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tonycries · 7 months ago

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Cake or Fake - G.S.

Synopsis. The only birthday gift your brother’s best friend wants? You. And not just for fake-dating…

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, brother’s best friend! Gojo, annoyances to lovers, fake dating, PINING, jealousy (Gojo’s side), past Sukuna x Reader, matíng presses, vírgínity loss (Gojo), oraI (fem rec.), PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, size kínk, cervíx kíssing, he’s such a tease, cúmplay, p talking, making him WHÍMPER, spítting, pánty-steaIing, slight chokíng, reader is Geto’s sister, matchmaking, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.1k

A/N. In honor of my hubby’s birthday!!

“Wait, who’s coming to your party?”

“It’s not just a ‘party’, it’s my surprise party-”

“Satoru, it’s not a surprise party if you’re the one organizing the surp-” You’re cutting yourself off with a heaving sigh, massaging your throbbing temples. “Anyway- continue.”

Growing up, you didn’t suffer through years of endless torment from Gojo Satoru to hope that he’d ever use logic. No, of course not.

Instead, he’s brandishing the oversized birthday banner he’d bought himself, softly smacking the top of your head. “Besides- it’s not like everyone’s going to be there. Just our group, Nanami’s troupe, some Kyoto people, I invited Yaga but he kicked me out of his office- oh- and Sukuna.”

Ah, there it was.

The one person you didn’t want to see just as much as you didn’t want to be roped into your brother’s best friend’s “surprise” party planning for his own birthday. But, alas, here you were.

And here tumbled the next few words that would likely haunt you for the rest of your life.

“I need you to date me.”

“Oh? Okay.”

“Listen I know it’s stupid and I know-” Wait…what? Cutting yourself off with a choked-up wheeze- for the first time since he’d barged into your life, Gojo had truly and absolutely stumped you. “Wait- you agreed?”

He’s shrugging one broad deltoid, tinted glasses that you’d bought for his last birthday sliding down that high nose bridge of his. And the grin you’re graced with is blinding. “Well, I knew it was about time before you fell for my charms~” Before one strong arm swings its way around your shoulders, manhandling you against the thin black t-shirt wrapped around his sculpted body. He wiggles his cloudy brows, “What was it- the hair? The eyes? The body? Y’know I’ve been hitting the gym more-”

“Gojo Satoru.” you’re gritting out through tight lips. “I need you to date me- just for one night.”

“So it was the body-” he’s gasping dramatically, beefy arms frantically wrapping around your middle. You could feel the curves of his washboard abs against your palm. Purring voice pitching up into what almost sounded like a whine, “At least take me out to dinner first–! To think that you just want me for a one night stand-”

In a split-second, your palms slap over his nonsensical mouth - hard enough that you almost spy a stinging stamp of red on his skin.

And yet, Gojo doesn’t complain. Doesn’t display anything but a brazen gleam in his gaze that practically screamed out kinky~!

“Shut- up- my brother’s in the next room.” You’re hissing, eyes flickering behind Gojo’s toned figure and towards the kitchen door for any looming sign of Geto. “I need you to date me-” Your digits tighten over his mouth as soon as you feel it moving to prattle away once more. “-just for tonight- no, not as a one night stand, put that banner down- We just need to ah- pretend?”

Damn, it sounds more of a garbage idea out loud - and you didn’t even know that was possible.

At the question in his summer blue eyes, your hopefully explanatory words spill out a mile a minute. “S-so Sukuna has been getting around since our little break-up a few months ago- if you can even call it that…”

Ah, melding into such a big group with your brother’s friends and your own in university had always meant that there would be a few bumps along the way.

From explaining to an overeager Haibara that no, you and Gojo were definitely not dating, to making sure that your brother and his best friend didn’t make Nanami suffer from an aneurysm too early in life, to perhaps the biggest of them all - your fiery, yet short-lived fling with Ryomen Sukuna.

The most dramatic bump, according to Shoko.

Sukuna wasn’t a close friend, but it’d taken work to get over the worst of the awkwardness after he’d dumped you without a moment’s notice. And you weren’t exactly dreaming up a wedding with him…sort of, but you certainly did skip out on a few invitations to hang out if you knew that he’d show his smug face.

And right now it left you ironically wishing you’d heeded Gojo’s words when he’d first warned you that Sukuna “wasn’t right for you.”

Though, you think part of it came from his own unexplainable love-hate animosity with the man.

“-but I’ve still been painfully single since the last time I saw him, and you know how he is. I can’t face him like this.” You, in particular, knew too well. “You two still have that weird rivalry thing going on, right? So help me show him up just for tonight- then later we say it fizzled out and everything goes back to normal. It’s a win-win really if- eugh!”

You snatch your hand back as far as it would go the very second you feel the sodden drag of something against your palm. Staring in horror at your clammy skin…he licked you.

And Gojo almost winces at the loss of your touch - he almost drags your hand back himself.

But oh, it was worth it just to see the way your gorgeous features get scrunched up into an even more gorgeous glare - one that said if looks could kill, then he’d already be six feet under and having his surprise party thrown on his grave already.

Truly the way to a man’s heart, he swoons internally.

“Fine.”

And when has that particular tone from Gojo ever boded well for you?

“Fine?”

You find yourself gulping at the slight bob of his smooth Adam’s apple, the flex of his back muscles when he hunches downwards to crowd your space. Mere inches away. Somehow, he seemed too close and too far away at the same time. Too intoxicating with his cold, pinewood scent.

“Fine I’ll let you- heh, use me for my body.” Tone intentionally dipping into a low, rumbling territory. Gojo’s batting his long snowy lashes in a way you’d almost deem innocent - if it wasn’t for the next few words that tumble urgently from his mouth. “-only if you give me something back. A kiss.”

You jolt, “What?”

“I’m the birthday boy, and I say-”

Cutting him off with a thoroughly practiced scoff, “Well, I have common sense. And I say I should just ask Nanami instead-”

“Is the common sense in my five-star getaway cabin with us right now?”

“Okay! You two!” Geto’s roughened hands clap down on your shoulders with a little more force than necessary. His voice is patient - used to this. “Please try not to make this a funeral before we can make it a birthday party, Satoru’s decorations are non-refundable.”

Oh, shit.

How long had he been standing there?

Judging by Geto’s slight shake of your shoulders as if scrambling the practical part of your brain back into functionality - and the way he wasn’t lecturing your ear off just yet - you guessed that the two of you had been lucky this time.

Face burning, you pray you didn’t look as guilty as you were. Swatting your older brother’s well-meaning hands away. “Speaking of, for a busybody hosting his own surprise party, I’m shocked you didn’t want any gifts.” Quirking a brow, “Is there even anything you want? Anything else?”

Gojo knew what you meant - you weren’t just talking about the party anymore.

And, well…he avoids your eyes. Yes. Yes, there is .

You.

But, woe, even the utterly shameless Gojo Satoru couldn’t possibly say that out loud - especially in front of his best friend, and your brother - so he settles on an obnoxiously dragged-out, “Awww- Trynna make my birthday special f’me, sweetheart~?”

And even that was toeing the line.

He can’t help the way his rosy lips curl smugly at the edges when you’re hissing out a heated, “S-see if I try and have a civil conversation with you ever again, Gojo.”

“Ouch!” Gojo’s clutching dramatically at his heart with a willowy faint that leaves him hanging off of Geto’s shoulders - and it wasn’t too hard to fake with the way his heart lurches uncomfortably at the sound of his last name on your pretty tongue. “Right for the jugular- is this your way of throwing the towel on our truce?”

Truce…is that what he’s calling it?

You catch your own brother - that traitor - stifling a bout of laughter behind his hand when his towering best friend seems to cower in your mere presence. Because, really, who was Gojo Satoru against you?

Sighing with that slightly infuriated pout you haven’t lost since you were a whiny, teary-eyed brat meeting him at his Digimon-themed birthday party many, many years ago.

Gojo takes the moment to truly appreciate how you’ve grown since.

He hadn’t technically invited you back then - but what else was there to do when your older brother was off making friends in kindergarten already and being invited by his “new best friend”?

You’d been pouty the entire evening at that, he remembers, and his mother had gotten a ton of photos just of your bickering duo. A year younger and just barely an inch shorter than him, but to a freshly six-year-old Gojo that made all the superiority - enough to tease you badly enough that you’d left him with a tiny, throbbing pink handprint across his cheek, and his poor heart in your palm.

“No.” Your voice rips him out of his reverie, as it always seems to do these days. “So you better k-keep up your end of the truce, too.”

With you stomping your way back to your cabin suite, Gojo finds his twinkling eyes straying right after. Hot on your heels. Unable to tear away. You really have changed since then, all grown up - as is he - and yet-

“That’s after a truce?” Geto wonders out loud for the both of you.

Well, he’s eyeing his best friend. And Gojo was nothing if not a good- well, he was good at everything, quite frankly. Everything except for when it came to you. “Suguru, we might have to plan a surprise engagement party tonight instead of a surprise birthday party.”

“Huh?”

Because he still feels as much the bumbling six-year-old with his first-ever crush as he was back then.

---

“Matching colors?”

You sigh, “Check.”

“Matching backstories?”

“Check.”

“Kiss me?”

“Ch- wait not yet-” you’re managing to shrill out, fingers curling even tighter around where Gojo had insisted you latch onto his bicep. And you feel him flex boastfully under his velvety button-up, “And do we really need to make some grand entrance? You literally planned the entire party.”

He’s flicking your forehead - softly, you’ve seen Gojo roughhousing with your brother before and he didn’t use even half his strength on you. “Surprise party- the birthday boy has to make a dramatic entrance with his girlfriend. How else will we make a statement?”

You’re grumbling to yourself about why you needed to make a statement at all - but you can’t argue, this was your idea after all.

And Gojo seemed well and fully intent to excel in his role…perhaps too intent.

Now, you always knew that his family was disgustingly wealthy; but Gojo practically dragged you to the nearest high-end mall this morning. Insisting on the latest twinkling bracelets and bejewelled necklaces to match his fitted shirt. Cooing that you looked “absolutely gorgeous” in every single one.

Was this official girlfriend treatment from Gojo Satoru himself? You’ve never known him to have had a long-term relationship in all the years he’s been your brother’s friend but…but it was all so much for just one night of acting.

And when you’re twirling that flowy silken fabric of your dress around your fingers, you wonder if that’s all he was thinking.

“Hey?” The rounded pads of his fingers skim over your cheeks, “Nervous?”

“A little.” you admit, trying oh-so-desperately to escape from his blazing sapphire gaze.

And Gojo crushes you close to his body, one massive palm resting firmly on your hips, hardened front pressing up against yours. Warm. Steady. Voice so close now that you could catch every slight crack towards the end, the heat of Gojo’s feverish breath - practically burning - against your ear.

You wanted to feel his hands more - everywhere.

Woah. You’re shaking your head, thankful it simply looked like you were gathering your wits. Maybe you were more tired than you thought.

“We’ll be alright. Trust me, it’ll go smoothly.” Was- was Gojo Satoru comforting you? He’s cracking a smile, like the thought just occurred to him, too. “And if it doesn’t then I can beat up that b-”

SLAM!

“Why are you taking so lo- What. The. Fuck.”

Your first instinct is to wrench away from Gojo’s hold - but unluckily for you, his first instinct is the exact opposite. And you find his firm digits tensing to dig into the plush of your hips, both of your heads snapping towards that gravelly new voice.

Catching a jaw-dropped Shoko with her half-burnt cigarette dropped to the floor, she looked nowhere near even thinking of picking it back up. You could practically see the gears curdling around in her head.

“Ah-” You’re gasping out in what you hoped was believable scandal, fingers latching around Gojo’s own cold ones. Not to remove - no, Gojo almost has a heart attack when you intertwine them with yours. “Hope we’re not too late, Sa- Toru here wanted to go shopping.”

“Wait-” Shoko runs her hands through her silky locks like she was pleading to the skies above. “Wait wait wait- wait- when did this happen no-” She’s baring you with her most aghast look, “Why did this happen?”

Gojo comes to your rescue, face falling into the crook of your neck with a grin. “Told ya she would fall for my charms eventually~”

“Yes, but I didn’t think she was that stupid-”

Yes! You have to fight to hide your smile, despite the blatant insult. One down - if you could get everyone at this party to believe in your little act, then Sukuna would have to.

“Still here–” You’re deadpanning, hoping that your friends didn’t catch the slight tremors in your voice. Damn- why did Gojo have to be so warm. “-and uh- maybe we should head inside? After it is a certain someone’s-”

“Shhh! You’ll ruin my surprise.”

It all goes according to script - well, your entrance with Gojo and his entrance into the party.

As soon as your duo steps in, the dim lights flicker on and you’re deafened with the cheery yell of surprise! Blinking your startled gaze to adjust to the blinding decorations upon decorations that Gojo himself had put up, you can’t help but let out a chuckle at the smiling faces that meet you.

Geto and Haibara holding exploded party poppers, the rest of the group from Kyoto standing around a brightly lit cake you’d baked, Nanami the one turning on the lights - the farthest away from the birthday boy. Purposefully so, you imagine.

And there - in the center of it all - Sukuna.

Arms crossed, a pink brow raised as he drinks in the sight of you - all of you.

As was the rest of the room, eyes widening in true surprise.

Gojo’s clutching the front of his shirt with almost-frightening theatrics. “You guys- You did this all for me? You’re the absolute best-”

“Eugh.”

“What did you blackmail her with?”

“Congratulations on your relationship!”

Your eyes latch onto Geto - who only takes a long look at you and cackles.

Gojo’s huffing ever-so-slightly as he gets cut off, and that’s what it takes for you to realize that you still had his fingers looped undeniably with yours. In fact, he’s tugging you even close to wrap one heavy arm over your shoulder, the very picture of sappy devotion when he nuzzles his cheek into your own. “They’re bullying me~”

He was laying it on thick.

He’d barely steered you into the living room before you catch a flash of white and two firm arms curled around your neck - away from your supposed boyfriend.

“My lovely!” Utahime cries, cocktail abandoned somewhere to wrangle you free from Gojo’s treacherous grasp. She’s cupping your face with visible concern, “Is your head okay? Did you knock it somewhere? I know a good doctor that can help with-”

“Hey! She’s my lovely-”

“I’m fine, Utahime.” You’re subtly stepping on Gojo’s toes before things can escalate any further. Eyes meeting red ones from across the room, “-I promise. We’re just ah- giving it a go. It’s very new and we didn’t want to make such a big deal out of it, honestly.”

Lies. The entire point is to make a big deal out of it.

Shoko crosses over in a flash, droopy eyes flickering between you and a sheepish Gojo. “Giving it a-” Slicing their way over to the decorative blush on his cheeks, “-go…huh.”

And as you’re surrounded by the tittering crowd, you’ve never felt more like one of those cell samples that Shoko would dissect in medical school and proudly show your reluctant self pictures of.

Ogling everything from the weight of Gojo’s hand on your shoulders to that soppy smile on his face when he smushes his cheek into yours like some overgrown cat. And you can’t help but wear a grin of your own.

Can’t help but feel relief when she cracks a wicked smile, “Fucking finally.”

Haibara gathers your hands in his own, “I-I’m so proud of you two! Nanami and I have been hoping for this for the past five years-” Flitting his strangely wet eyes to a Nanami who couldn’t have looked more disinterested if he tried. “-isn’t that right Nanami?”

“No it’s not.” he’s rolling his eyes, but you catch the slightest hint of a twitch at the corners of his lips. And it hits you that he’s happy for you.

Really, truly happy.

“Right right!” Haibara plows on, and you have half the mind to wonder if the obliviousness was a skill. “It’s been more like the past seven years-”

Geto slaps! his hand on Gojo’s shoulder, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “So he finally grew the balls, huh?”

“Eh? I mean-” you’re strangling out at your brother’s sudden comment. “-I mean of course. Had to practically force it out of him though, y’know?”

Shoko nods, eyes far away like she’s remembering something you can’t. “Of course, you did- pining fool.” And in the corner of your eye, you sneak a glimpse at the way Gojo’s sharp jaw clenches. Grinding ever-so-lightly as she calls out, “Well, I was almost at my wit’s end with your horrible taste in men. No offense, Sukuna, not that this one’s any better- let me know if you ever need his balls chopped off in his sleep–”

Utahime’s narrowed glare stays locked on Gojo, “Hurt her and it’ll be more than your balls.”

Sukuna, notably, says nothing.

Gojo Satoru was a liar.

The guestlist for his birthday wasn’t simply your friends - it was damn near the entire campus by the time the cake had been cut and you’d all settled into your usual conversations.

