another.

jjs hands find their way to your waist, gently caressing the flesh. you take that as a sign to move your hands up his torso, then settling your arms around his neck, all while continuing to kiss him passionately.

the kiss grows more intense over time, your tongues fighting for dominance against one another. eventually you catch yourself grinding your hips against his, as you both makeout.

minutes go by, and he finds himself lost in your kisses and the way your grinding your hips against his. his cock doesn't take long to stir in his cargo shorts.

when you feel his buldge press up against you, your hips move a little faster, the kisses becoming more desperate. before you know it, a light is shining in the closet and the sound of the door creaking fills your ears.

you pull away from jjs lips briefly to look at who opened the door.

"seven minutes are up, lovebirds." john b says with a jerk of his head, motioning for you two to get out the closet with a smirk.

3K notes · View notes

nadvs · 2 months ago

Text

the power play (part three)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

Rafe is waiting for you in front of your building, this time to take you to a frat party.

“Hi,” you say cheerfully, settling into his passenger seat, “for the third day in a row.”

Apparently, Emma always goes to these parties, and since Beck is friends with a lot of the frat’s members, you’re almost certain he’ll go, too.

You’re also meeting Lyla there. She’s been open-minded about Rafe. You hope he doesn’t make her regret it.

“You’re going to have to be nice tonight,” you say, then shut the door with a hard thud.

“Why?”

“Because my best friend will be there and I want her to like you.”

Rafe stares ahead, his mood plummeting. He doesn’t want to deal with this.

He didn’t care what Emma’s friends thought about him, until she started bringing up how much they don’t like him. You’re not even his real girlfriend, and the thought of being subject to that sort of judgement again makes his blood run hot.

He drives out onto the road. You wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

“Don’t tell me you’re already mad about something,” you say with a quiet laugh. “What’s up?”

You haven’t even been in his car for half a minute and you’re already trying to open up his wounds again, clueless to the fact that you’re reminding him of the things he wants to forget.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Rafe murmurs.

“Just be polite,” you reply. “And act like you like me.”

He tensley rakes a hand through his hair. Something’s off with him. He’s never had to ask you how to navigate this.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

“Nah.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m fine,” he says tersely.

You roll your eyes. You thought you’d gotten past feeling uneasy about pulling this off, but right now, you have no idea if this is going to work when you and Rafe are so out of sync.

You already aren’t in the mood to go to a party. He’s not doing anything to change that.

“I guess I should take back what I said about us being friends,” you tease.

He doesn’t say anything. You gaze up at the starry night sky through the window, letting out a sigh.

“I’m okay to cancel if you don’t feel like doing this,” you offer. “I’m in the middle of a great book that I’d like to get back to anyway.”

Rafe doesn’t know what to do with the things you say sometimes. It’d be easier if you snipped back or iced him out like everyone else does, because then, he wouldn’t feel shitty like he does now.

It’s annoying how much you unknowingly push these touchy, complicated topics. Even though you’re giving him an out, it’s hard to ignore how rotten he feels when he shuts down your innocent chit-chat.

So, he relents.

“I don’t want to – to have to think about impressing someone,” he admits with a stammer you haven’t heard before.

You look at him again, somewhat stunned. You almost make a joke about how this whole ruse, which he thought up, sort of hinges on impressing people. But the tension is too thick.

“You don’t have to impress her,” you reply, your eyes drifting over the outlines of his profile. “I just want her to believe you like me because she might mention it to her brother. But it’s not like… a test. If it were, I’d make you study. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

You find relief when he cracks a small smile, his eyes still on the road. You smile back, wishing he thought of you as someone he could trust, and wondering why he’s stressed about his fake girlfriend’s best friend's opinion, when he doesn’t seem like the type to worry about what anybody thinks of him.

“I’m surprised you care what she thinks,” you say, your tone lighthearted.

Rafe chews on his lip.

“I know this isn’t…” He motions between you, aware of how ridiculous it is to be tense about this when you’re not even really dating. He exhales, giving in. “Emma’s friends didn’t like me. She always brought it up.”

His words hit you, sadness twisting your heart. His ex did badmouth him minutes after she met you; you wouldn’t be surprised if she complained about him to her friends, handing them reasons to dislike him, using it against him.

That’s what’s bothering him. This is a bad reminder.

“All you have to do is what you did last night,” you tell him. “You don’t even have to talk much. I honestly think Lyla expects to see me with a guy who lets me do all the talking.”

You continue to stare at him. He’s stiff. On edge. It’s another crack in the facade, another peek into the things he hides.

“Why would she… always bring it up?” you ask quietly.

Rafe turns the car onto a narrow street, the steering wheel sliding underneath his hands.

“We said shit just to hurt each other all the time,” he mutters.

You gaze forward, your chest tight. At this point, you’re sure that what they had was toxic. His ex said he had red flags, but it sounds like she was the same way. You still don’t know why he liked her so much.

He’s obviously worked up. You shouldn’t push. You decide to put yourself in the spotlight to even the score.

“I never told you how Beck rejected me,” you say. “He hugged me, then said I’m a better friend than his sister.”

“Shit,” he winces.

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “You know when you can’t fall asleep and you think about all of your most embarrassing moments? That’s one of mine.”

Rafe breathes a quiet laugh. He grips the wheel when he reaches a stop sign, frustrated that he’s so curt with you, and even more frustrated that he cares. You’re slowly claiming a soft spot he didn’t know he had, whether he likes it or not.

“I’m… still pissed off,” he explains, his syllables sharp. “At her. Not you.”

It’s something that you didn’t expect about Rafe when you first met – that he can tell when he’s being too harsh and then tensely backpedals. You have a feeling he’s not really mad. He’s hurt. But he’d rather hide behind anger.

“I would be, too,” you say.

He offers an appreciative nod, avoiding eye contact.

════════

Lyla greets you with a big hug once you find her in the crowded frat house.

“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says, then looks up at Rafe. “You stole my best friend.”

“Can you blame me?” Rafe replies, putting his arm around your shoulders. You smile up at him, the uneasiness you’d felt dissolving. He can put on a good show when he wants to.

You quickly catch up with Lyla while Rafe quietly stands next to you. When there’s a gap in conversation, you turn to him and motion for him to come closer. He leans down.

“You can go hang out with your friends now,” you whisper. “Or should we stay together? What do couples do?”

Your words echo in his head. He didn’t think about if you’ve actually been part of a real couple before. He gazes at you, wondering why you never said anything about it.

“They should see us together first,” he finally says.

“Good point,” you say. “Let’s do a lap.”

Lyla finds a friend in the crowd and you take the opportunity to get a drink with Rafe. You walk to the kitchen, nudging past people together, your fingers interlaced with his.

Behind the worn laminate kitchen island, a lively game of beer pong is taking place. Emma is standing by the far end of the table, playing next to a guy who’s standing close to her.

You look up to see if Rafe notices. He does. His jaw tenses as he stares at her.

When you step up to the stack of empty solo cups, you catch Beck on the other side of the living room, leaning against a wall and chatting with a couple of his friends. You hate that your stomach still goes numb at his smile.

“They’re both here,” you tell Rafe.

He turns to face you, your hands still joined. You know what he looks like when he’s concentrating. You’ve seen it through your tutoring sessions, the way his eyes narrow and his dimples cave in as he flattens his lips together.

“You have your thinking face on,” you laugh.

“On the counter,” he says.

“Excuse me?” you nearly shout, eyes widened.

He nudges your hips with firm hands. The edge of the counter is hard against your lower back. He steps forward to push the clutter behind you aside.

Rafe’s brows lift in expectation.

“Sit on the counter,” he explains, “so they can’t miss us.”

You let him take the lead and feel for the counter with your palms. With Rafe’s grasp on your hips and your own force, you settle on the hard countertop. He guides your knees apart and shifts to stand between your thighs.

Your throat goes dry.

He’s smooth, experienced, clearly having done stuff like this before. The thought of it, of him, makes your skin burn and you force yourself not to picture it.

You’ve been close to Rafe before – you sat on his lap just last night – but this is the most suggestive position you’ve been in together, and it’s sending your thoughts into an uncontrollable frenzy.

Just a second ago, you were standing a few feet away from him, and now he’s between your legs, his frame big and dominating, his palms hot on your thighs.

“Hands on me,” he instructs.

You stiffly rest your forearms on his shoulders, the crisp smell of his cologne dancing over you. Your eyes dart to Beck, who hasn’t noticed you, and you tell yourself to do with Rafe what you always imagined doing with him.

You cradle the back of his neck, gently lacing his soft hair between your fingers. The conversations and music fade away as you and Rafe settle in a moment that looks private, but is really just for show.