Body after body filtering in through those towering mahogany doors of his. Invitation or not. Rapidly and steadily, it was growing into another one of Gojo’s famed parties. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if you’d actually bumped into Professor Yaga somewhere in there.

“Eheh- whoops.” His apologetic words hit hotly against your ear over the thumping music. Your body jostling precariously where you were sat all prettily in his lap on the overpriced living room couch. “I don’t even know half these people.”

And, yet, more than half the people seemed to know you - or, at least, your relationship with Gojo.

Sure, you were aware that your brother and his best friend were amongst some of the most popular students on campus, but this was ridiculous. You couldn’t pass two minutes without a few guests sauntering up to wish the two of you well and leaving Gojo with a “congratulations for finally growing the balls.”

“They sure know a lot about your balls, huh?” You’re raising a brow, back pressed up against the massaging ridges of his abs. And some part of you felt guilty for deceiving all of these people - they really did look curiously happy for the two of you.

Gojo’s bemoaning, “I can assure you that you are the only one allowed to talk about my b-”

“Ugh, couples.” Comes your brother’s voice to the side of you, the cushiony couch dips as he takes his seat. “Though, it is much better than having him mope around.”

“Suguru…” Gojo murmurs. Low.

“What? Scared I’ll embarrass you in front of your girlfriend?” Geto was such a provocateur despite that serene expression he’d constantly wear on the outside. Taking a long swig of his beer before musing, “Remember, she’s my sister, Satoru. And I think she should know about that book of pick-up lines you bought for her. And that picture in your-”

Immediately, two engulfing hands find their place on either side of your head, covering your ears so blatantly. Gojo’s strained screech is only slightly muted when he drags out, “W-we haven’t gotten to that stage yet!”

“Oh, I see I see-” And Haibara - dear, sweet Haibara - always chooses the worst times to pop up from behind the two of you. Ringing voice commanding the attention of about half of the room nearby when he’s humming, “So you two are still in the honeymoon phase, then? How romantic!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

There’s such dangerous possessiveness in Gojo’s limbs when they tangle in a mess with yours. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other gliding its lecherous pathway up and down your exposed thigh. Slowly. Savoring.

Gojo’s fingers twirl over the short hem of the dress he’d bought, lips pressed up against your throat as he mutters. “Aw, c’mon– no need to be shy, sweetheart.”

And you’re sure whatever strange little flip your heart did showed on your face - because immediately, you’re being showered with awww’s and squeals from all around you two- when did you even draw in a crowd?

“Then why dontcha give ‘er a pretty peck to prove it.”

But of course, Sukuna was in it, too.

“What?”

You try not to let your true feelings bleed into your words when you take a long look at that unchanged smirk, the way he’s tilting his tattooed neck in defiance. Shrugging up sculpted shoulders, “M’just saying. If you were my girl, I’d want to prove it to everyone here.”

Damn.

Geto nudges his best friend, and you grit your teeth - because proving it was exactly what Sukuna did when you two were dating. Often these parties found you sneaking away if he felt generous, and Sukuna’s lips hot against yours right on the dance floor if he didn’t.

All in front of a fuming Gojo.

And, hell, if he could be petty then so could you.

You’re ignoring the boiling in your veins to run a few stray fingers through Gojo’s angelic hair. Soft. It drags his steely gaze from Sukuna over to you with a gulp, “S’that okay, Toru–” Oh god, that nickname has Gojo wondering whether he’s in heaven. “-wouldn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“Tch, are you kiddin’ me-” He recovers quickly, and you didn’t know whether the raw awe in his voice was part of the acting or simply just Gojo being himself. “-provin’ to losers than I’m yours is the best birthday gift I could get.”

The last thing you see is that tiny, curvaceous dimple at the end of Gojo’s grin before he’s smashing his lips onto yours. It’s messy. Disorganized. The very beginnings of a sodden French kiss.

Sheer teeth and lips and need as he suckles lightly on your lower lip, pearly white canines sinking in ever-so-lightly until you keen. Lost into the wolf whistles erupting from the party-goers - it seems to knock some sense into you two.

And Gojo breaks the kiss with a panting pah! sugary sweet taste of his birthday cake lingering on your tongue - over as soon as it started. “Happy birthday to me.”

“You are so corny-” you’re croaking, more so because you didn’t know what to say than anything. Because all your mind was whirling with weren’t words - it was the feeling of wanting more more more-

Shit. Your eyes widen, peering down at Gojo’s half-drunken gaze - even though you’re sure his lightweight self hasn’t had a single drink tonight. You wanted to kiss him more.

“I-I think I’m going to get a drink.” you’re mumbling out, hastily standing on two unsteady feet. Mere moments away from stepping into the kitchen - from making your escape - before long digits clasp around your wrist. With a plastered smile, you turn to Gojo, gaze flickering down between his begging eyes and that vice-like grip of his. “You need anything, babe?”

“Ah-” Gojo lets you go as if your skin scorched him - as if he didn’t even realize that he’d been holding onto you this way. “No no, nothing for me- don’t take too long, m’kay~”

Every step you take, Gojo’s watching after you like it couldn’t be fast enough.

Because after that? That kiss that had him feeling like a pathetically melty puddle of teenage hormones? Shit, he’s almost on the verge of getting out of his seat and running after you like a maiden himself-

“So…ugh- was that part of the truce?”

“Huh?”

“Was that- dammit, Satoru fuckin’ look at me- she’s not even in your line of sight!”

“Oh- what?” Gojo’s veering his eyes over to his best friend, gaze still trailing after you like a lost puppy even when he registers the other man talking to him. Your little audience had mostly dissipated by now, leaving him to act as much of a fool as his idol-like persona on campus didn’t allow.

Geto lets him stew in the strobing silence of the party music for a little longer, before heaving out a sigh that was much too worldly for a young man of twenty-something. As a younger sister, you really did give him grief - and he finds himself almost wishing he hadn’t interrogated Gojo after overhearing your strange agreement earlier today. “Man, you really are stupid, huh?”

“I know.”

“And this charade of yours is even stupider.”

“...I know.”

“And you realize that you might just be helping her back into the arms of that Sukuna all over again, right?”

“WHAT?” He’s so desperately loud that a few guests in the vicinity jump. But Gojo didn’t care - he didn’t give a shit about anything other than grasping onto Geto’s collar, shaking him stupid. “Have you lost your mind- I’m supposed to be the nonsensical one in our duo-”

“I-I’m just saying.” Geto’s putting his hands up as if a shield, “Getting an ex-boyfriend jealous using the same man he was threatened over when they were dating? Sounds like the textbook recipe for jealousy sex if you ask me.”

Oh, Gojo Satoru was going to kill someone. Brows marrying together, he only wobbles his best friend harder. “B-but no- that can’t be- they hate each other, don’t they?”

And, ah, he hated how Geto always knew what to say.

Hated how he already knew by the devilish curve of Geto’s lips that nothing that was about to fall out of it was going to do his sanity any good.

Gojo flails, “No wait-”

“Don’t you two claim you ‘hate each other’? And yet, here you are.” Geto’s patting his best friend on the back as if consoling him, shaking his head with the patience of a mother with a few problem children. “There there, you complete imbecile. Now you might want to stay here sulking with a singleton like me, or- you might want to go over there and avenge the honor of your fake relationship, because I see an ex-boyfriend coming in hot.”

“What?”

He’s jerking his head around so urgently that Gojo’s vision blacks out for a bit - and that’s exactly the excuse he’ll use for years to come when he shoots up to his full height. Snatching a glass of liquid courage from Geto-

“Satoru, that’s-”

Knocking it back within seconds before storming off to just where he could just peak your beautiful self in the kitchen being crowded by Sukuna. That adorable furrow in between your brows betraying your thoughts, lips moving furiously with a frown.

“Do you think he knows that what he drank was just water and not alcohol…” Geto tilts his now-empty cup at a lounging Nanami nearby, head bowed like he couldn’t give a single fuck if this party burned with him in it.

“No.”

“Do you think he realized the ‘jealous sex’ was a bluff?”

“No.”

Geto lets out a slight huff of laughter, “And do you think he realizes that more than one person in our group knows it’s pretend?”

“No.” Nanami didn’t care if he risked sounding like a broken recorder, after spending almost a decade with you two dancing around each other, he thinks he’s owed that privilege at the very least. “I don’t think he realizes that had your sister so much as looked his way, let alone date his sorry self, then the entire campus would have been hearing about it for the past month.” For the first time since he’d found himself accidentally dragged into Geto’s conversation with him, Nanami raises his head to catch the tail end of Gojo’s lanky legs disappearing into the kitchen. “After all, Sukuna did break up with her because they were in love with each other. Just too stupid to see.”

Now, you might not exactly be his yet like he’s wished on every single birthday candle since he was six - but Gojo Satoru was to be damned if was going to let any other bastard steal his fake girlfriend.

“Sukuna-”

“Awww…what happened to ‘Kuna’, baby?”

You snort, arms crossing over each other while you fixate your glare on Sukuna’s leering form. God, the kitchen just seemed too small for the two of you. “I think you lost that privilege when you dumped me.” Attempting- failing - to sidestep, “Now if you’d excuse me, my boyfriend is-”

Scoffing, “Girl- what boyfriend?”

Sukuna looked to be on the very verge of laughter, and you were on the verge of breaking into a nervous sweat. He’s rasping out a rumbling snicker at that look on your pretty face, “Oh come on, now- you can’t really expect me to believe that sorry excuse of a kiss came from the same man that’s been wantin’ you for years, right?”

Shit.

Wait…years?

Your fingers curl tighter around the beer bottle, “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And you watch as Sukuna’s mouth drops - now fully laughing in your face. “Damn- not even a hint? You really did downgrade after me, ma. At least I was honest.”

“Honestly an asshole, that’s for sure.”

But the rest of your fire swims down the drain as he inches closer. And closer. Heat radiating off the rippling muscles of his body when a big, beefy arm of his cages you against the polished marble counter. Head inclining slightly towards the door, “Well- why don’t you and I-”

“Take your fuckin’ hands off my girlfriend.”

“Satoru?”

But the sight you’re met with seems anything but - gone is that softly teasing demeanor, vanquished is Gojo’s easy smile. His pretty features are twisted into such a feral snarl; and where his tone was ice-cool, his eyes were blazing with raw fury.

Gojo looked like he didn’t even hear you as he echoes, “I won’t say it again.”

“Well alright then, Mr. Boyfriend.” Sukuna lets go of the cool counter surface with a knowing chuckle, walking horrifically towards a seething Gojo himself. The two stand eye-to-eye, glare-to-glare. “Are ya sure you and your third-rate acting wasn’t interrupting anything between myself and my girlfriend?”

“Satoru, ignore him–” You’re pleading, trembly voice jolting Gojo out of his hypnotized stupor, and making him drag his heavy legs around to you. Fuck, that was close. You didn’t know what-

“That’s right. Comfort your friend the only way you know how- s’not like you can do anything other than pine for decades until the next one comes around to steal her away, anyway.”

CRASH!

In a split-second, Gojo has Sukuna pinned against the wooden cabinets by his cotton shirt. Ego and desperation wafting from the two men as his feet dangle a few centimeters off the floor. Gojo had his teeth bared - eyes wild, looking like he was seconds from foaming at the very mouth. And Sukuna’s own lips quirked upwards into a grin.

“You better watch your fucking mouth.” Gojo hisses.

“You wanna tell her or should I-”

“What is happening here-” Shoko’s sharp voice snaps the three of you from your little bubble of violence, and it’s like all of a sudden the music and the party comes pouring back into the kitchen. Strangers and friends alike hot on your heels to watch the drama unfold, being pushed back by a frantic Haibara. “You’re acting like children.”

Sukuna shoves the other man off of him, and makes his way out. “Well, I know one of us hasn’t grown up.”

And Gojo is just about to stride forwards- until you catch him with a hand hooked around his elbow. Feeling the washing sense of deja vu from not too long ago. Hastily spitting out, “N-now- oh! Look at that, let me get that bruise cleaned up-” There was no bruise, and there was no reason for you to drag Gojo from the kitchen as fast as you did. Yet, you did anyway. “We’ll be upstairs–”

“Man…Sukuna.” Geto whistles lowly, watching you lug his 6’3 mess of a clingy best friend up the stairs and into what he assumes to be Gojo’s bedroom. “I know you wanted to set them up together badly but wasn’t that a little much?”

“Oh shut up- I don’t give a shit if they get together or- or if she’s happy or not.” he gruffs, stalking off.

Yet, Geto guffaws at the angry rouge that colored the very tips of his ears, and the slight wobble in Sukuna’s lower lip when he stops to watch you two make your escape.

Yeah. “Didn’t give a shit” his ass.

“Ugh.” Utahime rolls her eyes, signalling at the DJ to raise the volume on the music just a tad louder. She had a dreading feeling they’d strangely need it. “Men.”

Ugh, men.

You roll your eyes, the soft pads of your fingers tracing over where Gojo’s knuckles were slightly reddening after knocking against the cabinets. You were only glad that it didn’t escalate into something even worse - damn this stupid idea.

“I’m sorry.”

Gojo breaks the thickened silence between you two, his sullen voice echoing across all four wide corners of the master bedroom. But all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse when he blinks his eyes up at you, “I didn’t…didn’t think it would go this far.”

The two of you are sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, practically sinking into the plush mattress. And you can’t help but notice how much the room smells like him.

“Ah, well- y’know…” you’re trailing off, and the way you look at him - so soft and raw will forever be etched into his honeyed mind. You were comforting him…what a night. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. B-beside- it’s over now, isn’t it?”

He can only nod.

And you feel your fingers twitch where they were cradled in his much larger ones. Fuck. Here goes nothing…

“So that means I have to hold up my end of the bargain now, doesn’t it?”

Oh.

Gojo blinks.

Oh.

“Wait- so was it the body or the char-”

“Unless you finish that sentence right now. In that case I’m never speaking to you again.”

And shit, if you knew that this was the way to shut Gojo Satoru up then you’d have been wielding this power much, much sooner. Breath hitching when his plump, pinkish lips instantly zip shut, and he’s scrambling off the bed to kneel in front of you.

Kneel.

Gojo was kneeling in front of you, knees clacking to the floor so hard that you think it must hurt. But all that he wears on his expectant face is the rosiest of blushes, and the slight pucker of his lips when he leans in. “I-I’ll shut up- but can I have my kiss now?”

You couldn’t gift an answer even if your dizzy mind could somehow conjure up one.

Because with the slightest nod of your head - barely motioning even a few millimeters - Gojo’s crashing his lips onto yours like he was starved.

Like he didn’t want to breathe - didn’t need to - when his mouth was meshing against yours. Addicted from that faux kiss downstairs. Keening out a low whine at the very back of his throat, he’s gulping in steady heavals of your essence. Greedy hands circling your body-

“O-oh shit.” he kisses, mouth parting from yours ever-so-slightly because fuck, he had to breathe. But he’s completely and utterly sure that he could die happy right here and right now, lips firmly pressed against yours.

You’re half-heartedly sputtering, “We should– the party–”

“D-don’t talk to me about a fuckin’ party, pretty.” His teeth pull lewdly on your lower lip, “One more- that was a practice run. O-one m-”

This time, it’s you cutting him off.

Swallowing up the rest of Gojo’s sentence and forcing his body to wreck with a sudden bolting of lightning. And Gojo swears he tastes heaven on your lips, thumbing open your jaw further to pry out your lolling tongue and suck.

You moan out what sounds like a slurring string of his name over and over - praying that these walls were as soundproofed as they looked.

Fingers nimbling their way over to the first few open buttons of his shirt - the very graze of your skin down his burning one sends shots of electricity down Gojo’s body. It makes him jolt. It makes him drag in a heaving lungful. It makes his heavy palm drop its way to the curve of your ass and squeeze.

“Wait-” he’s drunken. Seething. Silvery strings of rope snapping in the heady lack of space between you two when Gojo pulls away. “-what’s it that they say- one more for luck?”

One more. And another. Another. Another and another and it’s still not enough even when Gojo’s mouth was throbbingly red and raw from crashing against yours, whimpering at the slightest wet glide of your candied lips across his.

Meshing in a sodden pucker he’s trailing his plumpened lips down the splatters of dribble that’d made its way down the corner of your mouth.

As lazy as his hands were, long digits drawing circular massages up, up, up your thigh. You’re gasping when the fat curve of his thumb nudges in through your drenched panties, drawing a sopping wet line down your teary slit.

“I think…” Cutting himself off to let his tongue slide out and lick a languid stripe down your drivel. “...think I needa hah- kiss those other lips of yours for good measure, sweetheart.”

Oh.

Fuck.

He looked like he was seconds from drooling at the very thought. Nervous energy bleeding into his words, making them sound almost like a whimper. Gojo Satoru wasn’t asking - he was begging on his knees right before you to eat out your pretty cunt.