Your mind slows down as you remind yourself that this isn’t real and there’s no reason to be shy.

Rafe is eye-level to you now. It’s still bothering him – why wouldn’t a girl who never stops talking tell him that she hasn’t been in a relationship?

“You haven’t dated before?” he asks.

“What?”

“Why are you asking me what couples do?”

“Oh.” You laugh and shrug, as if it’s apparent. “When you’re in love with someone for, like four years, you don’t really pay attention to other guys.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Rafe murmurs.

“Is it important?”

“A lot of things you say aren’t, but you still say them.”

You laugh, lips parting in shock.

“Jerk,” you mutter under your breath.

“You’re name-calling now?” he says, amused at the way that calling him that, even as a joke, seemed like it made you a little uncomfortable.

“Sure am,” you retort. “I’m kidding, though.”

He scoffs, amused again. Of course you had to clarify that you didn’t mean it.

“That’s why you’ve been so freaked out about this?” he realizes, cluing in that all your nerves have been because this, all of this, is entirely new to you.

“Paired with the fact that this is a ridiculous thing to be doing,” you say. “I thought it was obvious. So much for being easy to read, huh?”

Rafe’s brows furrow. It makes no sense. You two couldn’t be more different, but he can imagine what other guys would see in you now that he’s used to your unrestrained cheerfulness. You have a rare sincerity to you. It’s absurd how many years you wasted on Beck.

“What the hell do you see in him?” he asks, an unexpected sense of protectiveness pricking at him.

You look up to the ceiling in thought. Your fingers continue to lace through his hair, and he ignores the goosebumps that are blossoming on his skin.

When you look back down again, you notice Beck’s gaze on you from across the room.

“This is a first. I’m telling my pretend boyfriend why I like a guy that’s looking right at me,” you say. “I had fun with him. He’s hardworking and he’s nice to everybody and I respect that in a person. And when I talked to him, he cared about what I was saying. He remembered little things about me. He’s kind.”

“He led you on, though,” he remembers.

“Maybe. I do wonder if he knew I liked him and kept me around because he enjoyed the flattery or the help with school,” you say. “But I don’t know. He could’ve hoped I’d get over it and wanted to spare me the embarrassment. Or maybe I read into things and imagined he was flirting with me when he never was. I could’ve built all this stuff up in my head.”

Rafe takes in all the words you just threw at him, bringing out a touch of amusement from you.

“I fell for him because he made me feel special,” you conclude. “Isn’t that a big part of loving someone? You like the person you are when you’re with them?”

He looks at you silently, reminding you of when you met him and all he would offer you is a blank stare. Then, his face drops in melancholy.

While he’s usually drowning in his overwhelming thoughts, with his ex, life was simple. He could forget about the shit he didn’t want to think about because she never pushed.

Before they started fighting so much, he could do his best impression of who he always wanted to be. A man who’s steady. Who’s strong.

“Yeah,” Rafe says.

“How’d you feel with her?” you ask. “When things were good, I mean.”

You hope he meets your eyes again. He does.

“Everything was easy,” he says. “It’s like I wasn’t as…”

“As?”

“Fucked up,” he admits.

Your shoulders drop. For the first time, you see a piece of why he was with Emma. She made him feel uncomplicated.

You wonder what Rafe has been through to make him think of himself that way, but you’re treading carefully, avoiding any risk of embarrassing him. No matter how rude he can be, you’re almost certain it comes from a place of sensitivity, and of wishing it didn’t.

“Isn’t it kind of funny?” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “He made me feel special and you make me feel annoying. She made things easy for you and I literally nag you to do your homework. And we’re supposedly dating.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smile. You mirror it.

Just past his shoulder, you spot Emma’s gaze on you. She’s still playing beer pong, laughing with the guy she’s standing next to, but her eyes land on you and Rafe every few seconds.

“She keeps looking over,” you say. You think of their shared history, of how many memories they must have made together. Maybe Emma just needs to see him with someone else long enough to realize she wants him back. “What will you do if she wants to get back together?”

Rafe squints. He kept trying to make things work after she broke up with him because he just wanted the peace he’d once had with her back.

But when someone fucks him over, he’s done. The way she’s been dragging his name to anyone who’ll listen, to you the very day she met you, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. She may have broken his heart, but she doesn’t own it anymore.

“I’m done with her,” he tells you. “What if Beck asks you out?”

You’re not sure how to answer him, because you’d written off Beck being interested in you as a possibility. You hate that your heart skips thinking about it.

You shouldn’t want a man who could only want you once he thinks he can’t have you. But it’s easier said than done. The years of infatuation have a hold on you.

“I don’t know,” you confess. “But no matter what happens, we should have an easy-out clause. No hard feelings when one of us is done with this. Cool?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Cool.”

“Beck’s looking, too,” you say. “I think they’re buying it. Can I…?”

You bring your hands forward to gently rest on Rafe’s jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones.

“You don’t have to ask,” he says with a subtly irritated shake of his head.

His hands are splayed over your thighs and your knees are pressed against his hips. It might be a good thing to get some practice with a guy you’re not really with. Affection won’t be as intimidating if you’ve already done it in a controlled setting.

Rafe waits for you to say something, to do something. Maybe you’ll break your ‘no kissing’ rule, even though now he’s pretty sure it’d be your first kiss.

“You know what?” you say gently.

He takes in the way your eyes travel over his face, and for a split second, it’s like you can see just how much he hides below the surface, like you’re going to keep digging until you find out what it is.

He nods once, silently beckoning you to continue.

“The next book on the syllabus is one of my favorites,” you say.

He smirks, relieved you’re joking instead of prying.

“This really is the type of shit you’d talk about with your boyfriend,” he realizes. He thought you were just nervously rambling the other night because you had nothing else to talk about, but he was wrong.

You purse your lips in thought, memories trickling in.

“Yeah,” you say, sadness clouding your features. “It’s one of the reasons I thought Beck liked me back. He liked to listen to me ramble about whatever I was reading. And he was interested. Or he acted like it. I really… I wish I could get over him.”

Rafe’s face falls again, confused over why a guy who did shit like that for years, who stared at you the way he did last night, pushed you away.

“I know,” is all he can offer, because he really does understand the desperation of wanting to feel whole again after somebody breaks you.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you hear.

You glance up to see Lyla, her eyes darting to where Rafe is standing between your legs. You almost want to pull away, explain that it’s not what it looks like, nearly forgetting that you’re supposed to be fooling her, too.

“Hey,” you say.

“You want to do a shot with me?” she asks.

“Sure.”

You grip Rafe’s shoulders and shift forward. His hands tighten on your hips and you gently drop to the ground, pressed against his body.

“I’ll find you later?” you ask him.

He leans down low again, his temple brushing against yours.

“Take it easy, lightweight,” he replies.

You look up at him with a big grin.

“What?” he mutters.

“You’re worrying about me,” you whisper. “We are friends.”

“Get out of here,” he sighs.

You laugh and squeeze his hand before you step aside.

════════

You meant to keep count of your drinks. You really did. But every drink was like a temporary antidote against the heartbreak that’s been haunting you, and before you knew it, you were drunker than you’ve ever been before.

The night slips in and out of focus. You’re laughing with Lyla, then you’re playing beer pong, then you’re looking for Rafe.

You find him in a pocket of the crowd standing with a few other hockey players, your mind and body dizzy and hot. You cover his hand with yours, gently tugging him closer.

“I came here to ask you something,” you mumble into his ear when he leans down, his cologne hitting you again. “And… I don’t remember what it was.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly. You were stone cold sober earlier in the kitchen, and now you’re plastered.

“I told you to take it easy,” he says.

“I thought I was. I’m usually very responsible.” You shift to meet his eyes. “You smell great, by the way.”

“Okay?” he replies stiffly.

“Are you always this bad at accepting compliments?” you ask.

He is, and he hates how quickly you figure this kind of stuff out about him.

“What do you want?”

You squint, looking out at the crowd as you attempt to put your fragmented thoughts together. You spot Lyla.

“Oh! Could you give me and Lyla a ride home?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m done here anyway.”

Just a few minutes ago, Rafe watched Emma leave the house with the same guy she was playing beer pong with. It screwed a hole into his chest and he’s been wanting to get the fuck out of here since.

════════

You crack open the window as Rafe drives away from the frat house. Lyla’s in the backseat, tapping on her phone.

He glares at the road. Who was that guy Emma left with? And how the hell does he stop giving a shit? Is he doomed to spend the rest of his life wishing he didn’t care about things as much as he does?

Thinking of her with him doesn’t bring up jealousy. It’s anger. Disappointment. Because he’s losing this game.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” you ask Rafe, the cool spring breeze pressing against your face.