Sharp inhales being sucked through his drunkenly parted lips when you slide your fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and pull. “Th-then you better make it worth all the trouble, Toru.”

Oh, his head tumbles backwards at the sound of that nickname on your lips once more.

Chuckling - chuckling - all humorless and crazed. Bleary eyes locked on you and only you, he doesn’t move them a singular inch once all the while dipping his fingerpads into the hem of your panties and pulling. Dragging out the drenched excuse of your panties, they’re splotching a glistening coating of your sweet, sweet juices down your thighs.

And Gojo only turns to look once he brings them eye-level - up to his face and-

“Toru, you’re so nasty–”

“Ya think?” Gojo huffs out through the slicked-up fabric of your underwear, breathing in your essence like it was his favorite scent. And you swear you catch him sneaking in a few droplets of your syrupy juices that splatter onto his mouth. Groaning, “Oh, sweetheart- m’gonna make you realize just how nasty I really am.”

Without any apologies, without any warning, your thoroughly hypnotized self is being shoved down roughly onto the mattress. You bounce a few times against the navy sheets, legs hiking up on autopilot - exactly the way that Gojo wanted them.

You really were made for him.

Mewling, “Wh-what-”

“Shhh sh sh-” he’s whispering out in ragged rasps, still pressing a few pretty pecks against the mound of your translucently glossed panties. It was taking everything in him to part- to set them down…Well, perhaps not that far. Gojo stuffs your panties mindlessly into the back pocket of his pants, tongue swiping a moisturized coating over his lips when he takes back in the sight of you. “M’talking to her.”

All splayed out on the bed for him - it was like all his dreams materialized into real life.

Literally.

“Oh, look how wet she is–” His creamy fingertips push up your dress to make such a slurring mess all over your pursed lips. On purpose. Swirling the edge of his manicured thumb over and over in the tiniest of circles over your pulsing clit. And Gojo snickers at how greedy she was for his attention…how cute. “-whaddaya think she’s ngh- tellin’ me, pretty?”

Rubbing your fists over your eyes, you’re seeing stars when Gojo’s rude digits give your clit a sudden pinch. “I-I don’t know–”

“Awww- are you sure?” You’re being showcased the most innocent pout you’ve seen him plaster on his entire life, lower lip jutting out and looming so dangerously close to kiss the drizzling trail at your puffy folds. “Because she’s so talkative to me- might jus’ be nicer than you.”

You wish you could snap back as you usually would - oh, how you wish.

But you’re sure that any and every noise that showers out from your dazed mouth wouldn’t even be heard. Because for one infuriating time in your life, Gojo was right.

Those sugar-coated squelches from your dripping cunt replayed in your ears over and over. Every teasing pattern of Gojo’s fingertips has you rambling in a saturated song that sticks to your ears like cotton. And Gojo couldn’t get enough.

He couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t falter no matter how much he wanted to keep up this ever-cracking facade of being suave. Heeding to practically every word from your pretty pussy when his heated mouth gruffs closer and kisses you.

Slow. Filthy.

“T-Toru–” you’re whining, your fingers entangling with his snowy locks. And no matter how hard you tug, Gojo doesn’t move even an inch. “-make sure you ngh- b-breathe- fuck-”

“Don’t need to..don’t- don’t need it…” Gojo’s slurring out into your saccharine pussy lips, intentionally dragging out his words so that they vibrate all down your spine.

Button nose massaging against your ample clit, the decadent room rings! with a sultry squelch. And you’re peeking down at that sinful sight of Gojo’s tongue smearing your puffed-up pussy lips agape. Swiping around and around the circular hole of your entrance before plunging in-

Oh.

Gojo looked like he was so in bliss.

Eyes sliding all the way to the back of his head with one taste of your bawling cunt on his tongue- shit. Shit.

Shit shit shit. He’s out of control when he gasps, two hands curling under and around your thighs to haul you down the bed. Maw hanging ferally open when he’s gashing your poor pussy with the most sodden French kisses - Gojo’s never kissed a person like this before. And he doesn’t think he ever will - other than you.

Doesn’t think he’ll ever feel as feverish as he does right now when he’s craning his deft fingers into his mouth. Sucking. Tasting. Each and every one with a messy pop! pop! pop!

He really was nasty.

You gape at the way your slick hangs all down his lips and coats a sparkling glaze that drips down his chin and forms a little pool at his neck. His collarbones. Trickling down with pearly beads of sweat that sift between his perky pecs so mouthwateringly.

“F-fuuuuck-” Gojo’s hissing, brows scrunching together like he couldn’t even believe what he was seeing. “You jus’ got ngh- wetter. S-so much wetter…”

It’s said like a prayer.

Like a plea because your cunt was driving Gojo crazy.

“It’s all because of ah- you–” You squirm at the way that these were the words tumbling from your mouth. And you already know that Gojo was about to tease you for this for the next few years - if he even remembered, that is.

Because just about the only thing that he can do right now is twirl the edges of his fingers over your winking hole. Once. Twice. Before feeding you inch by long inch of his middle finger - in your lusty haze you think you manage to count about six inches from his staggering size.

And it only had you imagining his size down below.

“Don’t squeeze around m-me- fuck who am I kidding-” Gojo’s sleazy pumps of his hand has your cunt slobbering all down to his working wrist. Adding in one more, two. “-drool all over me- make a mess- hah- fuckin’ ruin me.” Mouth bumbling a mile a minute when his drives build up sloppily, swiveling around your gummy walls to nudge over all your tenderized sweet spots. “Yeah- heh- yeah suck me up like that. S-such a slutty girl, aren’t ya?”

“S-stop being so-”

So what?

Talkative with your cunt? So greedy when he shovels his face back in between your tottering thighs? So heated when he utters. Like a death sentence. All that he could. “I-I can’t stop- do you know how long I’ve ah- imagined this? Dreamt of this?”

Your palm constrict on his silky strands and Gojo’s so pliant when he lets himself be rummaged even deeper against your pussy. So ready to be used. “Th-think I like you better when you ngh- shut up–”

And even through it all, Gojo finds it in himself to roll his eyes - though, you think it’s a way to disguise the way he’s agonizingly swimming in euphoria more than anything. Chuckling out wetly, “Th-think I like it better when you’re ah- actually on m’tongue and n-not jus’ in my fuck- dreams when I have my cock in hand.”

Shit.

He’s so shameless.

Fingers jackhammering in and out in and out in and out-

“Where is it-” he’s spitting out into your squirming pussy, the lower half of your body being pinned to the mattress with one of his strong arms. You’re feeling the way his biceps bulge against your skin. Getting faster. Faster. “-where is it where is it where-”

“What are you even ngh- looking for, Toru?” you’re crying out - it was all so much now. So close.

But the only answer you get are your ankles being tugged to wrap around Gojo’s fervent head, pinned with one hand behind his back. “Lock it.” Keeping you held there until the ends of your feet knot as vice-like as possible to mash his face into your drooling cunt.

Gojo wraps his rose pink lips around your weepy clit and sucks through furrowed brows when his thorough digits surge upwards at a bruising pace into a bulbous magical spot. That spot.

“Found it.”

And you find yourself cumming with such a loud yelp of Gojo’s name - throat rubbing sore with every peak of your high. Your orgasm crashes into you over and over as he laps up every bead, every splatter, every drop that you’re giving.

And he’s still parched.

Spitting out a wet slew of saliva into your quavering hole, Gojo’s making such a mess of you. Absolutely ruined when he sucks up every wet smear that waterfalls from your cute cunt - so thirsty.

It’s only when your high has died down to a few tingles, when your limbs twitch with overstimulation, that Gojo finds himself pulling away. His lips stinging rawly, nose slicked and dripping with your sweet, sweet juices - you’re hearing the most pained grunt from between your legs as he pulls away.

It hurt him to.

“Oh, w-would ya look at that—”

You weren’t sure if you trusted him enough to look - already knowing that whatever it was would have your mind reeling.

But how could you not when Gojo’s fat fingertips squeeze your cheeks together into a pathetic pout, opening your glazed mouth just wide enough for him to salivate. A thick wad of spit hitting your lolling tastebuds, his thumb swipes over the stray slops that’d made their home on the corner of your slack jaw.

He grins, “I said look, sweetheart…”

Groaning, your eyes blink downwards - and you weren’t even sure what you were witnessing at first. Not even sure if you were daydreaming - because Gojo had his black dress pants unbuttoned. Shoved down until his thick, milky thighs just enough for you to witness his massive length.

Yeah, his fingers were definitely an indicator of something.

Because Gojo was so big that you felt nervous. His length swollen and thickened to an incredible girth. All pretty with a red, rotund ruby tip that blushes a cute strawberry pink all the way down, down, down until neatly trimmed tufts of white at his base. Saddling his tight, hefty balls that looked much too heavy.

He made your mouth water.

But that wasn’t all - no, what really catches your eye and snaps you from your orgasmic haze and into a half-lucid state were the creamy rings upon rings that laminated his shaft. Frosting-like dredges of cum sliding lazily down his angry cock, spurting out a few more from his weepy divot at the very end at your unwavering attention. Did he-

“Yes.” Gojo gasps out in a condensed puff, his voice sugary and embarrassed. Shit, did you just say that out loud? “I-I came just from…you’re just so-”

Damn, he curses his stupidly babbling mouth. So drunk on you that he can’t voice all the sinful thoughts sprinting through his melty head right now - all the thoughts that have been already for years now.

It was impossible - even for his big fat mouth.

So without another word, Gojo tuts as he’s rolling his shoulders as if on instinct to pop a few joints; in one, fluid motion your body is being sidled into such an easy princess carry.

Patting you down right into the cushiony middle of the bed, he looms over you - stalks over to you. And you can’t deny that the absolutely feral smile twisting his features makes your cunt twitch.

“Too many clothes.” Gojo tugs on your dress - that darkened glint in his eyes not boding well for you or-

RIP!

-for this dress.

At the sight of your jaw dropping in adorable surprise, he chuckles out a rough, “Don’t worry- I’ll buy ya that again. I’ll buy ya the ngh- whole fuckin’ store jus–” And oh with a few masterful flicks of his fingers on your bra, you’re left in nothing underneath him. Nothing to hide your perfect body away from the way he was fucking you with his half-lidded eyes. “-just let me f-fuck this cute cunt, please?”

It takes you a few sloppy seconds of Gojo nibbling down your neck for you to realize that he’s waiting for you. For anything.

Huffing, your shaky fingers clench around the glaringly open lapels of his button-up. “S’unfair th-that you’re the only one in clothes-”

And, well, who was Gojo Satoru against you?

You’re demandingly helping him shrug off that branded shirt, buttons hitting the ground, his pants hitting the floor-

“Whoops.” Gojo grins sheepishly when his pants and those tight boxers collapse onto the floor in a tatter of fabric and your panties. “Jus’ consider it a uh- birthday gift, pretty–”

No longer having his flaps of fabric to reel him in by, your fingernails dig neat little patterns of crescents on his heated skin as you drag him down to you. Heady breaths mingling with one another, “You said no gifts, remember? If you ngh- really want those panties- y-you’re gonna hafta earn it, Toru.”

And earn it he will.

Because as soon as the bulging spherical shape of his fat head swipes a sopping kiss down your pussy lips, you feel yourself already moan. He was so hot.

Already so pussydrunken when he says, “Hope ya don’t mind–” Teeth sinking into your tender earlobe, “-this is my first time.”

Fuck.

You barely even have the mindpower to register those words before you’re being split apart - gasping at the almost-unnatural feeling of being so thoroughly full. Of having our steamingly hot insides being fucked open with just the simple tip of Gojo’s staggering cock.

“C’mon- c’mon–” He’s lunging up in slow, mindless gyrations trying to force his thick length inside. Powerful arms keeping your wrangling legs spanned wide open for him, they barely even let you budge. Biting down on his lip in frustration, “F-fit inside- shit, your pussy’s so tight, sweetheart– s’it too big for you?”

Stubbornly, “No-”

And Gojo only has to glissade the curves of his palm down to that inflationary nudge of where he was drilling into your cunt. “No?”

“...no.”

Pressing down. Hard. “No?”

“Fuck- yes- you’re just too big-” And you meant it as a complaint - you really did. But those words only have every ounce of blood remaining in Gojo’s shivering body galloping down to his gluttonous cock. Pushing at the seams to make him expand even fatter, bigger- “Why are you getting bigger?”

Shit, you really needed to watch that mouth of yours.

Because it has Gojo’s hulking body falling onto two elbows on either side of your head, like a heavenly cage you didn’t ever want to get out of.

Sweat-simmered forehead bumping into yours, you feel his large fingers interlace dangerously on top of your head. “You need to-” He’s crashing his lips against yours in such a filthy open-mouthed kiss. “-s-stop talkin’ outta ya ngh- pussy. Leave that to her.”

Her.

And you’re so utterly distracted by all his little ministrations that you didn’t even realize the way he was snugly fitting himself into your cunt.

The stretch is impeccable when it hits you like a train at full speed, feeling the tiny nooks and crannies of your magical spots being brushed up against the thrumming upright curve of Gojo’s cock. He’s leaving no millimeter of your elastic walls unturned, unstretched. Untainted.

Gushing out a sweltering hot wave of buttery pre that sloshes all the way against your womb. “Oh- oh what the fuck-” Gojo hisses, chest heaving. And if you didn’t know any better you’d have wondered if he was in pain. “-what the fuck- th-this is what you feel like?”

Right - shit. In all the chaos, you’d forgotten those words he’d confessed just earlier - Gojo Satoru was a virgin. Because of course, he was. Don’t make him laugh, who else would he have ever wanted to see him like this other than you?

A virgin that was currently pacing his slender hips back and forth to instrument the most syrupy squelches from the very gooey bottom of your cunt. His drooling mouth spreading wider and wider with every sultry half-thrust.

You mewl, “H-how does it feel, Satoru?”

“I-I feels so- so–” But the words are failing him - the words are escaping him with every gummy squeeze of your walls like you wanted to swallow down more and more of his solid inches. And hand on your hips swirls your hips around ever-so-slightly to feel his sobbing tip paint tiny circles of gluey precum inside you. Gojo snaps his eyes open - wild. “-is it even l-legal to have ya cunt feel this good, sweetheart? This- oh! Heavenly?”

And he was sounding genuinely concerned. Genuinely worried for his sanity once Gojo manages to feed your needy cunt all of his length.

Now in.

Fully.

And it feels too good - too blissful to have almost every single prayer in his life finally answered that Gojo can’t help but scrunch his eyes shut and cum.

Loudly. Pathetically.

One hand dancing downwards to give your plump clit a punishing little squeeze as if it was your fault. The other curling around your throat to have you meshing your mouth with his panting one, you can feel it in the vibrations how his voice cracks at the very same second your gooey cunt is filled with such copious dumps of his seed.

There’s so much.

As if he’s cumming and cumming harder than he has in his entire life, every splatter of stifling hot cum managing to paint the bullseye of your g-spot in pure white. Ounces of his seed creaming around his hefty base, it smears and slide around your thighs as Gojo continues to fuck you into the mattress. Pound after pound that make him see overstimulated stars.

And it makes Gojo giggle - giggle - head lolling deliriously into the crook of your neck, now covered in a slather of his drool. Every slow ram into your splurging cunt has him grunting out the tiniest ah! ah! ah!

“Shit- fuckin’ embarrassing-” You hear him groan into your neck, licking a languid column from his tongue before biting. Hard. Hard enough that you’re wondering whether he’d draw blood, “Can ya believe- s-saved my virginity for the ngh- girl of my dreams n’ m’cumming already~?”

He leaves a few final pecks against your lips, “Th-this pussy’s got me too haaaah- addicted, pretty–” As he’s moving to part sloppy ways, you’re gasping at the splatter! of something warm. Wet. And only then do you register the literal tears crinkling at his eyes from overstimulation. Crying.

“A-are you okay– Satoru?” You’re whining, limp fingers skimming away the strands of white that cling to his prespired forehead.

“No.” Comes the answer, comes the heaving gasp when Gojo’s fatigued limbs force themselves through his trembling muscles to heave back upright. “One m-more. That was a practice run.” Throwing your legs over his broad shoulders, you feel his flexing deltoids underneath you when Gojo brings one ankle up to his mouth and kisses. Muttering - more to himself than anything. “B-but m’gonna make y’feel good- oh- fuck- m’gonna make you t-take this big cock.”

His words have you just as stupidly fucked as his fat shaft does.