He glances at you. Even though you hardly ever see eye-to-eye, you genuinely want to be kind to him, consoling him on the way to the party, paying him compliments when drunkenness took away your filter.

Despite how irritating it can be when you pry, you don’t do it out of malice. And you even cracked him up a few times tonight.

He decides to answer you honestly, to be nice like you told him to be, ignoring the discomfort.

“When I was with you, yeah,” he replies.

“Aww,” Lyla coos from behind you.

You smile, discreetly giving him a thumbs up for his performance. He means it, but he’ll let you believe he said it just because your friend’s listening.

════════

Lyla directs Rafe to the front doors of her dorm, and when she tries to say goodbye to you, she laughs once she realizes you dozed off.

“Thanks for the ride. I still don’t really get this,” she says to Rafe, pointing between you two, “but I can tell it works.”

He knows why it looks like that. It’s because, as much as Rafe didn’t expect it, you’re right. You two genuinely became friends at some point over the last three weeks.

The sound of Lyla shutting her door snaps you awake. You quickly gauge your surroundings, realizing you’re on the opposite end of campus by Lyla’s building. The athletes’ dorm is practically a ten second drive away and the route to your building will be a long detour for Rafe.

“Isn’t your dorm like, right next door?” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just sleep over,” you say in an exhausted daze. “So you don’t have to drive all the way to the other side of campus and back.”

It’s nearing two in the morning. Rafe just wants to be in his bed. So, he goes along with your idea.

════════

Your eyelids flutter open. You stare ahead to see a broad, bare back sitting at a desk. Then, you recognize the unkept dark hair you ran your fingers through last night, as well as your tabbed copy of Lost Horizon sitting on the dresser.

You’re in Rafe’s dorm room. In his bed. Your face buried in his pillow.

Last night flashes through your mind. You’d thoughtlessly suggested a sleepover. Rafe helped you out of the car and let you lean on him in the elevator and complained that you weren’t making enough space for him in his bed.

“I am so sorry,” you murmur.

Rafe turns around, taking out an earbud with an eyebrow raised.

“Finally awake?” he says.

Your chest stings and your stomach turns as you slowly sit up. You put your hand on your forehead, tangled up in his duvet, last night’s clothes tight and uncomfortable as you think back to how much you drank.

“I should’ve listened to you,” you murmur. “That was not taking it easy. I was stupid.”

“Thought that was a bad word.”

“It is,” you say with a pointed finger. “Thank you. It is.”

You finally look at him again. He’s in sweats, gray boxers peeking out the band, his muscular body curled over the chair. It’s unusual to see him like this; in his downtime, sitting at his desk, using his laptop, shirtless.

You’d felt his body against yours, felt the firmness of his muscles, but seeing him like this in broad daylight raises your pulse.

Rafe notices your gaze linger on his chest before you meet his eyes again. If he really is flustering you, it’s a good dose of payback, considering how he felt when you sat on his lap and played with his hair.

“What the hell did I drink last night?” you mumble.

“You tell me.”

He gazes at you as you try to remember. Even though it was snug sleeping next to you in his tiny single bed, it was nice to not spend a night on his own. He already knew he was lonely, but feeling you next to him, hearing your breath as he dozed off, showed him just how much.

“Shots? Beer? Something really sweet?”

“You mixed,” he realizes. “Bad move.”

“I feel like death,” you groan. “I’m going home now.”

You shuffle forward, your legs hanging over the edge of his bed. You slide off, briefly losing your balance before your feet touch the carpet.

You catch yourself, gripping his shoulder. He cups your wrist as you wobble. You pull your hand back and readjust your clothes, a wrinkled mess now, then pick your bag up off the floor, which you’re glad you thought to bring in your stupor.

“I’m sorry again. Thanks for… dealing with me,” you say quickly, smoothing back your hair. Rafe only smirks, entertained by how embarrassed you are. “I’m walking home because I might throw up and I don’t think we’re at the point where I can do that in front of you yet.”

“You already did.”

Your lips part in shock and he laughs.

“You’re kidding,” you realize. “I didn’t expect you to be a morning person.”

“I’m not.” He looks over at his laptop for the time. “It’s half past noon.”

You sigh in shame and make your way to the door.

“Hold on,” he says. You turn and almost miss the ball of fabric he throws towards you. When you hold it up and realize it’s one of his extra jerseys, you laugh.

“Wear it to the next game,” Rafe tells you.

“Good idea,” you say, imagining the way Emma, and hopefully Beck, will fume at the sight of you with Cameron across your back. “See you.”

You rush down the hallway, thrown out of your thoughts when you hear a loud click. Beck is unlocking his door a few feet ahead of you.

You internally groan. You feel awful and you’re sure you look it, too.

His eyes search your face, as if he doesn’t recognize you. On top of the embarrassment and anxiety you’re already feeling, the sight of him bombards you with the familiar pain of rejection.

“Hey,” you say with an awkward laugh. You need to act casual. You figure if you can pretend to like Rafe, you can pretend to not like Beck. “How’s it going?”

He looks past you, no doubt cluing in that you’re leaving Rafe’s dorm in last night’s clothes. You know what he’s going to think – you spent the night doing more than just sleeping. Suddenly, you’re glad you ran into him.

“Good,” he says absentmindedly. “You?”

“Good,” you reply, continuing to walk past him. Beck looks down, seemingly thrown off.

“I have to say…” He lets out a humorless chuckle. You stop and turn to look at him. “It’s kind of crazy that you’re hanging out with him.”

“Crazy?”

“He’s not really your type.”

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“What is my type?” you challenge.

Beck’s forehead crinkles in what you’d have to guess is disappointment. You swallow nervously. He could say so many things that would break your heart even more. And you hate that he has that much power over you.

“I just think he’s… intense,” he replies.

“I like intense,” you say.

Beck seems out of words. And as much as you want to stay, to ask what he’s thinking, you’re done waiting on bated breath for him, hoping he feels how you do when you share a private moment.

If you act like you’re not in love with him, your heart will eventually catch up. It has to.

“Nice to see you,” you say, carrying on towards the elevator. And walking away from him instead of the other way around for once gives you a newfound feeling of victory that you realize you really needed.

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97linelover · 5 days ago

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I wonder - Jeon Jungkook

summary: doing your sick friend a favour, which means helping out at jhopes concert does not prepare you for one person.

Jeon Jungkook.

The two of you had a hook up the night before he left for the military.

And now he’s back.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: smut, they re obssesed with each other, they’re just cute, jungkooks new tattoo is a huge topic

author's note: after yesterday’s concert I can’t stop thinking about it.

Y/N adjusted the last lighting filter backstage, fingers slightly trembling—not from stress, but from caffeine and five hours of sleep spread over two days.

The buzz of the concert crew was everywhere: stylists shouting, dancers stretching, cables tangling under hurried steps. She had been pulled in last minute, a favor to an old friend in the makeup team who had caught the flu the night before.

She didn’t expect this.

Not Goyang.

Not the massive J-Hope solo show.

And definitely not him.

But life never asked her opinion.

“Y/N, can you take the next artist?” someone called.

She nodded, wiping her hands on a towel as she turned to face her new client—and nearly dropped the brush in her hand.

Jeon Jungkook.

He stood just inside the dressing room door, black hoodie pulled halfway down, his dark eyes already locked on her like he’d been expecting her all along.

She froze.

He didn’t smile right away. Instead, his eyes moved over her face like he was trying to remember every detail he’d forgotten during his time away. Like nothing had changed.

Like it hadn’t been almost two years since that night.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Y/N swallowed hard. “Hey.”

A beat of silence.

Jungkook stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. The noise of the crew disappeared instantly, and all that remained was the echo of her pulse in her ears.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice warm but unreadable.

“Neither did I,” she replied, fighting the urge to cross her arms. “I’m just filling in for someone. Temporary.”

He nodded. “I’m just… guesting for one night. Hobi-hyung wanted to surprise the fans. You know him.”

She nodded too, too quickly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Another pause.

The air was thick now—not awkward, just heavy. Like the room hadn’t caught up with the past yet.

They both remembered that night.

The hotel.

The way his fingers had lingered on her skin like he didn’t want to forget her before he left for the military.

The silence afterward.

No messages. No explanations.

Just two people pretending it never happened.

“You look… good,” Jungkook finally said, breaking the silence.

Y/N looked up sharply. “You too. Bulked up a little, huh?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mandatory army diet. Lots of push-ups. Not much else to do.”

She smiled, and for a second it felt normal again. Easy. Dangerous.

“I guess I should do your makeup,” she said, finally turning back to the mirror and picking up a sponge, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess you should.”

He sat down slowly in the chair, knees brushing hers as he turned to face her. The air shifted again—tighter now. As her fingers touched his skin, her heart betrayed her with a thud.

He was real. Warm. Close.

Jungkook’s voice came low, near a whisper. “Did you ever think about that night?”

She froze again, her hand stilling on his cheek. She met his gaze in the mirror.

God.

His eyes were unreadable, but soft.

Y/N swallowed. “Did you?

“I never stopped.”

____________

Flashback

The moment their lips met, it was like months of tension detonated all at once.

Jungkook’s hands were in her hair, on her back, gripping her waist like he was scared she’d disappear if he let go. Y/N couldn’t think—didn’t want to. His mouth tasted like whiskey and something sweet, like danger in disguise.

He pressed her back into the private room’s couch, their breathing tangled and uneven. His voice came rough against her neck:

“I should stop.”

“Then stop,” she whispered, her fingers already undoing the buttons of his shirt.

But he didn’t.

He kissed her harder. Slower. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of her.

Clothes came off in pieces, pulled and dropped without grace. His skin was warm, the body beneath the shirts and choreography harder now, shaped by army prep and stress and want. He looked down at her with dark, hooded eyes, chest rising and falling.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said again, as if trying to remind himself.

“Then give me tonight,” she whispered.

He did.

And it wasn’t rushed or careless

It was everything he couldn’t say out loud.

The way he held her face in his hands as he moved against her.

The way he whispered her name like it was something holy.

The way his fingers found hers and held on.

They moved together in waves—soft at first, then desperate, louder. No music playing, but still in rhythm. His lips didn’t leave hers unless it was to breathe against her throat or whisper things that made her eyes close with heat:

“You drive me crazy.”

“I thought about this so many times.”

“You feel like… home.”

He came undone with her name on his lips, forehead pressed to hers, as if letting go of something he didn’t want to admit he’d been holding in far too long.

Afterward, the silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The kind that comes only when everything’s been said without speaking.

He pulled her close.

They didn’t talk much.

Just slow breathing. Fingers tracing bare skin. Her face tucked against his chest, heartbeats still out of sync.

And then, sometime before sunrise, she must have drifted off.

The Morning After

6:37 a.m.

Y/N woke alone.

The bed beside her was cold. The spot where Jungkook had been—empty, except for a faint scent of cologne and regret.

No note. No message. No voice.

Just silence.

Her phone was quiet too. Nothing from him. Nothing from anyone.

As if it hadn’t happened.

As if she hadn’t happened.

He was gone.

_____________

The makeup brush trembled slightly between Y/N’s fingers.

His hoodie was now off. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, and time had only sharpened what was already unfairly perfect. His jawline was more defined. His features stronger. His collarbones peeked just enough to make her pulse skip.

His hair was slightly tousled, freshly washed. His eyes—still that dark brown that had once looked down at her in a hotel bed, right before vanishing—were watching her again now.

Too carefully.

Too quietly.

“Look up,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He did. Slowly.

Her fingers touched his cheek as she blended concealer along the soft curve beneath his eye. His skin was warm under her touch. Familiar. Way too familiar.

Why does this feel like a dream I forgot I had?

She tried to focus. Concealer. Powder. Eyeliner. Keep it professional.

But his eyes never left hers. Not even once.

“Still the best hands in the business,” Jungkook murmured, his voice low, deep, intimate. Too intimate.

She didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “You’re shaking though.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m not,” she lied, brushing highlight across his cheekbone.

“You are,” he said again, softer. “Is it because of me?”

She pulled back, just enough to create space. Not enough to break the moment.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, barely able to meet his gaze.

His expression shifted—something between guilt and hunger flickering behind his eyes.

“Because I thought I could walk in here and act like nothing happened,” he said. “But I can’t.”

Y/N inhaled sharply and set the brush down on the table behind her. She crossed her arms and finally let herself look at him without filters or pretending.

“You left,” she said. “No text. No call. Not even a goodbye.”

His jaw tightened. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, his eyes suddenly full of something raw.

“I know,” he said. “And I hate myself for it.”

Her heart twisted.

Damn him.

Even now—especially now—he still made her heart ache in the worst way.

“I waited,” she whispered. “I told myself you’d say something. Anything.”

He stood up.

And just like that, they were too close again.

His chest almost touched hers, and his voice came low, trembling.

“I wanted to. Every day. I wrote a hundred messages and deleted all of them. Because I didn’t know what I had the right to say after what I did.

Y/N’s eyes searched his, trying to find the lie. But there was only truth—and regret.

And something else.

Still burning. Still there.

“I’m not the same person,” he said.

She let herself whisper back: “Neither am I.”

His hand reached up. Hovered near her cheek. Didn’t touch.

Not yet.

“I never forgot you,” he said, voice rough. “Not one day.”

Y/N closed her eyes. Her heart was a war zone. And he was standing right in the middle.

Y/N took a small step back. Enough for air to return. Enough for her thoughts to line up like soldiers.

In the corner of her eye, she saw movement—two stylists walking past, a camera assistant adjusting lighting nearby. The pre-show chaos was picking up again.

They weren’t alone anymore.

She cleared her throat and reached for the compact powder, flipping it open like nothing had just happened

“You should sit back down,” she said flatly.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. His brows furrowed just slightly, as if he couldn’t quite process the sudden shift.

“I mean it,” she added, firmer this time. “We’re not having this conversation. Not here. Not now.”

He slowly sat back in the chair, confusion and something like disappointment tightening his jaw.

“You were just—” he started.

“Doing my job,” she interrupted sharply, not letting him finish.

A moment of silence stretched between them.

Y/N didn’t look at him. She focused on the powder, dabbing it gently along the curve of his jaw. The same jaw she’d kissed. The same skin her fingers had once traced in the dark.

But now, her hands were steady. Cold. Careful.

“I’m here as crew,” she said, voice low but firm. “Not someone from your past.”

He let out a quiet breath, like the words hit harder than he expected.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t get to decide what this is, Jungkook. Not anymore.”

His gaze was on her now, intense and unreadable.

“You’re being cold,” he said quietly.

She met his eyes then—just for a second—and something behind her chest pulled tight.

“I’m being professional,” she corrected

He leaned forward slightly again, this time slower, like testing her boundary.

“You don’t have to pretend like it meant nothing,” he said.

Y/N smiled—tight and tired. “I’m not pretending. I’m surviving.”

His lips parted, as if to argue, but she was already turning away, reaching for the setting spray. She sprayed once, twice, then grabbed a tissue and gently patted the corners of his mouth.

“There. All done,” she said.

He didn’t move.

She stepped back again, this time fully. Crossing her arms. Setting the barrier.

“You should head to the stage for final checks. J-Hope’s going on in ten.”

Jungkook stood slowly. She could see the struggle in his posture, like he was carrying something he’d never planned to carry again.

But he didn’t say anything else.

Just nodded.

And walked away.

Leaving her standing there, heart pounding, hands clenched behind her back—wishing he had stayed

… and terrified that he still might.

The hallway leading to the stage was dim and humming with nervous energy. Crew members moved with purpose, headsets crackling, lights being tested for the final sequence.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her brush belt, keeping her face neutral—even though her chest was anything but.

“Y/N,” someone called from across the comms. “You’re needed at position three. Final touch-up for Jungkook. He’s getting mic’d now.”

Of course.

She grabbed her compact and a brush, forced her shoulders back, and walked toward the waiting area near the stage wings.

And then she saw him.

Jungkook stood under a warm prep light, a mic technician adjusting the pack clipped to the back of his jeans. His baggy denim hung low on his hips, tucked perfectly into black leather boots. The white tank top clung to him just enough to reveal the lines of his torso—still lean, still strong, still infuriatingly beautiful.

But it was the jacket that caught the light.

Black denim, dusted with dark glitter, shimmering faintly as he moved. A single silver chain looped at the collar, catching like a secret.

He looked like someone carved out of memory and stage lights.

Unreachable. Untouchable.

Until he turned—and saw her.

His eyes locked on hers immediately. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… present.

Like he’d been waiting.

Y/N didn’t pause. She walked up to him, pro to the bone, brush already in hand.

“Mic okay?” she asked, eyes focused on his face—not his lips. Not the way his collarbone peeked out when he moved.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a little tight. But I’ll survive.”

She nodded and stepped closer. With one hand, she steadied his jaw. With the other, she dabbed around the corner of his eye, smoothing the faint crease where the concealer had shifted.

Jungkook’s voice came low—just for her.

“You always do this thing with your lips when you’re concentrating.”

Y/N didn’t react.

“You’re doing it now,” he added, his voice dipping even lower.

“Stop talking,” she said softly. “Or I’ll poke your eye out.”