Those lightning bolts of his veins thump down the upperside of your goopy channel, massaging your sweet spots over and over and-

“Th-think it was here-” Gojo’s palms feel everywhere and anywhere down your tummy for the vicious back and forth of him inside you. To feel that bulging opening, the way your snug channel clenches every time his bouncy tip recoils back from your cervix. Wanting more more more- “-or w-was it- here.”

“Fuck!” The entire expanse of your spine arches off of those thoroughly and filthily dampened sheets now, meshing up sluttily into Gojo’s body until his prespiry-glossed abs cushion your front, plush pecs so comfortably collapsing on top of you. “There- there there hngh- more-”

“More-” Gojo chuckles, hitting that precious spot over and over. His chubby head mashes in slurping soppy collisions until he was out of breath. Dizzy. “More she says- Greedy girl, wh-when you have me already ngh- dripping out of you. Shit- squeezin’ me so. Oh-”

And his vigorous fingers scoop up such lecherous volumes of his own milky cum, toying with the gushing waves of white your poor pussy leaks with every pound.

He’s bullying them between your lips - cerulean eyes dilating, mouth sagging unsealed when you eagerly suck on his digits. Tasting his candied self, tasting you. Somehow managing to muffle out, “M-m’not greedy.”

Gojo can only grin, “S-say that to me when this oh- cunt of yours isn’t sucking the fuckin’ soul outta me.”

And Gojo would love to tease you more for this - to mouth away for hours on end into your ear about how drenched you were getting and muse out loud whether you’d dreamt of this just as much as he has, too.

But instead, he’s pecking a flurry of lovely kisses all down your face. Gasping into your lips, “M-move that pretty hand f’me-” So rudely swatting those fingers of yours that’d snuck their way down to toy with your neglected clit, Gojo’s taking over himself to rub steady, methodical circles. Thumb peeking pressure on the hood of your clit just the way he’d read online. “-I’ve always w-wanted to ah- do this. To fuck you raw. T-to ruin you and ngh- fill you up-” As his words spill, so do a few ropey wads of pre. More. Frequent. “-a-and eat you out all over again. See how you taste like mine…”

“Y-you’re gonna-” You can’t even bring yourself to say it. “Again?”

“Of course, sweetheart- why? Scared I- oh.”

That’s when he does it - the mistake of peering his barely-open eyes down.

His weightily smacking balls that smooch against your ass with each thrust clench oh-so-painfully at the vision of your puffed-up pussy lips gaping around him. Drooling. Swallowing. Accommodating his ruthless cock for all you can, practically broken in half and still yearning for more.

Shit, the sight’s so hypnotic that Gojo doesn’t even realize when he’s letting his thoroughly overwhelmed body lock into yours like a puzzle piece. So hefty and sculpted.

His abs practically melting into your body, and his sloppy hips pistoning into you even deeper. Harsher. Every raring grind of Gojo’s lengthy shaft probes into your g-spot so hard. Like he wanted to leave widely battered bruises of his circumference on your sweetened spots, your cervix, anywhere and everywhere he could reach. Like he couldn’t stop.

Doesn’t even know the very word right about now in this filthy, filthy mating press. “C’mon- c’mon one more for ah- luck?” Whimpering, “My sweetheart, I-I’m gonna-”

Gojo sees white when he cums once more this night - and you do, too.

You’re not sure if it’s because of the violent streaks of electricity that run down your entire body, or because of the treacly spurts of cum that overspill from your poor cunt. But fuck- did it feel so good.

Your entire body tingles all the way down from your toes up to your bleary head - and the entire room feels like it’s fucking spinning at this point.

Black tinging your vision with ever overfilling thwack! of Gojo’s tight, cum-filled balls as they empty out, out, out into your depths. It’s coating your insides like a sticky second skin, leaving stringy drizzles of seed seeping from between your slit. Adding to the ever-growing puddle before.

You’re feeling it swashing around you with every drivel of his hips. Overstuffing your elastic walls until you felt like they were about to burst.

And all you can do is simply grapple your nails into the bulging muscles on Gojo’s back, whimpering out a broken, “T-Toru–”

“M’here I-I’m here–” Yet his voice sounds airy, hitching like he was on cloud nine. A beefy arm wraps around your body and manhandles you close to him like some sort of ragdoll, “M’here- shit-” His lips graze against yours in what you assume must be a kiss, too oversensitive to even perk his head up and peck you senseless like you knew he wanted to. “Never lettin’ ya go- haaah- never- ah-”

Whatever promises Gojo always imagined whispering into your ear can be said and done later.

Right now, the only thing he can streamline his body into doing for him is to search blindly for his discarded pants by the side of the bed. Searching for that bulge in the back pocket- no, not the panties he’d swiped right in front of you - instead, he’s feeling for the shape of his wallet.

Pulling your tired body back into his, Gojo’s carding it lazily open to show you that.

Exactly what they were talking about.

Splayed out proudly in the front and center of his wallet was a picture of the two of you. Years and years ago exactly on this date, the aged photograph showed a smiling Gojo Satoru in front of a candlelit birthday cake, tiny cheeks all pinkened. A small, surly you standing by his side - eyeing his Digimon hat more than you were eyeing the camera.

But that didn’t matter, because Gojo wasn’t looking at the camera, either.

He was looking at you - exactly the way he was right now.

Glowy eyes half-lidded, a mysterious little smile playing on his lips. Gojo nuzzles his face against yours and breathes out a tiny, “I…I might have loved you ever since then, y’know that?”

You’re gasping, eyes shining with…something. And Gojo’s heart stutters as he wants to find out. Wringing your hands to wrap around his broad chest, you’re coiling your legs together until you’re unsure where one ends and the other starts.

Whispering three lovely words into his ear - and three more into the honeyed air.

“Happy birthday, Satoru.”

---

Gojo’s one wish was to wake up next to you - like this. Under soft blankets, with your sleepy breath puffing softly into his collarbone, your body tucked safely into his.

And he never wants to let go - could never even dream of anything that could ruin this precious moment-

“Mind explaining who ordered wedding decor last night on MY account?”

Ah, that would do it.

Bleary blue eyes wrench open, taking Gojo every shred of will in his body to not jolt at the unwelcome greeting of Shoko peering down at him…while he was all wrapped up with his best friend’s sister in a bedroom that could almost be mistaken for a crime scene.

Would it really be too late of a birthday wish to hope that she hadn’t noticed your tattered clothes on the floor, the ruined state of the sheets, and the way that the bedframe sagged suspiciously on one side?

Gulping, he’s pressing your body even tighter into his, careful not to let you stir - well, at least it couldn’t get worse than this-

Footsteps.

Close.

And an unmistakable few voices - and laughter. “Is that my sist- SATORU, YOU BASTARD-”

“Eugh.”

“WHAT did you blackmail her with?”

“Woahhh- congratulations on your relationship!”

A/N. Lowkey has the spirit of a crackfic, I fear. This was SAUR fun.

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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holeforzenin · 1 month ago

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Toji just grins when your voice wavers, his head falls back with a deep, mocking laugh that rumbles through his broad chest. He’s got your thighs folded back, hips pressed flushed against your ass, and his cock buries itself so deep you swear he’s kissing your cervix with that fat, leaking tip of his dick.

“What’s the matter, huh?” His big hands keep your legs pinned in place in his strong grip as his thumb brushes over the supple flesh of your thighs. “You were real mouthy earlier—talking back n’ giving yer old man all that attitude. Now look at ya. Can’t even get a word out, huh?”

You try to speak, try to tell him off, but it just comes out a pathetic whine, broken and high-pitched, and he scoffs with a low laugh while grinning down at you like you’re something pathetic.

“Aww, what’s that baby, Can’t think straight when your sloppy cunt’s stuffed full of cock?” He chuckles as his hips grinds down into your cunt—it’s slow but the sudden moving sensation forces your eyes to roll back in a drunken way, the stretch burning as your greedy hole embarrassingly clamps down around him like you’re trying to keep his cock there forever. “Bet it’s so hard to focus, huh? Poor baby’s too dumb to remember why you were throwing a fit”.

You bite your lip, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, and Toji’s calloused thumb drags down to press against your clit. The sudden pressure has you gasping, back arching into his touch—greedy for more, and he just clicks his tongue while shaking his head.

“Yeahhh, see that’s what I thought. Can’t even remember, can ya? Dumb little thing, always bitching and moaning about something”. His thumb purposefully flickers over your puffy clit with every forceful thrust, each snap of his hips making you cry out and claw at his big forearms in an unforgiving way—as if it’s your get back but unfortunately, you knew Toji wouldn’t be affected by your sad little nail scratches anyways. “But when it comes down to it—” He leans in, teeth scraping over your jaw before biting down just enough to make you yelp. “—you just want Daddy to fuck you stupid”.

You choke on a moan, toes curling against his large back as he presses into you deeper, folding your legs back even tighter, practically bending you in half and crushing you with his heavy weight. Toji watches your face, all red and teary-eyed, lips bitten raw, and it makes his grin go feral.

“Look at ya. So fucking pathetic”. He looms over, lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark, rumbling growl. “Didn’t I tell ya not to pick fights you can’t win, baby? Now you’re just gonna take it like the little slut you are”.

Your pussy clenches hard around him from that, and he laughs again—a low wicked sound, shaking his head like he almost feels bad for you. Almost.

“Yeah, that’s right. Making a mess all over my cock ‘cause you love being put in your place”. His thrusts grow rougher, each one hammering his thick cock deep enough that you see stars. “Fuckin’ brat—gonna make sure you remember who’s in charge. Next time you’ll definitely think twice before running your mouth with me”.

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lacyblades · 2 months ago

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౨ৎ virgin!reader who's concocted this whole narrative about fratboy!satoru taking some bizarre vow of celibacy. ridiculous, maybe – but honestly, his pre-you life felt like a completely different era. no hookups. no casual encounters. didn't that violate some unspoken rule in the frat bible?

"where are your notes?" he asks, the mattress dipping as he sprawls out.

you swivel from your spot at the desk, a genuine "huh?" escaping.

"your notes, cherry," he repeats, a teasing lift to his eyebrow. "you said you needed study help."

a slow blink. you pretend to search your memory. "oh. right. notes. actually… i think i'm good."

satoru's brow furrows. "then why the invite?"

"what? a girlfriend can't just want her boyfriend over?"

"cherry," he corrects, a pointed look in his eyes, "i'm not your boyfriend."

"yet," you hum, amending his correction with a sly smile. "either way, my roommate's out."

he blows out a breath, a slow nod. "perfect. peaceful study session. never did like her anyway."

"please tell me you weren't actually expecting only studying," you say, a playful challenge in your tone. "empty dorm. just us. alone."

satoru's frown deepens, and you deploy your most pathetic puppy-dog eyes. his don't even flicker.

"we're not having sex," he states flatly, crossing his impressive arms. big, strong, very noticeable arms.

"yet," you echo, a hopeful lilt in your voice.

"right," he sighs, a hint of amusement in his exasperation, "yet." satoru had this thing about taking it slow, like a time-traveling puritan.

"we aren't there yet, though," he adds, a subtle shift in his gaze. no intercourse, he'd declared. but he'd conveniently omitted any mention of what didn't count as intercourse. a loophole you were currently exploiting, straddling his lap, your lips throbbing from his kisses, your teeth nipping and tangling.

your skirt has crept far, far up, panties a damp second skin plastered against his boxers, the evidence of your arousal mingling with his pre-cum in the increasingly sodden fabric between you.

satoru's hands are firm on your hips, anchoring you. you already feel the telltale spasms against your core twice, milking his thick length through the barrier of his jeans just by the friction of your slick heat against his bulge. a low groan rumbles in his chest, his head falling back, eyes momentarily glazed.

you have to give him credit; amish commitment or not, he's putting up one hell of a fight against actual penetration. you almost admire his self-control. almost. except for the fact that it's really eating at yours.

his hips buck against yours, a desperate, involuntary movement that draws a moan from your throat. "god, cherry," he mumbles into the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. you press down, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his thighs, effectively pinning him. if he won't fuck you, you'll damn well make the most of what he will do.

the waves of your own pleasure blur together, a relentless tide washing over you. nonetheless, that insistent heat low in your belly coils tighter, one again, every rigid inch of him a focused pressure against your clit through the layers of fabric, a desperate ache building. when the next shared orgasm rips through you both, a strangled whine escapes your lips against his soft, white hair.

yeah. turns out, "taking it slow" has a very different meaning in practice.

#jjk smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #satoru smut #frat house firsts <3 #cherry!reader #frat!gojo

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jaysbaefie · 3 months ago

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babysitter | pjs

synopsis: in which your reckless driving leads to you spending your summer babysitting your father’s business partners son.

genre: rich dad au

pairing: chaebol!jay x younger bratty!reader

warnings: 12 year age gap! reader is 23 and jay is 35, lots and lots of tension, bratty!reader, meandom!jay, possessive!jay, bickering, lots of cornering (like a lot), forced submission, spanking ass + pussy, dub-con in some instances, (oral f. rec), fingering, choking, manhandling, binding with belt, rough p in v (unprotected), forced confession of feelings, cum eating, lots of talk about age. i think that’s it ….

wc: 22.4k

a/n: holy fuck balls you guys. this was the longest piece i’ve written and i feel like ive lost my mind. i feel like a changed woman with all this plot and the minimal smut… like what happened. also wtf is a 1000 block limit…? i had to go back and merge paragraphs because tumblr has a limit apparently. so now, it’s just merged together which is so annoying. anyways, this is for those who voted for babysitter jay! stay tuned i plan on putting another pole out for the next fic. thank you for all the love on my fics <33 notes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. enjoy :)))

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you should've known something like this would happen. when your father instructed you to go to his office to pick up some papers for him, you had a gut feeling that something bad was going to happen.

it was your father's fault, really. if he hadn't called you in the middle of the day, nagging about how you needed to "grow up" and "take responsibility" and "learn a thing or two from your old man," you wouldn't have been so distracted. and if you hadn't been so distracted, you wouldn't have slammed your car straight into the back of someone else's.

a very expensive looking car at that.

your heart was still hammering against your ribs as you sat stiffly on the sidewalk, your car parked haphazardly next to the damaged luxury vehicle you had just rear-ended. you stumbled out of your car, not having the guts to walk up to the car you had absolutely demolished to talk to the owner.

people passing by casted you pitying glances, but none of them could possibly understand the deep, all-consuming regret swirling in your chest.

your father was going to kill you.

worse, the owner of the car was going to kill you.

"you've got to be fucking kidding me."

a deep voice cut through the sound of honking cars and murmuring pedestrians. you squeezed your eyes shut, already dreading the moment you'd have to turn around. but you had no choice, so with a slow inhale, you finally lifted your gaze.

oh fuck my life.

and immediately wanted to crawl into a hole.

"oh, you've really done it this time," you muttered under your breath, swallowing harshly as the man you recognized as jay park, your father's business partner, the ceo of a multimillion-dollar company, and the man whose car you just destroyed—stood in front of you.

looking absolutely livid.

jay was wearing a crisp black suit, but his jacket was slung over his arm, and the top buttons of his white dress shirt were undone. despite the clear annoyance twisting his sharp features, he still managed to look ridiculously handsome. infuriatingly handsome. disregarding your history with the man, you didn't know if you wanted to jump his bones or get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.

his dark eyes flickered from the dent in his car's bumper to where you sat on the sidewalk, one brow raising as realization dawned on him.

"you have got to be kidding me," he repeated, voice laced with disbelief. "of course it's you". his dark eyes narrowed down on your smaller frame, his mouth twisted in a scowl as he ran his hand through his thick black locks in frustration.

you scowled, crossing your arms. "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

fuck his forgiveness.

jay let out a sharp laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. "it means i'm not even surprised. reckless, irresponsible, and spoiled? sounds exactly like you."

"let me guess? daddy's going to take care of this for you? typical," he sneers down at you.

your blood boiled, immediately getting up from the sidewalk so you could stalk up to him. "oh, please. don't act like you know me." he scoffed, leaning down slightly so that his face was closer to yours. "i don't need to know you. your reputation does all the talking, brat."

you clenched your jaw at the name.

he wasn't completely wrong, but you'd rather die than admit that.

jay exhaled heavily, moving back up and pulling out his phone. "i'm calling your father."

your eyes widened in panic. "wait! no, you don't have to do that—"

but it was too late. jay was already dialing, his expression unreadable as he brought the phone to his ear.

you felt like you were about to throw up.

you didn't hear the full conversation, but based on the way jay's jaw tightened and the glance he shot you, you could tell it wasn't going well. after a few more exchanges, he hung up, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"so?" you asked hesitantly, already bracing yourself for the worst. jay crossed his arms, looking far too pleased with himself. "your father and i came to an agreement."

you narrowed your eyes. "what kind of agreement?"

jay smirked. "instead of paying for the damage, you're going to babysit my son as reparation."

you stared at him. blinked. "what?"

he checked his watch, clearly done with the conversation. "i'll send you the details later. don't be late." and just like that, he walked off, leaving you standing by the sidewalk, utterly speechless.

this could not be happening.

babysitting? you?

you groaned, letting your head drop back.

this was going to be a nightmare, and you needed to wake up.

you make your way to your car, your fists clenching as you mentally prepare yourself to talk to your father.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

"this is so unnecessary, dad."

your father scoffs half heartedly, "you made a mistake, this is the least you could do, __."

"why can't we pay for the repairs, this is completely unnecessary!" you exclaim, your perfectly maintained brows shooting up as you cross your arms—staring at your father with a pointed look.

"besides, he could get anyone who's actually good with children to babysit his kid," you add on with a huff.

he sighs, his eyes shutting in temporary defeat, "__," he says with a warning tone. "mr.park is being nice enough to not file a report and get points deducted from your licence and possibly have your permit suspended. the least you could do is babysit his son, it shows that you are remorseful for your actions. the kids well behaved and you only need to be there for a few hours."

you roll your eyes, this was stupid. it's not like he even cared about the car, so what you crashed into it.

"fine, but just this once. this isn't going to be a reoccurring thing, right?" you hiss at the end, looking at your father with resentment when his face changes into one of relief.

"i may have mentioned that you're not taking classes in the summer, and that you're free throughout the week so we'll see..." he trails off, watching your expression morph into one of disbelief.

"are you ser—" you begin only for knocking at the door to interrupt your sentence. you whip your head around harshly, ready to verbally abuse whoever had dared to interrupt you. "come in."

the door opened slightly, a house maid peering her head between the crack. "mr.__, mr.kim is here," she informs timidly, catching onto the bad energy in the room.

your father smiles, "we'll be right down, thank you teresa."

you scowl at her, her eyes widening for a moment before she scurries off—shutting the door behind her.

"dad i—" he cuts you off, "—__, we will continue this conversation next time. mr.kim is waiting for us downstairs, you know what to do when mr.park contacts you, right?" his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you with narrowed eyes.

you let out a frustrated sigh, "yes, dad."

"good, be on your best behaviour."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

later that evening, you had sufficiently screamed into your pillow and considered packing your bags to flee the country. you were on the phone with one of your best friends, minho, who attempted to comfort you through your mental break down.

"you don't understand, minho. my life is ending," you wailed softly, pressing your face against your pillow—almost suffocating yourself.

minho rolls his eyes behind the screen, he was lucky you weren't on facetime or you'd have his neck.

"__, you're literally just babysitting for the man. you'll be fine."

"no, minho. you're still not getting it! it's the fact that i have to babysit for that asshole. i swear to god i've had beef with him for the last 4 years. he always has a stick up his ass," you ramble.

"are you sure you have beef with him? sounds one sided to me.." he trails off making you let out a gasp—offended at his words.

"you're supposed to be on my side, dick. whatever, i'll talk to you later. if i'm not dead," you whine dramatically.

minho scoffs, "yeah, yeah. love you, talk soon."

"love you too, bitch. bye."

you hang up the phone, staring mindlessly at your roof as you think about the events of today. jay wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so uptight all the time. he was actually hot. really, hot.

you think back to the times where the two of you interacted, the fake polite nods you sent his ways and the way he tried to hide his dislike for you behind his charming smile whenever there were others around. the way he'd brush up against you whenever he walked by you, or how his voice deepened when he said your name.

you had noticed his gaze slide up and down your frame on multiple occasions, choosing to ignore it but secretly loving the way he looked like he hated you. however, all these moments get pushed aside when you remember all the times he was an absolute dick towards you.

jay had a way of making himself the most infuriating person on the planet—whether he did it on purpose or not. and judging by the smug way his lips always curled whenever he got under your skin, you knew it was always on purpose. he liked seeing you riled up, he liked it when you bit back at him.

the first time you met him, he completely ignored you. it was at some stupid business dinner your father had forced you to attend. while everyone exchanged pleasantries, jay didn't even acknowledge you. not a single glance. not even when you introduced yourself. instead, he sipped his whiskey, eyes trained on anything but you. it wasn't until you had walked past him that he finally said something.

"spoiled little princess, huh?"

you turned back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "what did you just say to me?" this was the first time he had talked to you, and this is what he has to say?

he smirked over the rim of his glass. "nothing."

you scoffed, rolling your eyes in distaste before sauntering away. jay's eyes following every movement of your hips as you slowly get lost in the crowd.

he loved pointing out your mistakes.

when you got a flat tire outside your father's office, jay happened to be walking by. you were already frustrated, struggling with your phone to call for roadside assistance, when his voice rang out behind you.

"let me guess. you don't even know how to change a tire, do you?"

you scoffed, glaring at him. "do you?"

he chuckled, shaking his head. "of course i do. but i don't help people who look at me like they'd rather set me on fire."

he always had a comment about your attitude. "you pout too much."

you blinked, pausing mid-sip of your drink. "excuse me?"

jay leaned against the bar counter at yet another business event, swirling the ice in his glass as he looked at you with mild amusement. "you pout too much. like a brat who didn't get what she wanted."

you scoffed, setting your glass down with a little too much force. "maybe that's just my face."

he smirked, eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze again. "yeah? then why do you only do it around me?"

it was safe to say that you hated him and overall wanted nothing to do with him or his kid.

you groan into your pillow, "why me," you whine. suddenly, your phone pings.

you received a text from an unknown number.

jay: 9 am sharp. don't be late. i don't tolerate irresponsibility.

you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in the back of your head.

you: don't worry, i wouldn't dare disappoint you, your highness.

his reply came almost immediately.

jay: that's mr. park to you.

you: my deepest apologies, park jongseong.

he didn't respond after that.

dickwad.

you tossed your phone onto your bed, groaning into your hands.

this was going to be a very, very long summer.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you were not a morning person, and your lack of sleep was not helping. so when your alarm blared at an ungodly hour, your first instinct was to throw your phone across the room and go back to sleep—but you couldn't. because you had a job to do.

a job that you weren't getting compensated for.

or, more accurately, a job you were being forced into doing. it was unpaid labor by your father.

"consider it a way to build character and experience," he had said to you, sipping his coffee without a shred of sympathy or remorse as you gaped at him.

"consider it a way to ruin my life," you had shot back, but it hadn't mattered.

so here you were, running on three hours of sleep and a whole lot of resentment, pulling up to jay park's house—a sleek, modern mansion that screamed wealth. the kind of wealth that made you roll your eyes but also, begrudgingly, admire just a little. the driveway alone could fit at least six cars, and the front door? massive, dark wood, and intimidating as hell.

jay displayed his wealth proudly, whereas your father preferred to keep himself grounded. you get out of the car, your father had insisted that the driver drop you off.

"we don't need you crashing into another one of mr.park's cars," he had said, ushering you out the door.

you rolled your eyes, begrudgingly agreeing, not because you agreed that you were a terrible driver. but because you were tired and didn't have it in you to argue with him and get your way.

"when shall i pick you up ma'am?" your driver asked you.

you think for a second, "i'll inform you when."

you sighed, running a hand through your hair before pressing the doorbell.

within seconds, the door swung open. revealing a rather, dare you say, scandalous looking jongseong.

his typically neatly slicked back hair was frazzled, strands of his dark locks picking onto his forehead. he was wearing a thin white dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first few buttons of his shirt undone, a thin silver chain adorned on his neck and his exposed collar bone. his plump lips were pulled into a rather lazy smirk in contrast to his typical scowl that you were used to him greeting you with. his sharp gaze flickering over you like he was already unimpressed.

it was entirely unfair how good he looked this early in the morning.

his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't exactly friendly either.

"you're late."

your eyes narrowed, glancing at your phone. "it's 9:02."

jay raised a brow. "exactly."

your jaw clenched. two minutes. he was seriously acting like two damn minutes was a crime.

you forced a tight-lipped smile. "where's the kid?"

before jay could respond, a small figure peeked out from behind him—a little boy, no older than five, with round cheeks and big, curious eyes.

jay made a cute kid, you'll give him that. jay placed a hand on his head, his expression softening just slightly. "this is seojun. seojun, this is __. she's going to be taking care of you today."

he steps aside, allowing you into his home. you admire the interior, mouth opening in awe as you take off your shoes.

seojun blinked up at you before stepping forward, arms crossed in a stance far too judgmental for a five-year-old.

"do you know how to make pancakes?"

what happened to 'hello, how are you?'

you hesitated for a moment, looking up at jay in confusion only for him to give you a 'well, do you?' look. "uh... sure?"

seojun narrowed his eyes. "do you actually, or are you lying?" jay let out a soft chuckle, and you immediately shot him a glare.

"i can make pancakes," you insisted, then quickly added, "probably."

seojun sighed like a man three times his age, shaking his head. "we're doomed."

jay patted his son's head, lips twitching. "good luck," he says. he reaches for his trench coat and bag that were set neatly by the door on a cushioned bench.

your eyes widened. "wait, you're leaving?"

"that's usually how work goes."

"you could at least pretend to care about abandoning your child with a stranger."

jay gave you a pointed look. "you crashed into my car. this is me pretending. and i have 911 on speed dial." you opened your mouth to argue but stopped when you felt a tiny hand grip your wrist.

"you're wasting time," seojun said seriously, already pulling you toward the kitchen. "if you burn my breakfast, i'm calling the cops."

jay smirked as you shot him one last glare before getting dragged away by his tiny, opinionated son.

ten minutes later, and you were already regretting everything. you stumbled around the kitchen blindly, allowing the spawn of satan to boss you around.

"that's too much flour."

"are you sure you cracked that egg right?"

"why does the batter look like that?"

"are you even qualified to be in a kitchen?"

you turned slowly to seojun, who was sitting on the counter with his arms crossed, watching your every move with a level of scrutiny that made you nervous. truth be told, you had never made pancakes. you were going off memory of what your housemaids had put into the batter when you asked for pancakes one morning—happening to pay attention to them cooking.

"do you wanna make the pancakes?" you asked, raising a brow—getting tired of his attitude and critiques.

"no," he said simply. "i just don't want to die eating them."

you exhaled sharply. "listen here, you little—"

"language," seojun cut in, and you swore you heard jay's smug influence in that tone.

you were never having kids.

ever.

despite his relentless judgment, you somehow managed to make edible pancakes. you plated them with a dramatic flourish, sliding one in front of seojun before grabbing a plate for yourself. he stared at it for a long moment before finally taking a bite. you held your breath.

"...not bad," he muttered.

you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically. "was that a compliment?"

he rolled his eyes. "don't get used to it."

little shit.

you smirked, finally digging into your own breakfast, only to be interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

jay was home. already?

he stepped into the kitchen, shrugging off his coat, his eyes scanning the scene in front of him. the not-burnt pancakes. seojun eating without complaint. and much to his disappointment—you, still alive.

his brow lifted in shock, "huh."

you glared at him, "what?"

jay leaned against the counter, arms crossed, "i figured you'd give up by now."

you scoffed. "sorry to disappoint."

seojun swallowed his bite, glancing between the two of you before shaking his head. "you guys fight too much. i thought adults were mature."

jay smirked. "we don't fight."

you scoffed. "we absolutely do."

"no, you just get mad when i say things that are true."

your eye twitched. "i literally hate you."

"see? fighting," seojun interrupts.

"oh my god."

seojun groaned, dropping his fork. "i liked it better when you were just burning pancakes."

jay chuckled, grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet. "get used to it, kid."

you narrowed your eyes at him. if you weren't being forced into this, you would have walked out already.

but you were being forced into this.

which meant you had no choice but to deal with jay fucking park.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

babysitting, as you had quickly come to realize, was hell.

seojun was a tiny dictator with far too many opinions for a five-year-old. after breakfast, he interrogated you about your ability to tie shoelaces, your knowledge of dinosaurs, and whether or not you knew how to build a proper lego tower.

you did not, apparently.

"how do you not know how to build legos," he exclaims, his tiny hands waving in the air dramatically as he watches you go through a mental break down.

"well, i'm sorry. i didn't play with legos as a kid, i played with barbie's."

seojun twists his face in disgust, "barbie's? that's for girls."

you look at him with a deadpan expression, "i'm a girl."

"oh."

"what do you even do all day?" he asks, hands on his hips as he watched you struggle to connect two lego pieces. "i exist," you grumbled, scowling at the colorful bricks in front of you. "isn't that enough?"

seojun sighed. "you need better life skills."

"oh, i'm sorry, i didn't realize i was signing up for a performance review."

"i'm just saying," he shrugged, "i expected more from someone who's supposed to be an adult."

this kid.

"i'm only 23," you grumble to yourself. you exhaled sharply, deciding to ignore his judgment as you tried again to build something that wouldn't collapse within seconds.

but then—the sound of the front door opening.

jay was home. again.

you weren't sure why this surprised you. maybe because most ceos didn't have time to just pop in and out of their mansions all day. you begin to wonder, what was the point of having you babysit his son if he wasn't going to fuck off?

seojun perked up at the sound, immediately abandoning you and your lego struggles to run toward the living room. you followed, stopping just before the hallway, eyes landing on jay.

he was pulling off his coat, dressed in a fitted dress shirt and slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms.

his oh so veiny and thick forearms.

not that you were looking.

except you were. damn it.

"why are you back?" you asked, forcing yourself to look anywhere else.

jay glanced at you, expression unreadable. "this is my house." answering you as if you were stupid and unable to comprehend basic knowledge.

"you know what i meant. don't you have stuff to do?" he walked past you, ruffling seojun's hair before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

"had a meeting nearby," he said, twisting the cap off. "figured i'd check in."

"to make sure i haven't killed your son yet?"

jay smirked. "basically."

you rolled your eyes. "wow. the trust is overwhelming."

before jay could respond, seojun tugged at his sleeve.

"dad, she sucks at legos."

you gasped, glaring at the boy. "excuse me?"

jay chuckled, taking a sip of his water before glancing at you, "i can't say i'm surprised."

oh, that was it.

"you know what?" you huffed, hands on your hips. "if i suck so much, why don't you do it?"

jay's brow lifted. "you want me to build legos?"

"i want you to prove you're better," you challenged. "unless you're all talk, park."

seojun gasped dramatically. "she's challenging you, dad."

jay stared at you.

you stared back.

then, to your absolute horror, he smirked. "fine," he said, setting his water down. "let's play."

oh.

you immediately regretted this.

twenty minutes later, and you had never felt so humiliated in your life.

"how the hell—" you gaped at the fully functional lego castle jay had built. "this is rigged."

jay leaned back, completely smug. "some of us have talent."

you glared. "some of us have jobs that should keep them too busy for this. old man."

seojun, sitting beside his dad, was thrilled.

"you suck at this," he declared.

"okay, you don't have to rub it in," you muttered, feeling sad that the older man had beat you.

jay stood, dusting off his hands. "guess that settles it. you suck, i don't. end of discussion."

you groaned. "i hate you."

jay smirked. "i know."

seojun clapped. "yay! dad wins!"

you slumped onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. you were never agreeing to anything ever again. jay checked his watch. "i have another meeting. try not to lose to a five-year-old while i'm gone."

you didn't even have the energy to glare at him. but you did flip him off.

jay just laughed, disappearing out of your sight.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

babysitting seojun had somehow turned into babysitting jay's goddamn ego.

he was infuriating.

it had been a full week since you started watching seojun, and in that time, jay had developed an annoying habit of randomly showing up at home between meetings, offering you nothing but sarcasm, smugness, and unsolicited criticism.

"you can't cook."

"your attention span is worse than my son's."

"what do you actually contribute to society?"

you had held your tongue, barely, choosing to channel your rage into rolling your eyes so hard it was a miracle they hadn't gotten stuck.

but today? oh, today you were done playing nice.

"__, can we please go to the park?"

the boy had asked you nicely and hadn't bullied you all day, so you said yes as a reward. seojun had wanted to go to the park, so you took him. simple. no issues.

until jay called.

"where are you?" his voice came through the speaker, low and sharp.

did the fucker have a tracker on his kid or something?

"out," you answered, watching seojun run toward the swings. a small smile makes its way on your face as you watch him giggle and make himself comfortable on the swing. he waves his hands around, trying to catch your attention.

"push me, noona!" he squeals. you grin, making your way to seojun.

"out where?" you almost forget he was on the phone.

"does it matter?" you roll your eyes with a huff.

"jesus, __." his frustration crackled through the line. "you're with my kid. tell me where you are."

you sighed. "we're at the park five minutes from your house. calm down, dad of the year."

there was a pause."stay there. i'm coming."

he hung up before you could argue.

okay then...

you huffed, shoving your phone into your pocket.