He smiled, just a little. “You’d never hurt me.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes sharp. “Don’t test that theory.”

He held her gaze for a beat, the tension between them wrapped tight as guitar strings. Then—softly, almost too quiet for her to hear—he said:

“You never said I looked good.”

Y/N hesitated, brush frozen near his cheekbone.

Then she leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and whispered

“You know you do.”

And just like that, she stepped back.

Professional.

Controlled.

Even though inside, her chest was on fire.

“Five minutes to stage,” someone called from the hall.

Y/N gave him a last once-over and nodded.

“You’re good to go.”

He didn’t move right away.

But she did.

She turned and walked away—before she could say something stupid. Before she could let him see the way her hand shook once she was out of his sight.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was still beautiful.

It was that some part of her still wanted him to pull her back.

From the side of the stage, Y/N stood just behind the curtain, half-shielded by lighting equipment and crew bodies, watching the crowd explode in screams.

Goyang was shaking.

The fans were on fire, voices echoing off the walls, arms raised, phones lit up like stars. It was the kind of energy that pulsed through your bones. And out there, under the lights, stood J-Hope and Jungkook—both drenched in sweat, charisma, and power.

She couldn’t help it.

A small smile crept onto her face.

They looked happy.

They looked whole.

Even after everything—time, distance, silence—watching Jungkook on stage felt… right. Like a missing piece snapping back into place, even if only for a moment.

The crowd roared louder as the intro to “I Wonder” began. J-Hope tossed an arm over Jungkook’s shoulders, both of them laughing between lyrics as they danced, light on their feet, feeding off each other like they never left.

Y/N clapped softly with the others in the wings, pride warming her chest.

And then—

The beat shifted.

A murmur of recognition swept through the crowd.

“Seven.”

Jungkook stepped forward alone now, breath still heavy, lips parted, eyes scanning the sea of fans like they were his to command.

The tank top was clinging to him now. His arms were slick from sweat, veins rising along his forearms. And as he reached up to adjust the mic wire behind his neck, the shirt lifted—just enough.

That’s when she saw it.

The tattoo.

Faint under the collar, but there—dark ink curling from his shoulder, creeping across his collarbone toward his chest.

Near her, she heard two stylists whisper:

“He extended it while he was in the army.”

“It goes all the way across now—shoulder to chest.”

“God, he got so hot.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

She didn’t mean to think it.

Didn’t want to.

But the image came anyway—

⸻

Flashback – That Night, That Tattoo

He hovered above her in the dark, breath warm against her collarbone. The room was barely lit by the streetlight outside, just enough to see the edges of his body—solid and real and hers, for that night.

Her lips trailed down his neck, slow and greedy.

And there it was.

The tattoo.

Back then, it ended just at the top of his shoulder, sharp black lines flowing like smoke across his skin.

Y/N kissed it.

First softly. Then again, with more hunger. Her tongue traced one of the lines, and she felt him shiver above her.

“You like it?” he asked, voice rough.

“I’d get lost in it if you let me,” she whispered back.

His laugh came low against her skin. “You already are.“

⸻

Present

Y/N blinked hard, yanked back into the now by the thunder of applause as Jungkook hit the final chorus of Seven. He moved like he’d never left the stage, hips rolling, voice pure honey, the fans eating up every second.

And all she could think was—

God, I want to see that tattoo again.

I want to see all of him again

She clenched her hands behind her back.

No.

Not tonight. Not like this.

But even as she tried to look away, her eyes found him again.

And this time, his gaze flicked—straight to her.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just long enough to let her know:

He saw her.

He always did.

He grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, downed half of it in seconds, then bent forward with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

That performance was a rush.

But the real jolt hadn’t been the lights or the fans.

It had been her.

He’d seen her.

Just off-stage. Watching.

Eyes locked on him for those final seconds of Seven.

And then it was over.

Now she was gone again.

“Yo, good job, man,” one of the dancers clapped him on the back. “You killed it.”

He nodded, still breathing heavy, eyes scanning the hallway.

A few feet down, past the tech crates and bottled waters, he finally spotted her—kneeling next to Hobi, calmly patting his forehead with a towel, checking his skin for shine, brushing powder over his temples.

Y/N.

Focused. Grounded. Not looking at him.

J-Hope laughed, still glowing from the performance. “I swear, Y/N, I don’t know how you don’t get bored fixing my sweaty face every ten minutes.”

She smiled, that soft little grin Jungkook knew too well. “It’s my job to make sure you keep looking good. Even when you’re dying inside.”

“Damn, harsh!” Hobi chuckled.

Jungkook stood there, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt, unsure what to do with himself.

She hadn’t even glanced his way.

Not once.

Was she really that good at pretending now?

He took a step closer, then stopped.

She was still crouched in front of Hobi, saying something quietly, reaching into her makeup pouch for something.

She used to do that for me, too…

That same look. That same care.

And now I’m just… background noise?

His throat tightened.

J-Hope caught his eye first and smiled. “Yo, JK! You good?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, straightening up. “Still breathing.”

Y/N didn’t react.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

She just kept dabbing a clean sponge across Hobi’s cheek like she hadn’t just watched Jungkook set the entire arena on fire minutes ago.

He almost wanted to laugh.

Or curse.

Or say her name just to make her look at him.

But instead, he just stood there—sweat cooling on his skin, heart thudding, suddenly unsure whether the stage had been the hardest part of the night… or if this was.

„Hey, heads up—Jungkook’s doing a quick change. New hair touch-up needed in ten.”

The voice came through Y/N’s headset like any other cue. Routine. Professional. Just another task.

She gave a quiet “alright,” already preparing the setting spray and hair serum. But her stomach still turned.

Another outfit.

Another moment alone.

Stay focused.

She wiped down the table, replaced the brushes, adjusted the combs.

And waited.

Minutes later, the hallway rustled. Footsteps. Laughter

And then—him.

Jungkook walked in with a soft smirk and new energy. His old outfit gone, replaced by a light blue denim jacket, slightly oversized, sleeves rolled once at the forearms. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt, fitted just enough to hug the new strength in his frame.

The matching light-wash jeans sat low on his hips.

Effortless. Warm.

Dangerous.

And of course, he didn’t speak.

Just walked straight toward the styling chair like this was normal.

It wasn’t.

Y/N’s hands froze at the edge of the table. Then she grabbed the comb.

“Sit,” she said softly.

He did.

The air thickened immediately.

She ran her fingers gently through his hair—softer now after sweat and stage heat. She spritzed water, then used the comb to part the strands, brushing them back from his forehead. His skin was still warm. His pulse visible at the side of his neck.

And then—his scent hit her.

Clean. Light. Like fabric softener and something deeper.

Masculine. Familiar.

Don’t remember.

Don’t go back there—

But her body betrayed her.

⸻

Flashback – The Way He Looked at Her

That night, she’d been straddling him on the bed, knees sinking into cheap hotel sheets, her fingers tangled in his hair.

He was shirtless.

His breath hot against her collarbone.

And his hair—longer then—was all over her hands.

“Don’t stop,” he’d whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I want you to touch all of me.”

And she had.

Her palms had slid into his hair as she kissed him deeper, rougher, harder. His jacket had already been thrown somewhere across the room, and her nails had scraped down his scalp as he moaned her name.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he’d said into her skin.

And she had believed him

⸻

Present

Y/N blinked back to reality, her chest rising slightly too fast.

Jungkook was still sitting there, eyes closed, head slightly tilted back as she ran her fingers through his hair. Too close. Too intimate.

“You were incredible,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

He turned his head slightly toward her voice, surprised.

“You watched?”

“I work here, don’t I?” she muttered, brushing through the front strands slowly.

He smiled again. “Still… thanks. I saw you. Side stage.”

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Her fingers slipped into his hair again, lifting gently, separating strands, smoothing texture. His hair was soft, like silk between her fingers. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“You always do it like this,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “Gentle. You always take your time.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, but there was no venom in it.

He chuckled, deep and soft.

“I missed this.”

Y/N’s hand stilled for half a second

⸻

Flashback – That Hotel Room, That Night

Jungkook’s lips were on her throat, hot and hungry. The room was dim, but her skin was lit with fire.

His denim jacket was the first to go — she had peeled it off his shoulders, breathless from the kiss, from the way he was looking at her. Like he needed her more than air.

He’d laid her back against the sheets, one knee between her thighs, arms on either side of her head.

“Say stop,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “Say it and I will.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she pulled him in harder, fingernails raking up his back through the thin white shirt.

Her hands were in his hair — gripping, pulling.

He let out a low sound, almost a growl, and kissed her deeper

Her name fell from his lips over and over again as her mouth explored his skin like a map.