"jay's being dramatic again," you muttered to yourself, giving the little boy a push as he squeals and giggles to himself.

"he does that a lot," seojun said wisely.

even his son agrees.

when jay arrived, he looked pissed. tight jaw. furrowed brows. stiff shoulders. his hair was tousled and his shirt was ruffled slightly as he stalked his way up to you.

hot.

not the point.

"you didn't tell me you were taking him out," he said, crossing his arms. his biceps bulged in his shirt, your mouth watering slightly before seojun's giggles break you out of your trance.

you mentally slap yourself for thirsting over the man. "because it wasn't a big deal," you shot back.

"it is when you're responsible for a five-year-old who isn't yours."

you groaned. "god, you're so controlling."

jay took a step closer. "and you're reckless."

"it's a park, not a battlefield."

"it's about responsibility, __." his voice dropped, tone edged with irritation. "but i wouldn't expect you to understand that."

you froze. "excuse me?"

jay tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "you heard me."

oh, hell no.

you stepped closer, chin lifting defiantly. "what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

his gaze flickered over your face before settling on your eyes. "it means you're a little spoiled brat who doesn't know how to take care of herself let alone another person."

you scoffed. "oh, i'm sorry, are you my father now?"

"god, no," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "i don't have the patience for that. but if i was, trust me, you'd be put in your place a long time ago."

you pause, your mind blanking at his words. "then stop acting like you know me."

jay let out a dry laugh. "oh, i know you just fine."

"bullshit."

his brows raised. "you think i don't see it? the way you pout when things don't go your way? how you expect everything to be handed to you? the way you act like the world owes you something?"

your hands clenched at your sides. "you don't know a damn thing about me."

fuck you. he did know you.

jay leaned in, his breath warm against your face. "i know enough."

your heartbeat spiked. not from anger. not entirely.

because up close, jay was all heat and intensity, his cologne clouding your senses, his voice a slow drag down your spine. your lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of your tongue—but then he smirked.

that arrogant, knowing smirk.

and just like that, the spell broke.

you shoved him back, ignoring the way his chest was way too solid under your hands. "get over yourself, park." his expression darkens at your touch, the heat of your palms against his chest making his body twitch.

jay barely budged from your shove. but his smirk did fade.

his jaw tensed. his fingers curled into fists.

"watch yourself, __," he murmured, his voice darker than before. "you're playing a dangerous game."

so why did it feel like he wanted you to keep playing?

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

your entire body was on fire.

standing in jay's kitchen, chest heaving, hands curled into fists at your sides, you couldn't decide whether you wanted to slap him or...

no. not that.

for the past eight hours, you had been subjected to jay's controlling and condescending attitude. the constant comments, the smug little smirks, the way he seemed to take way too much pleasure in watching you struggle. you had tried, really tried, to keep your cool.

but now, standing in his sleek, modern kitchen, you were done.

"are you kidding me?" you scoffed, slamming the fridge shut. "you don't even have juice? what kind of psychopath only stocks sparkling water and black coffee?"

you were crashing out over some juice, for fucks sake.

jay barely looked up from his position, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. "a grown man who doesn't drink sugar like a child?"

your eyes narrowed. "oh, fuck off."

his lips twitched. "watch your mouth, princess."

princess. you hated when he called you that. hated the way it sent a pulse of heat through you, how it made your stomach twist and your thighs clench. you turned to glare at him. "why are you even here? don't you have some billionaire meeting to attend?"

he shrugged. "i cleared my schedule."

"why?"

jay's smirk deepened. "because i don't trust you alone in my house."

your jaw dropped. "excuse me? i think i've proved myself trust worthy in the last few weeks."

he pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his gaze lazy and unimpressed. "you're reckless. irresponsible. spoiled."

it was always the same few adjectives that he used to describe you, it was starting to grow old. your nails dug into your palms. "and you're a control freak." he hummed, pretending to consider. "maybe. but at least i don't go around crashing into people's cars and then whining when there are consequences."

oh, fuck him.

your nostrils flared. "it was a tiny scratch!"

jay arched a brow. "a tiny scratch that cost six figures."

you gritted your teeth. "maybe if you didn't drive a car worth more than some people's houses—"

"maybe if you learned how to drive—"

your breath came short, your heart pounding in your ears as you held yourself back from launching yourself onto jay and tackling him to the ground.

"you're so fucking full of yourself," you seethed, eyes locked on his, fury bubbling under your skin. "you walk around like you own the whole damn world." jay smirked, taking another step forward, forcing you to lift your head to keep glaring at him. "maybe because i do." you let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms which, unbeknownst to you, pushed up your chest under your tank top. "god, you're insufferable."

jay swallowed a groan, he held in everything in him whenever you'd show up in your tiny shirts and skirts. giving a clear opportunity for his gaze to wander down your form.

he wondered if you wore those things intentionally— if you’d bend down in front of him with purpose, and genuinely, he was starting to think so. all the times you'd brush up against him when wearing your little skirts — how you'd push up your chest when you'd cross your arms in frustration — it was slowly driving him insane.

his eyes flickered over your posture, his smirk deepening as he watched your chest rise and fall heavily. "and yet, you're still here."

"i didn’t have a choice!" you snapped. "if it were up to me, i wouldn't be within ten miles of you."

he hummed, looking entirely too amused. "funny, considering the way you're looking at me right now."

your jaw clenched as you glared at him, "and how am i looking at you exactly?" jay tilted his head, studying you like he knew your every thought, every single fucking move you made. like he could see right through you— the way your breath came a little quicker, the way your fists weren't just curled in anger but in restraint of jumping his bones.

his voice dropped, soft but teasing. "like you want me."

your stomach flipped violently.

"fuck you," you spat.

his smirk didn't waver. "say the word, princess."

your whole body burned.

you wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, to shove him away, to yell at him until you couldn’t. but you also wanted to have him bend you over in the kitchen right then and now.

you sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head. "this is ridiculous." jay took another step forward, erasing the last bit of space between you. his chest nearly brushed yours, his scent clean, musky, and undeniably him—flooding your senses.

thank god, seojun was asleep.

you refused to back down. refused to be the first to move. you maintain eye contact, your eyes flickering to his lips occasionally making your breath stutter.

his voice dropped lower, rough around the edges. "tell me to stop."

you should.

but you didn't.

because deep down, you knew this had been building for years. every heated glance, every sharp-tongued remark, every little touch that lasted a second too long—it had all been leading to this very moment.

you liked pushing him.

you weren't stupid, you knew there was an age gap—and that's what was holding him back.

12 years.

you were 23, and jay was 35.

so what?

it wasn't like he was some old man. if anything, he was in his prime—successful, powerful, hot as fuck. he carried himself like a man who had already conquered the world and wasn't pressed about proving anything to anyone.

except, apparently, to you.

because you made him nervous.

you saw it. the way his jaw clenched whenever you got too close, the way his eyes lingered on your legs when you crossed them or how they glanced down at your chest, the way he gripped his glass just a little tighter whenever you threw some bratty comment his way.

you knew he wanted you.

so why was he still fighting it? you knew the answer before you even asked yourself.

it was the age gap. he thought it was a big deal. he thought it mattered, and that pissed you off.

because to you, it wasn't about age. it was about power.

jay hated that he wanted you. hated that you weren't intimidated by him. hated that you saw right through his self-control. that you saw the way he stiffened when you brushed past him, saw the way his eyes darkened when you tested his patience.

you liked seeing him unravel.

he acted like he was above it, like he was some mature, responsible man who didn't get affected by a girl like you.

but you knew better.

because every time you got too close, every time you laughed at his scolding—you could see his self control break.

jay's fingers brushed against your waist, testing his limits.

your breath stuttered.

his smirk widened, "what's wrong?" he murmured. "cat got your tongue?"

"noona? dad?"

jay immediately pulls back as if your touch suddenly burned him. he looks at you in shock, as if you had made the first move.

little seojun had woken up from his nap, now stumbling into the kitchen half asleep. he immediately makes his way to you when he sees you cornered into the kitchens counters. "noona, i'm hungry," he mumbles before he's reaching his arms out indicating that he wants you to pick him up. you swallow harshly, leaning down to carry him before you shoot jay a sharp glare.

"how'd you sleep, jun?" you ask the boy, rubbing his back as he slowly regains his energy.

jay watches the scene with a heavy heart, seeing you and seojun get along was endearing. he never expected to see his son get close to another woman this way, let alone you—not after his wife.

"good. what were you and dad doing?"

you immediately whip your head around to stare at jay who looked equally as shocked.

"uhm."

"i was just helping, __ with her uh...hair. it got stuck in her necklace," jay fibbed, nervous that his son would catch onto his lies. he mentally curses himself for making his son so smart.

seojun just nods, still half asleep. "__, hair is long. pretty."

you smile down at seojun who has his head leaned against your chest. it was a rare occurrence that the little boy wasn't on your ass and teasing you, so you basked in his innocent silence.

"well, i'll be going now," jay coughs out lamely, turning around and walking out of the kitchen.

you roll your eyes, "what does junnie want to eat?"

"grilled cheese!"

"grilled cheese it is."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the day had been long and draining, filled with the usual chaos of babysitting seojun.

"noona, you burnt this side."

"the waters too cold, you're going to turn me into a popsicle!"

"it's a shame that you're not improving on your lego skills."

you had spent most of your day absorbed in your own thoughts, determined to keep your distance from jay's constant, prickly presence. you didn't know what was going between the two of you, but the constant teasing and proximity was starting to affect you—and you did not like that. but nothing could have prepared you for the moment when you saw his car pull into the driveway again.

it was late in the afternoon, your mind occupied with tidying up the living room after seojun's afternoon nap when you heard footsteps approaching. you looked up just in time to see jay step through the front door—this time, accompanied by a woman whose presence sent an unfamiliar twist of jealousy and confusion through your chest.

she was striking: tall, elegantly dressed, her dark hair falling perfectly around her shoulders. for a split second, your mind raced with possibilities. was she just a friend? a casual companion? or something more? the answer was not provided—jay made no attempt to introduce her with any clarity. he simply walked past you with a polite nod, the woman silently following at his side—not acknowledging your presence.

the bitter taste of jealousy swarmed you, she was exactly what you'd think jay would go for in a woman. beautiful and sophisticated.

you forced a neutral expression as you went about your tasks, though inside you seethed. you couldn't help but notice the way jay's hand briefly brushed against hers, the soft laughter they exchanged in the hallway, as if they shared an intimacy that you weren't meant to be a part of. every detail stung, and you kept your face impassive, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you riled up.

the rest of the night passed in a haze of quiet tension. seojun remained asleep in his room, unaware of the storm brewing between you and jay. you moved through your duties with mechanical efficiency, silently cursing the timing of his unexpected guest. every time you caught a glimpse of jay glancing in her direction or sharing a private smile, a bitter mixture of jealousy and humiliation washed over you. you had no idea why you felt this way—jay was never yours, and you were only here to babysit his son. yet, every little detail of that moment lingered painfully in your mind.

you wondered if the woman was seojun's mother, they shared a resemblance of some kind. jay had never mentioned seojun's mother before, and you had never asked. all you knew was jay was a single parent and the mother of his child was simply not in the picture.

unable to bear the emotional turmoil, you decided to leave earlier than usual. you slipped out of the house quietly, leaving a brief note on the counter that simply read, "i'm done for today." the cool night air hit your face as you got into the car, your driver picking you up.

the next morning, you arrived at jay's house for your babysitting shift, your mood still dark and distant. as usual, jay greeted you at the door with his characteristic calm, yet something in his eyes held a note of confusion. "good morning, __," he said, his tone neutral. "i'm glad you're here."

oh, are you now?

you gave a curt nod and stepped inside without making eye contact. throughout the day, you kept your responses short and your distance intentional. jay tried several times to spark small talk, commenting on seojun's behavior, asking how your night was—but you offered nothing more than a hum and silent stubborn stares.

by late afternoon, the tension had grown almost unbearable. the usual spark that might have accompanied a playful banter was replaced by a wall of silence that left the air thick. finally, after seojun was settled in his room for a nap, jay approached you in the quiet of the kitchen.

the silence in the room was palpable as you stood there, hands on your hips, glaring at jay. his presence in the room felt overwhelming, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, never leaving yours. you were getting under his skin, and you could feel it.

the problem was, you liked it.

"you've been so difficult all day," he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl. "what's your problem?"

you crossed your arms, taking an exaggerated step back, trying to assert some space between you and him. the way his eyes followed you made the hairs on your neck stand up, and you hated it. you hated the effect he had on you. you hated how badly you wanted him even though you knew you never could.

"my problem? you're the one being impossible! i didn't sign up for this. i'm not your babysitter," you snapped, fighting the urge to back down. "your son isn't even the issue. it's you."

actually, it's the woman you brought home yesterday.

he raised an eyebrow, a smug smirk forming on his lips. "me? you're the one acting like a spoiled brat. maybe you should learn some patience."

your fingers clenched at your sides. the way he spoke to you, like he was trying to control you, was beyond irritating. you took another step back, but jay didn't move. instead, he shifted, closing the distance between the two of you in one fluid motion, trapping you against the counter. his chest was a mere inch from yours, his presence suffocating. it humoured you that you two always ended up on the same position, jay closing in on you.

"i don't need a bratty attitude right now. i've had a long day, and the last thing i need is you making it worse," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the edge to it sent a shiver down your spine.

"long day? you've been home all day! what's even the point of me being here if you're going to be up my ass," you hiss.

"__, enough," his tone low as he warned you.

your heart raced as you stared up at him. "what are you going to do about it, huh?" you shot back, not wanting to back down. you didn't know what it was about the situation. maybe it was the tension, how he made you feel when he was this close, or maybe it was just that damned smirk on his face.

jay's eyes darkened, a spark of something dangerous in them. "i think you need a reminder of who's in charge here."

your breath hitched, and you could feel the heat building between you, but you refused to give in. you had enough, you didn't need to deal with him. you pushed past him, walking toward the kitchen, only to feel a firm grip on your arm—strong, unyielding.

"don't walk away from me," jay growled, spinning you around to face him. you were so close now, you could feel the heat radiating off of his body.

his grip on your arm was firm and rough, but not rough enough to where it hurt. his knuckles turned white as he tries to hold himself back from pushing you against the nearest wall and have you at his mercy.

you glared up at him, your face flushed from the proximity and the argument, but you knew you weren't going to let him win. "you don't control me, jay," you said, trying to keep the defiance in your voice.

he smirked again, stepping closer so your arm was planted against his chest, forcing you to tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. the air between you crackled with uncontrollable tension, keeping you on your toes for god knows how long. "you keep acting like this, and i'll make sure you know exactly who's in charge."

your breath caught. something shifted in the way he looked at you—a warning, a promise, a dare. the line between anger and attraction was blurring, and you weren't sure where one ended and the other began.

before you could respond, he stepped forward, backing you against the kitchen counter, again. his hand found the counter beside your hip, trapping you in place. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his jaw tense.

"look at me," he said, voice low, almost a rasp. "if you want to keep pushing my buttons, go ahead. but i'll make sure you regret it."

your heart raced in your chest, your breath shallow, but you kept the same defiant expression. "you think you can scare me, jay?"

he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "i don't need to scare you, __. i just need to show you what happens when you push too far."

you stood there, rooted to the spot — your body trembling under the weight of his words, the unbreakable tension that had emerged between you two. his fingers brushed against your arm, and for a moment, you could feel the undeniable pull. the fight between you was reaching a breaking point, and you didn't know which way it would go.

but for the first time, you weren't sure if you wanted to fight anymore.

the tension was unbearable, and in the silence that followed, jay's hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. your body responded before your mind could—his lips brushed against yours in the smallest of touches, enough to send your pulse skyrocketing. he pulled back just as quickly, a dangerous smirk on his lips. "you're lucky i don't have time for this right now," he muttered, his tone sharp, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of something more intense. "but don't think for a second this is over."

with that, he stepped back, giving you space to breathe again. you were left standing there, caught between fury and something else you couldn't quite name. your heart was racing, your mind spinning, but you refused to let him see how much he affected you. you turned away, trying to steady your breath, but the tension between you two was getting overbearing. it wasn't over. you both knew that.

but one thing was for sure—you were both playing a dangerous game. and neither of you was ready to stop.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the kitchen was quiet, the only sound being the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. you leaned your head against your hand, staring off into space and you rethink all of your life decisions.

you had spent more time at jay's home than your own for the last month—not that you minded. as much as you hated to admit, seojun had grown on you. what you hated was how you didn't get to enjoy your summer how you originally wished, with your friends—getting drunk and high, maybe dosing on random shit at some frat party.

minho had been blowing up your phone for the last few weeks, asking, no—begging to hang out.

"__, why have you left me?" he groaned dramatically into your ear when you finally picked up his calls.

you rolled your eyes, "i told you i was going to be trapped, but no, you didn't want to take me seriously."

"i didn't think that you'd have any days off. can you ask for one day off, please? i miss my best friend," he pleas. if you could see him right now, he'd most definitely be flashing puppy dog eyes at you.

you sighed, "fine, i'll try to ask jay. but if he says no and i get scolded, i swear to god.” you'd ask jay if you could have the weekend off when he got back home.

you sat perched on one of the barstools, one knee drawn up, the other foot lazily swinging. your fingers traced the rim of a glass of water you hadn't even taken a sip from. seojun had gone to bed over an hour ago, his tiny body curled up under his blankets, blissfully unaware that his father still wasn't home.

you, on the other hand, were all too aware.

your phone sat face-up on the counter beside you, dark and undisturbed. no messages. no missed calls. nothing.

jay was late. really late.

your brows knitted together in irritation. you weren't sure why you cared so much—it wasn't your problem if he wanted to stay out all night. you weren't his wife, his girlfriend, or even someone he owed an explanation to. you were just the babysitter, forced into the role by your father's guilt. but something about his absence, about the way he hadn't even bothered to check in, made irritation simmer beneath your skin.

your knee bounced impatiently as you stared at the front door, waiting.

then, finally—the sound of keys jingling.

the door swung open, and jay stepped inside, looking unfairly put together for someone who had clearly spent the night out. his dark button-up was slightly unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. his black dress pants hung low on his hips, and his hair—slightly tousled like he'd run his fingers through it. he looked so good it made your stomach twist in frustration.

he barely even looked at you at first. instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he kicked off his shoes. it was only when he turned toward the kitchen that his eyes finally met yours.

he slowed to a stop.

you pretended not to notice the way his gaze flickered down, the momentary pause as his eyes dragged over your frame. you were only wearing a thin tank top and an old pair of shorts—the kind you only ever wore to bed, soft and barely covering your thighs. but the way jay's eyes darkened for just a split second, the way his jaw tensed, told you everything you needed to know.

he was flustered.

good.

he covered it quickly, masking whatever flicker of thoughts had just crossed his mind with that insufferable smirk of his.

"you're still up?" he asked, his voice as smooth as ever.

you rolled your eyes, shifting in your seat just enough to make the hem of your shorts ride up slightly. "obviously."

jay's gaze flickered downward again, just for a second. you caught it, and your lips twitched. "what, were you waiting for me?"

you scoffed, tilting your head. "don't flatter yourself. but since i'm responsible for your kid while you're off doing god knows what, yeah, i was expecting you to come home at a reasonable hour." jay exhaled sharply, finally stepping fully into the kitchen. he walked past you to the fridge, and you didn't miss the way his shoulders squared slightly—like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts had just plagued his mind.

"seojun was fine, wasn't he?" he asked, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off.

"that's not the point," you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest. "the least you could do is let me know when you're coming home late. or is common courtesy too much to ask from a man like you?"

"plus, what's this sudden trust coming from? just a week ago you talked about how you had to monitor me because you didn't trust me to take care of seojun." jay let out a low chuckle, taking a slow sip of water before leaning back against the counter.

"jesus, you're dramatic," he muttered, shaking his head. "were you worried about me?" completely ignoring the other things you had said.

you clenched your jaw. "no," you lied smoothly. "i just don't appreciate being left in the dark. i'm not some live-in nanny, jay. if i'm stuck here, i at least deserve to know when you're coming home. look at the time, it's 1am, what time do i even go home?” his tongue ran over his bottom lip as he tilted his head slightly. "you're acting like i abandoned you here with seojun."

"you might as well have."

jay exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed now. "you really don't let shit go, do you?" you smiled sweetly. "not when it's my time being wasted."

he shook his head, muttering something under his breath. then, after a beat, he glanced back up at you, his gaze sharp and unreadable."or maybe," he said, voice slower, "this isn't about me coming home late at all."

your stomach twisted, but you refused to let your expression falter. jay took a step closer, arms crossing over his chest. "maybe this is about something else." you scoffed. "like what?" his lips twitched like he knew something you didn't. "like the other night," he murmured. your brows furrowed, but he didn't give you time to respond.

"you're mad about the woman i brought home." your body tensed before you could stop it, and that slight reaction was all jay needed to confirm his suspicions. his smirk widened.

"i don't care who you bring home," you said quickly, hoping he wouldn't call you out on how unconvincing you sounded. "mm," jay hummed, unconvinced. "so if i told you that woman was mi-na, my sister, you wouldn't feel stupid for being jealous?"

you blinked. the irritation in your chest fizzled out for a moment, replaced by confusion. "your—your sister?" jay's grin widened. "yeah. my little sister. the one who came to visit for the weekend." your face burned. you had spent the past two days brooding over nothing.

but you refused to let him win.

"whatever," you muttered, crossing your arms again—the action causing your tits to spill out of from the top. "i wasn't jealous." his eyes immediately zero in on your chest, swallowing harshly before he lets out a chuckle—stepping closer. you could feel the warmth of his body now, his scent lingering in the space between you. "yeah?" he murmured, voice dipping. "then why are you blushing?"

"i'm not."

jay reached out, his fingers grazing the hem of your shorts before ghosting over your hip. his touch was barely there, but it made your breath hitch, "you sure?"

your heart pounded. your skin tingled where his fingers had been. but you refused to back down. "you're insufferable," you gritted out. jay smirked, his fingers teasing along your hip before pulling away just as quickly. "and yet, you're still here."

"forced to be here," you mutter under your breath, but jay heard it. your body was on fire, your skin still warm from where he had touched you. but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "i hate you," you muttered, turning away. jay only chuckled, voice rich with amusement. "whatever you say, princess."

you rolled your eyes at him, getting off of the barstool as you make your way to the living room to grab your belongings and change out of your clothes—preparing to go home. "wait. stay the night, it's late," he says coolly, his eyes racking down your frame as you bend down to grab your things.

your shorts had bunched over your ass, your legs on full display to his hungry eyes. jay mentally slaps himself for his gaze, but it continues to linger. you scoff, "and who's fault is that?" jay sighs, his brows furrowing, "quit being a brat. i'll get a room set up for you," and with that he walks away—setting his decision into stone.

as much as you wanted to argue, to remind him that you had your own place to go back to. jay had already walked off, leaving no room for discussion. "asshole," you muttered under your breath, but you still set your bag down on the couch with an annoyed sigh.

jay's house was big—too big for just him and seojun. it had that cold, modern look, with spotless marble floors and sleek furniture, the kind that felt more like a showroom than a home. you doubted he spent much time here outside of work and parenting, and somehow, that made it worse.

you waited a few minutes before deciding to move, begrudgingly heading toward the guest room he'd set up for you. it was next to his, with seojun just down the hall. as you stepped inside, you had to admit—he at least had good taste. the bed was huge, covered in soft gray sheets, and the room smelled faintly of clean linen.

but there was one problem.

the pillows sucked. they were flat and thin, one would think that someone as rich as jay had good quality pillows. with a dramatic huff, you rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling before finally giving in to your annoyance. you deserved at least one decent pillow if you were being forced to stay here. without much thought, you swung your legs off the bed and padded down the hall toward jay's room. the door was slightly ajar, and you didn't bother knocking—if he was going to boss you around all night, you had no problem returning the favor.

"hey, do you have—"

you stopped dead in your tracks, mouth suddenly dry.

jay was standing near his dresser, shirtless, his toned back facing you as he ruffled a towel through his damp hair. he must have just taken a shower because his skin still glistened slightly, water droplets trailing down the sharp lines of his shoulders and back. your eyes dipped lower, taking in the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips, revealing just enough of the defined v-line that disappeared beneath the waistband. you should've looked away. you should've turned around and walked out like you hadn't just shamelessly checked him out.

but you didn't.

instead, you stood there, gripping the doorframe a little too hard as heat crept up your neck. jay finally noticed your presence, turning slightly to glance over his shoulder. his dark eyes flickered with amusement as he caught the way you quickly averted your gaze.

"something you need?" his voice was deeper, rougher, probably from exhaustion, but it still sent an embarrassing shiver down your spine. you cleared your throat, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "i need another pillow." his lips twitched, and you hated the way his smirk made your stomach flip. "you barged into my room for a pillow?"

"it's not my fault the ones in the guest room suck," you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest. jay turned fully now, walking toward you with that lazy confidence that always managed to get under your skin. you took an instinctive step back, but he reached the doorway before you could fully escape, his tall frame now blocking your path.

"you always this demanding, or do you just save it for me?" he mused, tilting his head slightly as his eyes dragged over your face, down to the curve of your throat, lingering there a second too long. your breath caught, but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "i wouldn't have to demand anything if you had done it right the first time."

jay let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "always got an attitude." you were about to snap back when you noticed his gaze flicker downward, his smirk faltering for just a second. it was quick, barely noticeable, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered on your tank top. his eyes zeroed in on your chest, you had taken off your bra when you got into the room—your nipples poking out of the thin fabric.

you raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at your lips now. "something wrong?" jay's jaw ticked, and just like that, his expression was back to that unreadable mask. "go to bed, __." you should've listened. you should've taken the damn pillow he handed you and walked out. but the way his voice had dropped an octave, the way his fingers had brushed against yours when he passed it to you, sent a thrill through you that you weren't ready to let go of just yet.

so instead, you lingered.

"why? am i making you nervous?" you teased, tilting your head up at him, watching for any crack in his composure. jay let out a low breath, his hand gripping the doorframe as he leaned in just slightly. "trust me," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "if you were making me nervous, you'd know." the air between you was heavy, thick with something unspoken, something that neither of you were willing to address just yet.

but it was there. and it wasn't going anywhere.

jay finally took a step back, running a hand through his still-damp hair before nodding toward the hall. "go to bed, __." this time, you listened. but as you walked back to your room, pillow in hand, you couldn't ignore the way your skin still burned from his gaze. and from the way he had looked at you, you knew you weren't the only one feeling it.

it was just a matter of time before one of your cracked.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the sizzle of bacon filled the kitchen as you flipped another pancake onto the growing stack. you had seriously improved on your cooking skills in the last month you had been taking care of seojun. the pancakes were round, crispy and the perfect shade of golden brown.

the morning light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden glow over the countertops. you had woken up early, deciding to make seojun's favorite breakfast before he got up.

but, apparently, you weren't the only one awake.

a warm presence appeared behind you, and before you could react, a large hand reached out toward the plate. without looking, you smacked it away. "ow," jay muttered, shaking his hand. "what the hell?"

"it's for seojun." you barely spared him a glance as you poured more pancake batter into the pan. jay let out a low, sleepy sigh, ruffling his already messy hair. his dark strands fell over his forehead, making him look effortlessly good despite just rolling out of bed. dressed in sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, he leaned against the counter, watching you with a lazy gaze.

curse him for looking so good.

"so i don't get breakfast?" he asked, a small pout gracing his face.

"nope," you said simply, reaching for another egg. he scoffed, pushing off the counter to stand beside you, crowding your space. "wow. what kind of babysitter are you? neglecting the person who actually pays you." you rolled your eyes. "oh, please. you don't pay me."

"you live in my house, eat my food, use my water." his voice was dripping with smugness. "sounds like payment to me." you narrowed your eyes at him. "your house? last i checked, my dad is the reason you even have half your company's assets."

jay just smirked, watching the way your brows furrowed in irritation. he loved getting under your skin. before you could throw another insult his way, you decided to change the subject. "anyway, i wanted to ask if i could have the weekend off. i wanna go out with my friends." jay, who had just taken a sip of his coffee, barely reacted. "fine."

you blinked. that was easy. too easy.

"minho's driving, so i don't have to worry about taking my car, that means no chance for accident. he's a pretty good driver, i actually learned how to drive from him," you added casually, turning back to the stove. jay froze. the silence was thick enough to make you glance over your shoulder. his expression had darkened. his grip on his coffee mug tightened.

"he?"

you frowned. "yeah. minho. my friend." jay set his mug down slowly, the sound of ceramic meeting marble eerily sharp. "no."

you turned fully to face him. "no?"

jay leaned against the counter, his posture too relaxed, too controlled. but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "you're not going."

your brows shot up. "why not?" jay took another sip of his coffee, completely unfazed. "i need you here."

you scoffed. "for what?"

"seojun likes having you around."

"seojun will be fine for one weekend,” you retorted. jay tilted his head, pretending to think. "hmm. no, i don't think so."

you let out an exasperated laugh. "you literally just said i could go." jay shrugged. "i changed my mind."

"bullshit," you snapped. jay's eyes flickered with something dangerous. "watch your mouth."

you rolled your eyes. "you're just mad because minho is a guy." jay didn't react at first. then, slowly, he placed his coffee cup down and took a step closer to you.

got him.

you refused to back away. "you don't know what you're talking about," he said, voice low, controlled. "don't i?" you shot back, all of sudden feeling smug. "it's not my fault you can't stand the idea of me spending time with another man."

jay's jaw ticked. "this isn't about me." you let out a humorless laugh. "sure it isn't." he stepped even closer, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. the space between you was nonexistent, his body radiating heat.

"you think i care that much?" his voice was nearly a whisper now, but there was an edge to it. "you think i'm losing sleep over who you spend your time with?" you smirked. "seems like it."

you were right.

jay's fingers curled into fists at his sides. you could feel the restrained tension rolling off of him in waves. "you're not going," he said again, this time firmer. you crossed your arms. "and what if i do?"

jay exhaled through his nose, his patience running thin. "you won't," he said simply, his confidence making your skin prickle with irritation. "watch me," you challenged. jay's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't amusement either. "you really wanna test me right now?" the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine, but you refused to show weakness.

"maybe i do," you whispered. jay's gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest second before he clenched his jaw and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "fine," he muttered, grabbing his coffee. "do whatever the hell you want."

you frowned. that was... unexpected.

he turned on his heel and walked toward the living room. but then, just as he reached the doorway, he glanced over his shoulder. "but don't come crawling back when you realize no one else can handle you like i do."

and with that, he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched.

jay cursed at himself for wearing his feels on his sleeve. it felt wrong for him to feel the way he did about you. jay hated thinking about the numbers.

12 years. he was 12 years older than you. it shouldn't have mattered.

right?

jay had spent his whole life doing whatever the hell he wanted, without a single care for what people thought. he made decisions with confidence, stood by them, and never looked back. but with you? you made him hesitate.

you were 23. young, reckless, still figuring out life. and jay? he was 35, a father, a man who had seen and done everything—a man who should have known better. but fuck, he didn't feel old when he was around you.

you were a problem. not because you were immature. no, that wasn't it. you were sharp, stubborn as hell, constantly challenging him, constantly making him feel like he was the one being tested. but that was the problem.

you weren't a little girl with naive ideas about love and life. you were a grown woman, a dangerous woman, who looked at him like he was something worth teasing, something worth playing with.

and he let you. god, he let you.

you tested his patience like no one else. you talked back, you got under his skin, you pushed him to his limit. you walked around his house like you belonged there, like you belonged to him. in those tiny shorts and tight tops, throwing him looks you knew would drive him up the wall.

it wasn't just the way you looked. it was the way you knew. you knew exactly what you were doing to him, and jay hated himself for liking it. because he shouldn't want you.

he shouldn't want you the way he did—shouldn't think about you at night. he shouldn't imagine what it would be like to take what you clearly wanted to give him. he told himself, over and over, that it was just a stupid attraction. that it was nothing more than an itch he could ignore. he had to hold himself back from giving into your temptations every time he had you cornered, telling himself that it was wrong.

but his restraint was starting to fall weak.

but then you'd bite your lip and roll your eyes at him. or you'd throw some snarky remark his way, just to get a reaction. or worse—you'd act like he wasn't a threat at all, like he was just some older guy who didn't intimidate you in the slightest.

it fucking killed him. because the truth was, the age gap only mattered when it worked against him. when it made him hesitate. when it made him question himself.

but when you smiled at him like that—when you pushed his buttons and made him feel like a man, not a father, not a boss, not some guy who should be acting his age.

he didn't give a fuck about the numbers. and he surely didn't give a fuck about some boy who thought he could have you, when you belonged here—with him.

this wasn't over. not by a long shot.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you had been looking forward to this all week.

a night out. no responsibilities. no bratty five-year-old testing your patience. no jay fucking park. the music was loud, the bass thrumming through your body as you nursed your drink. the club was packed, neon lights flickering against a sea of bodies, and for once, you could finally breathe.