“You’re driving me insane,” he groaned against her ear.

“Good,” she whispered. “Now don’t stop.”

⸻

Present –

Her breath hitched as she adjusted his parting, her fingers trembling just barely. The brush moved, but her thoughts didn’t.

She could feel his hands still. His mouth.

She could still taste his skin.

Jungkook glanced up, sensing the shift

“You okay?” he asked again, voice gentler now.

She snapped out of it. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” His tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was real. Worried.

Her hand froze again, just above his forehead.

And for a second—just a second—she let her fingers drift through his hair like she used to. Slow. Careful. Tender.

Like she didn’t want to forget the shape of him.

Then she stepped back. Hard.

“You’re good,” she said. “Done.”

Jungkook stood slowly, turning to face her, eyes darker now

But she was already moving, cleaning brushes, placing bottles in their trays like she hadn’t just relived his body on hers.

He didn’t say a word.

He just stood there.

Watching her like he wanted to say everything—

But maybe still didn’t know how.

The stage lights dimmed for a moment, then burst back to life in waves of purple and blue.

The crowd roared, anticipation thick in the air.

J-Hope stepped forward, confident and radiant, a wide smile lighting up his face. Jungkook followed close behind, eyes sparkling with an electric mix of focus and joy. Behind them, Jin took his place, steady and graceful, a quiet strength anchoring the moment.

The beat dropped — smooth, hypnotic — as the opening chords of “Jamais Vu” filled the arena.

Jungkook moved effortlessly, every step syncing perfectly with the rhythm. His voice blended seamlessly with J-Hope and Jin’s, weaving together in perfect harmony.

The energy between the three was magnetic, like they shared a secret only they knew — a story told through movement and melody.

Jungkook’s smile never faded. It was a beam of pure light that reached every corner of the venue.

When he hit the high notes, the crowd erupted, voices joining his in a chorus of adoration.

Side stage, Y/N watched quietly, her breath catching as she saw him shine—not just as an idol or performer, but as someone alive and free.

In that moment, all the distance, the silence, and the unspoken words melted away

Jungkook was glowing.

And she couldn’t look away.

After the last echoes of the performance faded, Y/N moved efficiently through the backstage area, gathering her tools and tidying up the makeup station. The buzz of the crew was still low but fading as everyone prepared for the next set.

Her hands worked on autopilot, but her mind wasn’t focused on the task. It kept drifting—back to the stage, to Jungkook’s radiant smile, to the way his eyes caught hers.

Once everything was packed, she slipped out of the main room, heading toward the quieter corridors backstage.

She paused outside a door, hearing soft rustling inside.

The familiar scent—clean linen and something uniquely Jungkook—filtered through the crack.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

There he was, pulling off his jacket, the soft denim falling from his shoulders. The room was dimly lit, shadows casting long lines across his frame.

He looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” she replied, voice steady even though her heart was anything but.

For a moment, they just stood there, the space between them thick with everything unsaid.

The door clicked softly behind Y/N as she stepped into the small dressing room. The air was thick with the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the faint musk of sweat from the stage — intoxicating and familiar.

Jungkook stood by the mirror, slipping off his shirt, the muscles of his back flexing with each movement. His eyes met hers in the dim light, dark and smoldering.

“Did you watch the whole performance?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching. “Of course.”

He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking until it was nothing but electric tension

“Why do you keep avoiding me?” he asked, voice husky.

She looked away, heart pounding. “I’m trying to be professional.”

He chuckled softly, a sound full of promise and challenge. “We both know that’s not the whole truth.”

Her eyes met his again, and for the first time in a long time, the walls between them began to crumble.

Without thinking, her fingers brushed against his arm — a spark jolting through both of them.

Jungkook’s hand reached out, covering hers, warm and steady.

The room seemed to pulse around them as the heat built, unspoken but undeniable.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “do you want this? Or are you just afraid to admit it?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, lips parted — caught between restraint and desire.

And in that charged silence, everything changed.

Her eyes found his again, wide and vulnerable, the walls she’d built around herself beginning to crumble in the face of his unwavering stare.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers brushed against his forearm—a hesitant, tentative touch—but the electricity that sparked between them was anything but small.

Jungkook’s hand rose slowly, covering hers. His skin was warm, steadying, grounding. His fingers laced with hers effortlessly, like they’d been meant to fit together all along.

The room seemed to pulse with unspoken words and unsaid promises. The air thickened, charged with tension so palpable it was almost unbearable.

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, words caught somewhere between restraint and desire. Her heart hammered like a drum, threatening to drown out everything else.

The space between them was charged with longing and fear and something deeper—something neither wanted to name but both could feel burning bright.

She could smell him, see the faintest sheen of sweat on his skin, feel the steady beat of his pulse beneath her palm.

For a moment, nothing else existed except the two of them, suspended in time, teetering on the edge of what was and what could be.

And then—

Her lips trembled as she finally whispered, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jungkook’s thumb brushed soothing circles over her hand. “Then maybe we’ll take it slow,” he said softly, voice full of promise and patience.

He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek.

“Whatever you want, I’m here,” he said.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the heat, the promise, the aching tension wash over her.

When she opened them again, the vulnerability was still there—but so was the spark.

Because maybe, just maybe, they were ready to stop running from what had always been there.

The space between them collapsed as Jungkook’s hand tightened slightly around hers, his touch sending a jolt straight through her.

His eyes never left hers, dark and burning with a hunger she hadn’t dared to admit she felt too.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there, warm and sure, tracing a path down her jawline, following the curve of her neck.

Y/N’s breath hitched, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more.

Without warning, he closed the tiny distance left between them, lips capturing hers in a kiss that was soft at first — exploratory — then deepening in an instant, fierce and desperate

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the heat between them exploded.

Jungkook’s body pressed against hers, every inch charged with the electricity of months of silence and unanswered questions.

She tasted him — salt and something sweeter, raw and real — and forgot everything except the way he made her feel alive, wanted.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The room grew smaller, hotter.

Clothes became obstacles to be shed, buttons undone with trembling fingers, skin meeting skin in a blaze of heat.

He paused just long enough to whisper against her lips, “I never stopped wanting you.”

And then he kissed her like he meant it—like the night they lost to time never happened

Every touch, every gasp, every moan spoke louder than words.

This was their moment.

Unstoppable, undeniable.

The heat between them was rising, breaths mingling, hearts racing—every second felt like a stolen dream.

But then, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

Jungkook’s eyes snapped open, alert and tense.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling back just enough to listen.

From the hallway came a voice—urgent, calling his name.

“They’re looking for you.”

His gaze flicked to Y/N, a mix of frustration and regret flashing in his eyes.

“Stay here. I’ll be back,” he whispered, his hand briefly squeezing hers before he slipped toward the door.

Y/N barely had time to process before the door cracked open and he was gone, disappearing into the corridor like smoke.

Her heart pounded loud in the sudden silence.

She looked around desperately, spotting the small storage closet just behind the door.

Without thinking, she ducked inside, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.

Inside, cramped and dim, she held her breath, waiting.

Every sound from the hallway made her pulse quicken—her mind swirling with what-ifs and the ache of unfinished moments.

Outside, Jungkook’s footsteps faded down the hall.

And Y/N was left alone in the shadows, the heat between them simmering, waiting for a chance to ignite again.

The moment Jungkook’s footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the chaos backstage, the room seemed to exhale with a sudden stillness. The air, heavy and charged just seconds ago, now felt impossibly quiet.

Y/N lowered herself onto a nearby chair, the adrenaline coursing through her veins slowly retreating. Her hands trembled slightly as she began to gather her scattered makeup brushes and palettes, packing them carefully back into her worn kit. Each item felt heavier than usual, burdened by the weight of the memories she was trying not to dwell on.

Her mind flicked back to Jungkook’s touch—the way his fingers lingered on her skin, the heat of his breath against her neck, the softness of his lips that had ignited a fire she thought had been extinguished months ago. The thought made her pulse race again, leaving her both exhilarated and conflicted.

“Hey, Y/N.”

The soft voice startled her. She looked up to see J-Hope stepping into the room, his ever-present smile gentle but sincere. His eyes held something deeper tonight—an understanding that went beyond the usual crew-member-to-artist banter.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he continued, closing the distance between them. “You really saved us tonight. The whole team’s been talking about how amazing your work was.”

Y/N forced a small smile, trying to appear composed. “It was nothing. Just doing my job.”

But J-Hope shook his head slightly. “No, seriously. You stepped in last minute, and the boys really appreciated it. We’d love to have you join us for dinner—just us, the members. It would be nice to spend some time together, outside all this.”

The invitation hung in the air, warm and inviting—but Y/N hesitated. The offer was tempting, but the underlying tension between her and Jungkook made it complicated.

“I don’t know, Hobi…” she began, voice wavering. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

J-Hope’s smile softened, and he took a step closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

“Is it… because of Jungkook?” His eyes sparkled with gentle teasing, but there was genuine care beneath it. “Everyone’s noticed, you know. The way you two look at each other—the tension that’s been building since he got back.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. She hadn’t expected anyone to be so perceptive.

He chuckled softly. “The guys talk about it a lot. They remember that night before he went to the military—the night you two were… close.”

Her cheeks flushed, heat rushing to her face. She bit her lip, uncertain whether to deny it or confess.

J-Hope’s expression was kind but honest. “No shame in it, Y/N. It’s clear there’s something between you two. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.”

She looked down, wrestling with her feelings—the fear of opening old wounds, the desire for something more, and the uncertainty of what that something might be.

The room felt smaller, the distance between them shrinking as the truth lingered in the air.

After a long pause, Y/N finally met J-Hope’s eyes. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispered.

J-Hope’s grin returned, bright and reassuring. “Good. Because whatever happens, we’re here for you. And who knows? Tonight might be the start of something new.”

Y/N nodded slowly, heart pounding—not just from the night’s events, but from the possibility of what could come next.

Outside the door, the distant hum of the crowd and the pulsing beat of the music reminded her that this world was fast and unpredictable. But for now, she allowed herself a moment of quiet hope.

They ended up in a small, tucked-away Korean BBQ place — the kind of late-night spot that didn’t need a name, only the smell of grilled meat spilling out into the street to draw people in.

It was nearly 1 a.m., but the private room was already buzzing when Y/N walked in with J-Hope.

Laughter bounced off the walls. Jin was mid-story, animated as always, hands flying everywhere while Jimin leaned into him, half-laughing, half-mocking. Taehyung was fiddling with the grill tongs, pretending to be the “meat master,” while Namjoon poured everyone water with such focus it looked like he was defusing a bomb.

Y/N hesitated at the threshold.

Until she saw him.

Jungkook.

Sitting near the far end of the low table, his denim jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his plain white t-shirt stretched just right across his chest. His hair was still damp from the show, pushed back lazily, revealing that sharp jaw and those dark, unreadable eyes.

He looked up when she entered.

And for the briefest moment—one second, no more—it was like the noise disappeared. Like she was the only person in the room.

Then Jimin shouted, “Y/N! Yah, finally! Come sit!

Hobi guided her inside with a soft nudge, and she slipped off her shoes, squeezing in between Taehyung and Namjoon. Not too far from Jungkook… but not next to him, either.

“Eat, eat,” Jin said, piling her plate high without waiting for her to speak. “You’re family now.”

Someone threw a piece of pork belly on the hot grill and it sizzled instantly, sending up a wave of smoke and scent that made Y/N’s stomach rumble.

The atmosphere was loud and easy, but her body was tense.

Jungkook hadn’t said a word.

But she could feel him.

Every time she laughed too loud, every time she reached for the lettuce, she felt his gaze flicker toward her. A glance here. A pause there. Heat beneath the surface.

It was subtle, but it was undeniable.

And the others weren’t subtle at all.

“So,” Jimin said, eyes glinting as he chewed. “Y/N, how’s it feel being back with the crew? Especially with Jungkook around again?”

The room buzzed with quiet laughter.

Y/N looked down at her rice.

Taehyung didn’t even hide his grin. “Yeah, the tension backstage was… whew. Thick. Like ramen noodles.”

“Thicker,” Jin added helpfully. “Udon-thick.”

Hobi raised his eyebrows at her, mock-innocent. “You sure you’re just here for makeup, Y/N?”

She nearly choked on her kimchi. “You’re all insane.”

But her cheeks were warm. And Jungkook?

Still silent.

Until he finally looked at her—straight on.

His voice cut through the table, low and even: “Let them talk.”

She froze. Everyone else did too.

He didn’t take his eyes off her as he added, “We know the truth, don’t we?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even playful.

It was something deeper. Something real.

And for the first time that night, Y/N wasn’t sure if her heart was racing from embarrassment… or from everything she couldn’t say.

The room burst back to life.

Once Jungkook dropped his cryptic “we know the truth,” the rest of the guys lost it.

“Ooooooh,” Jimin howled, nearly choking on his lettuce wrap. “He really said that.”

“So dramatic,” Taehyung said, clutching his chest like he’d just heard a confession on a K-drama. “Was that the opening monologue of a romance drama or what?

“I’m crying,” Namjoon muttered into his beer glass. “I swear you two are living in a fanfiction.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing so hard her sides hurt. “You guys are so annoying.”

“No, no, we’re just invested,” Jin grinned. “This is better than Love Alarm.”

J-Hope, still grilling meat like a professional, raised the tongs like a mic. “Y/N, tell us the truth—on a scale from ‘meh’ to ‘melt my bones,’ how spicy was that one night before Jungkook enlisted?”

“Hobi!” she shrieked, half-laughing, half-dying of embarrassment.

“C’mon,” Jimin said, elbowing her gently. “We all know you’ve seen the tattoo.”

Everyone froze in mock horror.

Jin gasped. “The chest extension?”

“Oh, so it is real,” Namjoon said with a smirk.

Taehyung leaned in dramatically. “Did you… kiss it?”

Y/N buried her face in her hands, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “I hate all of you.“

But the way her eyes sparkled said otherwise.

And the best part?

Even Jungkook was laughing.

Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, his smile was that full, bunny-toothed grin—the one he rarely showed. He was blushing faintly, but not mad. Just watching her. Enjoying the chaos.

“Didn’t know you guys were so curious,” he said coolly.

“Oh, we’re nosy as hell,” Jimin shot back.

“And protective,” Taehyung added, poking his chopsticks at Jungkook. “But mostly nosy.”

Y/N wiped her eyes. Her cheeks were sore from smiling. It was rare to feel this light—especially after the emotional whirlwind backstage—but here, with them, it felt like home.

She picked up a piece of meat and dropped it on Jungkook’s plate.

“There,” she said, smirking. “You earned it. For surviving the interrogation.

Jungkook glanced down at his plate, then back up at her. “You feeding me now?”

The table erupted again.

“OH my god,” Jimin groaned, covering his face. “I can’t do this.”

“Just make out already,” Jin muttered. “And give us peace.”

Y/N laughed, head tipping back, feeling warmth bubble in her chest—not just from the soju or the teasing, but from something deeper.

Something like belonging.

The laughter hadn’t died down — if anything, the room had only grown louder. Jin was now reenacting a dramatic slow-motion version of Y/N “discovering” Jungkook’s chest tattoo, complete with gasps and exaggerated sound effects. Taehyung added background music on his phone, some over-the-top piano ballad from a 2008 K-drama OST.

Y/N was crying laughing, her cheeks warm and her stomach sore from how much fun she was having.

Somewhere between Hobi pouring more soju and Jimin complaining about how “nobody respects the vocal line anymore,” the conversation circled back—like it always did—to Jungkook.

“You’re seriously not gonna tell us what it looks like?” Taehyung asked Jungkook, who was now reclining comfortably in his seat, arms crossed, sipping his water like he had all the time in the world.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You’ve all seen it. Why are you acting like it’s top secret?”

“I haven’t,” Y/N chimed in suddenly, tone light and mischievous as she reached for a piece of grilled mushroom.

The table paused—just for a beat.

Jungkook’s eyes lifted slowly to meet hers.

Y/N smiled innocently, but her voice carried the exact kind of heat that turned playful into dangerous:

“I mean, I don’t really know the tattoo… not up close. But…” — she shrugged — “I wouldn’t mind seeing it someday.”

The table exploded.

Jimin screamed, literally falling onto Namjoon’s shoulder.

“NO. MA’AM.”

“WHAT DID SHE JUST—”

Taehyung slapped the table so hard his chopsticks flew.

“YAH?!”

Even Hobi choked on his lettuce.

Jin just nodded solemnly. “She’s one of us now.”

Namjoon muttered something about needing a therapist.

But Jungkook…

He didn’t laugh.

Not right away.

He just looked at her.

And that look—God.

There was no mistaking the spark that flashed behind his eyes. Amusement, yes. But more.

Something dark and amused and dangerous.

He took another slow sip of his water, then tilted his head slightly, still holding her gaze.

“That so?” he said, voice smooth.

“Someday might come sooner than you think.”

The air thickened.

Everyone felt it.

Even the guys got a little quieter. Not out of discomfort—just knowing when the joke had crossed into real territory.

J-Hope, the eternal mood-balancer, clapped his hands. “Aaaaand that’s our cue to call for dessert!”

Y/N laughed again, trying to breathe, trying to act normal. But her heart was beating a little faster. Her eyes flicked back to Jungkook just once.

He was still watching her.

Still smiling.

But differently now.

Like he was counting the seconds until “someday.”

The night had begun to settle, the air outside still warm from the lingering summer heat, but softened now by the late hour. The laughter from dinner echoed faintly as they left the restaurant, the BTS boys still bantering and pulling each other into goodbyes.

Y/N stood just outside the entrance, her makeup bag slung over her shoulder, the cool breeze brushing her cheeks. She didn’t expect it when Jungkook stepped beside her.

“I’ll take you home,” he said simply.

No hesitation. No question.

Just that low, quiet voice. Gentle, but firm.

She blinked, taken aback. “You… sure?”

He nodded once, already unlocking the passenger door of a sleek black SUV parked nearby. “It’s late. You helped us all tonight. Let me return the favor.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to—but because the idea of being alone with him again made her pulse flutter.

But she got in.

The drive started quiet. City lights blurred past the window, and the hum of the tires on asphalt filled the silence. Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, fingers drumming softly to a song only he could hear.

Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye.

It was strange. After all the noise, the teasing, the chaos of the group—this silence felt heavier than anything.

She cleared her throat. “You were amazing tonight. On stage. I needed the second performance again on my phone“ you giggled.

He glanced at her, lips quirking up slightly. “Thanks. It felt good to be back.”

“And ‘Seven’…” she smiled to herself, staring out the window. “It hits different live.”

“You looked like you were enjoying it,” he said, eyes still on the road.

She laughed softly. “You mean when I almost spilled my water trying to film you?”

He chuckled, the sound warm. “Yeah, that.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt… loaded. Like something thick in the air, waiting to be acknowledged.

Finally, she said it. Quietly.

“You didn’t say goodbye back then.”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first.

Then, he pulled into a small side street near her place and parked. The engine went silent. No more movement. Just the two of them, the hum of the city outside, and everything that hadn’t been said for over a year.

“I couldn’t,” he said finally. Voice low. Honest. “I didn’t trust myself.”

Y/N turned toward him, caught off guard by the rawness in his tone.

“I thought…” He paused, jaw flexing slightly. “If I said goodbye the right way, I wouldn’t leave. And I had to. I had no choice.”

She looked down, fingers nervously twisting the strap of her bag. “You could’ve at least left a message. Something.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

Silence.

But now it was his turn to speak again.

“I thought about you a lot. More than I should have.”

Her breath caught.

He leaned slightly closer, not touching, but closer. His voice dropped.

“And tonight… that little comment you made at dinner?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting his.

He smiled—slow, almost cocky—but still soft around the edges.

“You’re still curious about the tattoo, huh?”

Her cheeks warmed instantly. “I was joking.”

“Were you?” he murmured.

Then his hand reached up—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

That touch alone was enough to undo her.

“You shouldn’t play with fire if you’re not ready to get burned,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Her voice trembled, but she held his gaze. “Who says I’m not ready?”

That was the moment.

The air between them crackled.

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

But the promise of it hung in the space between their mouths—so close, so charged, so inevitable.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to let her breathe again, his smile was softer this time.

“I’ll walk you up.”

The elevator ride up to her apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet where every second stretched into a question. Every glance was a whisper of should we? And the air between them… was ready to ignite.

Y/N’s fingers shook slightly as she unlocked her door, the familiar click of the lock sounding so loud in the silence that followed.

She stepped inside, turned on the hallway light.

Jungkook followed.

And as she closed the door behind him, the soft thud of it shutting felt like crossing a line.

No turning back.

Y/N slipped off her shoes. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Or—”

But her voice faltered when she turned around and saw him watching her.

He was standing in the narrow hallway, still in his all-denim outfit, the white shirt beneath his jacket clinging faintly to his frame. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

“I’m not thirsty,” he said.

And it wasn’t what he said, but how he said it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was charged.

She took one step closer. So did he.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “About thinking of you. About missing you.”

Her breath caught. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

His eyes searched hers.

“Because if I told you then… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

Then his hand reached for her—slow, but sure. His fingers brushed her cheek, then slid into her hair as he stepped into her space, eyes locked on her lips.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t gentle.

It was months of tension, guilt, want, and memory all at once.

His lips crushed hers with a hunger that made her gasp, her fingers clutching at the collar of his jacket. She could taste the leftover sweetness of soju and the familiar heat that had haunted her dreams for months.

Jungkook moved with purpose, backing her up until her shoulders hit the wall, never once breaking the kiss. His hand slid around her waist, gripping her hip like he was claiming her—like he had to make sure she was real.

She tugged at his jacket. He let it fall.

Her hands slid under the hem of his white shirt, fingertips grazing skin—warm, solid, the faintest edge of his abs tightening beneath her touch.

And then she felt it.

The tattoo.

inked into his shoulder… but now extended, traced down over his chest, disappearing beneath his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to catch her expression. His smile was dangerous.

“Still curious?” he asked, breathless.

Y/N nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Show me.“

And just like that, he stripped off the shirt.

Slowly. Intentionally.

The fabric lifted, revealing inch after inch of warm skin, hard muscle, and ink—dark lines and shadows that traced down across his collarbone and onto his chest. Her eyes followed it, mesmerized, lips parting.

“You can touch,” he said, voice low. “I want you to.”

She stepped forward, hands resting on his bare chest. Her fingers traced the tattoo slowly, then her lips followed—soft kisses over the ink, down the line of his collarbone.

His breath hitched. “Fuck…”

That one word unraveled them both.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her against the wall again, his mouth on her neck now—biting, soothing, teasing—hands sliding beneath her shirt, exploring with the kind of hunger that came from waiting too long.

Y/N was gasping, clawing at his skin, her voice a whisper against his ear:

“You left me burning for a year, Jeon.”

His answer was a growl, low and deep:

“Then let me burn with you now.”

And he did.

Again and again.

Until the only thing left between them was sweat, skin, and the sound of two hearts finally finding their rhythm again.

Y/N woke to warmth.

Not just the sunlight gently seeping in through the thin curtains — but the steady, solid heat of Jungkook’s body wrapped around hers. His arm draped heavy over her waist, his legs tangled lazily with hers, and his breath soft against the back of her neck.

And he was still asleep.

She could tell by the rhythm — slow, deep — and by the way his hand twitched every now and then against her stomach, as if holding her tighter even in his dreams.

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

For a while, she just lay there — letting herself feel it. His skin against hers. The quiet peace of a moment that didn’t feel rushed, or borrowed, or dangerous.

Just… theirs.

Then, softly:

“You’re awake.”

His voice was rough — sleep-heavy, low, and deeper than usual

She smiled, eyes still closed. “So are you.”

He hummed, pressing a gentle kiss between her shoulder blades. “Didn’t want to be. But you’re so warm, it’s distracting.”

She laughed under her breath, turning slightly in his arms so she could face him.

Jungkook was barefaced — hair messy, lips pink, his eyes still half-closed. But beautiful. Soft and unguarded in a way she rarely saw.

“You drool,” she said, grinning.

He groaned. “No, I don’t.”

“You absolutely do. You were cuddling me like a human pillow.”

“You’re small and soft. That’s not my fault.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to sit up — but Jungkook pulled her back down without effort, wrapping both arms around her like a human blanket.

“You’re not going anywhere yet.”

“But—”

“I’ve waited over a year to wake up next to you. I’m taking my time.”

And just like that, her heartbeat flipped again.

He was staring at her — not with lust, not with nerves — but with that quiet, open gaze that felt… dangerous. In the best way.

“Did it feel real to you?” she asked softly.

His thumb brushed against her hip beneath the blanket. “It feels more than real.”

She swallowed. “I don’t want to overthink this. Or ruin it.

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “I swear.”

There was a pause.

Then he reached up, brushing hair from her face.

“I was scared to see you again,” he admitted. “Backstage, when I first walked in and saw you… I almost lost it. You looked the same. But different.”

“Different how?”

“More… sure of yourself. Even when you ignored me,” he teased, smirking.

She poked his chest. “You deserved it.”

He caught her hand gently, threading their fingers together. “Probably. But I couldn’t stop looking at you. I still can’t.”

Her cheeks burned — and she hated how easy he made her smile.

Then:

“What now?” she asked quietly.

Jungkook didn’t rush to answer. He studied her face like he was memorizing every curve, every freckle, every shade of doubt in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I want to find out. With you.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that the world outside was loud, complicated, or unsure.

Because here — in her bed, wrapped in sheets and sleepy affection — they were sure

For now, that was enough.

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