"so," minho drawled, draping an arm over your shoulders, "you gonna tell me why you've been checking your phone like a girl waiting for a text from her sneaky link?" you rolled your eyes, shoving his arm off. "i have not been checking my phone."

minho gave you a knowing look, sipping his beer. "uh-huh. so you're just casually looking down at your bag every five minutes? right." you huffed, taking a sip of your cocktail instead of responding. but then, as if on cue, your phone buzzed again.

you peeked at the screen.

jay (23 missed calls).

you turned the phone face down. minho whistled. "jesus. who the hell is blowing you up like that?"

"no one important," you muttered. minho smirked. "sure. that's why you look like you're about to throw your phone across the club."

"it's just—" you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "it's jay. he thinks he owns my time." minho raised an eyebrow. "the rich, single-dad jay?"

"the asshole jay," you corrected.

"so why don't you answer?"

"because i'm off tonight," you said, exasperated. "and whatever he wants can wait." minho chuckled. "damn. he must be real desperate if he's calling you this much."

you were about to brush it off, but then another buzz. you groaned. "i swear to god, if this man does not—"

but then you read the message.

jay: seojun has a fever. it's bad. he keeps asking for you.

your stomach dropped. "shit," you muttered, grabbing your bag.

minho frowned. "wait, seriously? you're actually going?"

"it's not for him," you said quickly. "it's for seojun." minho sighed, grabbing your wrist before you could dart off. "you really think this isn't a setup?"

you hesitated.

minho's voice softened. "look, i don't know this dude. but if he's calling this much, and now suddenly the kid is sick on the one night you're not there? sounds sketchy as hell."

"minho," you sighed. "i don't have time for this." minho raised his hands in surrender. "fine, fine. but if he's lying, you owe me a drink."

"deal." you had practically sprinted out of the club, gotten into a cab, and rushed over in record time.

when you got to jay's house, you were pissed. the second you stepped inside, you knew something was off. the house was dimly lit, silent. too silent. you stormed down the hall toward seojun's room, but before you could even reach for the door the sound of clapping stops you.

slow, deliberate claps echoed behind you. you turned, and there he was. jay park, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing a smirk that made your blood boil. "look who finally decided to show up."

your heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the panic you felt for seojun's health still surging through your veins. but now, it wasn't panic—it was anger. "what the hell is wrong with you?" his voice was low, rough, his grip firm around your wrist as he yanked you away from seojun's room and into his own—slamming the door shut behind you.

your heart pounded, still catching up to everything. rushing out of the party, speeding over here, the sickening worry that had settled in your gut the moment you saw his message about seojun. but now, standing here, looking at him, you soon realized. seojun wasn't sick.

the house was quiet, the lights dim. you peeked past jay, your brows furrowing. "where's seojun?"

"asleep," he said, his tone maddeningly casual. your eyes snapped back to his. "what?" jay didn't let go of your wrist, his grip tightening just slightly as he stepped closer. "he's asleep," he repeated, slower this time, like he was spelling it out for you.

the realization hit, sharp and cold. "you lied to me?" his jaw clenched. "what was i supposed to do, huh?" you yanked your arm back, glaring. "i don't know, maybe not fucking manipulate me?"

jay's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk, but held just enough arrogance to make you want to slap it off his face. "and if i didn't? you would've stayed out all night with him?" you exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head. "are you serious?" jay stepped forward, closing the space between you in an instant. your breath caught when your back hit the wall, his body mere inches from yours.

"tell me," he murmured, voice lower now, softer—but no less dangerous. "did he touch you?" your stomach flipped, heat rushing up your spine. "minho is my friend," you gritted out.

jay's hand lifted, fingers brushing against your chin. "did he touch you?" he asks again, his tone threatening. you turned your head away, jaw clenching. "you're insane." his fingers caught your chin, gently but firmly turning your face back to his. "i don't like repeating myself, sweetheart."

the pet name sent something electric through your veins. you hated that it did. "and i don't like being controlled," you shot back, voice sharp.

jay let out a quiet chuckle, dark and humorless. "funny, because you sure came running when i told you to." your face burned. you hated that he was right. his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing something. his eyes flickered down for a fraction of a second, then back up. you hated that even now, with how pissed you were, your body still reacted to him. the way he carried himself, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dipped just low enough to make your stomach flip. you shook your head, trying to push past him, but jay grabbed your wrist, pulling you back.

"let me go," you snapped. "or what?" his grip didn't tighten, but he didn't let go either. "you gonna run back to him?"

your brows furrowed. "what?" jay exhaled a short, humorless laugh. "minho," he bit out, like the name itself annoyed him. "you think i don't know where you were? at the club. surrounded by men. men that would eat you alive if you gave them the chance."

you glared. "you don't get to be mad about that." his eyes darkened. "the hell i don't." you tugged your arm back, finally breaking free. "you're not my fucking boyfriend, jay. i don't owe you anything."

his jaw ticked, but he didn't say anything. you scoffed. "god, this is ridiculous. i'm leaving." before you could take another step, jay moved. one second you were standing there, and the next, your back was against the wall, jay towering over you, his hands planted beside your head.

"you're not going anywhere," he murmured. your breath hitched. "you ran the second you thought seojun needed you," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "but what about when i need you, huh?"

your chest tightened. "you—" jay leaned in, his lips barely an inch from yours. "you think i don't see it?" your pulse pounded against your skin. "see what?" you respond, almost breathless. his hand lifted, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his, "how bad you want me."

your breath stuttered. "you can play your little games all you want, sweetheart," jay murmured. "but we both know where you belong."

"you belong here," he murmured. "not out there, playing games with some guy who doesn't even know what to do with you." your breath hitched. "and you do?" jay didn't answer immediately. he just looked at you—really looked at you. his hand moved, sliding down the side of your neck, fingers grazing over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath his touch.

then, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "you have no idea."

your breath hitched. he was so close now, his cologne wrapping around you, his body heat pressing into yours. you swallowed hard. "you don't own me, jay."

his jaw ticked. "maybe not." his gaze dropped, trailing down your frame. you were still in your club outfit—tight dress, heels, your skin still warm from the alcohol. his tongue darted out, running over his bottom lip. "but you still came running, didn't you?"

your pulse pounded in your ears, attempting to move out of his hold only for him to pin you down with his hips. "you're not leaving," he murmured, voice dangerously low. you lifted your chin defiantly. "watch me."

jay exhaled a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "you're so fucking difficult."

"because i don't let you control me?" you shot back. he tilted his head. "because you pretend you don't like it."

your stomach flipped. jay leaned in, so close his breath ghosted over your cheek. "you want me to let you go?" he asked, his tone deceptively soft.

your throat bobbed. his fingers traced the inside of your wrist, featherlight, sending shivers up your arm. "say the word," he whispered. "say you don't like it when i tell you what to do."

your heart hammered against your ribs. but you didn't say anything.

because you didn't want to lie.

jay smirked. "thought so." his thumb brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin up. your lips were inches apart. you were still angry. furious. but that fury burned into something else, something hotter, something more dangerous. you should leave. you should shove him away.

but you didn't move. neither did he.

and in that moment, you both knew. you weren't going anywhere.

his eyes narrow down to your lips, something switches in his gaze—almost as if he had finally had enough.

"fuck this," he mutters lowkey before he's crashing his lips onto yours. your eyes widen in surprise, feeling his lips mold onto your own as you stand frozen in shock. you feel jay run his hands down your side, situating themselves on your ass as he squeezes your fleshy mounds. you gasp into his mouth, jay seizing the opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth.

you moan when you feel jay grip your bare ass, lifting your short dress up to your hips—your arms wrapping around his neck as you push yourself up against him. "you think you can go see other men while you spend your days with me and my son?" he says against your lips, his grip on you getting rougher as pushes your dress up higher. you groan against him, "minho is my—" you try to explain only for a sharp smack to interrupt you.

he had spanked you.

your mouth drops open in shock, "what the f—" jay's hauling you up, your legs now wrapped around his waist as he pushes you down on his painfully hard cock. "i don't care who he is. you're not to be alone with another man," he says gruffly, dropping you down onto his bed.

you're flat against his soft linen sheets, legs now spread apart roughly by jay who stares down at you with a dark glint in his eyes. you glare up at him, breathless. "you can't tell me what to do." jay scoffs, leaning over you, one hand gripping your thigh as he spreads you open further. "the hell i can't," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "you think you can act like a brat, push me to my limit, and then run off to another man?"

"it's not like that," you argue, voice shaking, but he just smirks, eyes flickering down to where your dress is bunched up around your waist. "doesn't matter," he says, dragging a rough hand up your thigh. "you're mine. do you understand that?" you bite your lip, refusing to answer, which only makes jay angrier. he grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. "say it," he demands. "say you're mine."

you tilt your head defiantly. "make me." jay lets out a dark chuckle, his grip tightening. "oh, you don't want me to do that, sweetheart." he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. "because if i do, you won't be able to walk out of here, much less run to him."

"yeah right," you scoff, taking his threats lightly but your heart still stutters in your chest. his chest heaves up and down erratically, as if he was fighting himself from what he was about to do to you. his expression turning grim at his words yet his eyes sparking up in excitement. he finally had you where he wanted you, and not even god could pull him away.

he reaches to pull off his shirt, your mouth watering when you see his toned abdomen come into sight. jay took pride in his body, eating well and working out consistently to maintain himself throughout his years.

he grabs your hips roughly, a small squeal leaving your mouth when he drags you to the edge of the bed—your core connecting with his crotch. your legs wrap around his waist automatically while he kneels on the bed—looming over you. jay's hand grips your waist firmly as he stares down at you, his jaw tight with frustration. "you really don't listen, do you?"

you smirk up at him, still feeling defiant. "i listen just fine. i just don't take orders from you." his eyes darken at your words, and before you can react, his palm comes down sharply against your thigh. the sharp sting makes you yelp, your body jerking against the bed.

your mouth drops open in shock. "jay, what the—" another smack lands, this time on the curve of your ass, harder. your whole body tenses, the heat from his palm lingering. "you don't take orders from me?" jay scoffs, pushing your legs off of him before he's flipping you over and dragging you up so you're on your hands and knees—arching your back just the way he wants. "then why do you keep acting out just to get my attention?"

"i'm not—ah!" you gasp when another slap lands, harder than before, making your skin burn. jay leans over you, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "minho doesn't get to see you like this," he growls, his hand smoothing over the spot he just punished, before giving you another harsh slap.

smack!

your fingers clutch at the sheets as you let out a broken whimper. "you belong to me," he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. "and i'm going to make sure you never forget that." he looks down at the sight in front of him, just how he had always wanted you to end up. bent over for him, battling submission as he forces you into it. your behind was a bright red, your panties doing a poor job at hiding your soaked core.

"fuck," jay groans, his palm smoothing over the burning skin of your ass before landing another sharp slap. you jolt, gasping, but his grip on your waist keeps you from moving an inch. "such a fucking brat. but you love this, don't you?" you bite your lip, refusing to answer, but jay sees right through you. his fingers trail up your spine, sending shivers down your back. "you fight me, you push me, but at the end of the day—" he lands another slap, harder this time, making you cry out. "—you always end up right here."

his voice dips lower, rough with something dangerous. something raw. "you don't even realize what you do to me, do you?" he mutters, his lips brushing against your temple as he pulls you up against his chest. his breath is hot against your ear. "watching you play house with me and seojun. cooking breakfast, tucking him into bed, walking around my home like you belong here." his hands tighten on your hips, and you can feel how hard he is, pressing against you with no shame.

his lips graze your jaw. "you love it too, don't you?"

"jay—"

"shh." his grip slides up, fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just enough to remind you who's in control. "you act like you don't, but i see the way you are with him. how soft you get when you think no one's watching. how you look at me when i come home late and you're the first thing i see standing in my kitchen." he chuckles darkly, dragging his lips down your neck. "you play the role so fucking well, baby. the perfect little wife—except you're still a goddamn brat." his confession makes your breath hitch. you can feel it now, how deep this runs for him. how much he's wanted this—wanted you.

"you think i don't see the way you tease me?" jay murmurs against your skin, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "walking around my house in those tiny fucking shorts, looking at me with those defiant little eyes, making me chase after you like some desperate idiot." his hand lands sharp smack on your thigh, and you let out a whimper before you can stop yourself. jay groans, gripping your throat even tighter. "fuck, i love that sound. love every little thing about you."

his words send a thrill through you, heat pooling low in your stomach. "i love this, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "love your bratty little mouth. love putting you in your place. love how you fight me just so i can take you apart like this." he kisses the corner of your mouth, his grip firm, unrelenting. "and you love it too, don't you?" your breath is shaky, but you refuse to give in so easily. "i hate you," you whisper, even as your body melts against his. jay chuckles, dark and knowing. "you hate how much you love this."

"you're delusional."

his hands roam lower, his lips finding yours in a heated, possessive kiss. you're drowning in him, in the fire between you. and as much as you want to fight it, you already know—jay park always gets what he wants. and right now, what he wants is you. he grips your arms, a small whine escaping your mouth when he manhandles them behind you. he pushes you back down, "oh, princess. you're going to eat your own words."

you feel something wrap around your wrists, your eyes widening when you realize what he was doing. he had taken off his belt, wrapping the leather material around your arms to stop you from moving around. everything happens so quick, your pushed flat against your back with jay now face to face with your throbbing core. his fingers dug into the plush of your thigh, holding them back from closing. "look at you," he coos softly, looking at giant wet patch on your panties as you squirm in shame.

"fuck you," you spit weakly. he smirks, "we'll get to that, princess. we have all night." you mewl when you feel him lick up your covered slit, his tongue tracing up your cunt as he digs into your thighs. you buck your hips up, jay's laughter making you stop your actions. "so fucking needy. you must be so used to getting what you want, hm? my spoiled bratty princess," he hums.

you huff, "do it." he raises his eyebrows in faux confusion, "do what?"

you rolls your eyes, "take them off and eat my pussy."

his smug expression drops at your bratty words, "seems like you haven't learned anything from earlier." you open your mouth to retort only for a sharp pain between your legs to stop you. you squeal out in surprise, jay landed another strong smack to your centre. "it's okay, by the end of this i'll have you begging and crying. then you'll finally behave yourself."

your body jolts at the sharp sting between your legs, a breathy gasp slipping past your lips before you can stop it. jay tilts his head, watching you with dark amusement, his hands never loosening their grip on your thighs. "there she is," he murmurs, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles along your skin. "i was starting to think you'd never stop running your mouth." your wrists pull against the restraint of his belt, but it's useless—he's tied you up too well. the frustration bubbles in your chest, mixing with the unbearable heat pooling in your stomach.

"you're such an ass," you hiss, glaring up at him. jay only smirks, completely unfazed. "and yet, you're still here. still dripping for me." his fingers ghost over the soaked fabric of your panties, pressing down just enough to make you whimper. you try to twist away from his touch, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but jay isn't having it. he grips your hips firmly, keeping you in place, his strength making it clear that resistance is pointless.

"you keep fighting me like you have a choice," he scoffs, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "but we both know how this ends, don't we, princess?" your breathing is ragged, your body betraying you as he drags his lips higher. your skin burns where he touches, and the worst part is—you want more. but you refuse to admit it.

"you're crazy," you bite out, even as your body shudders at his touch. jay chuckles, his breath hot against your core. "am i?" his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down at an agonizing pace. "because from where i'm sitting, you're the one desperate for me." the flimsy fabric landing on the floor as he situates himself right front of your leaking cunt. he pauses, eyes locking onto yours with a wicked glint. "and the best part? you know i'm right."

your lips part, a sharp retort on the tip of your tongue—but before you can say anything, jay moves, leaving you utterly speechless. his tongue comes down to run over your bare slit, moaning at the taste before he's yanking you down by your hips—nose buried into your cunt, you squeak at the sensation, his tongue gliding up at down your clenching hole as his nose nudges your clit with each movement.

"f-fuck, jay," you pant softly, your body writhing as you fight against his belt. jay grins against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds your legs back from completely suffocating him. his tongue moves slowly and skillfully, circling your clit before making its way down to your sopping hole.

he moans at your taste, not afraid of getting messy with his movements. he peers up, watching your head lull back as he begins to lick figure 8s on your clit repeatedly. your thighs tremble, your back arching off the bed as jay's tongue flicks over your swollen clit with torturous precision.

every swipe sends sparks shooting through your veins, your breath coming in ragged gasps. you tug uselessly against the belt binding your wrists, the leather only tightening the more you struggle. you whine at the almost painful sensation of being bound, his leather belt now digging into your wrists—slowly cutting of circulation. jay hums against your soaking cunt, the vibrations making you whimper. his grip on your thighs is ironclad, refusing to let you squirm away—not that you really wanted to.

you gasp when you feel his digits intrude your walls, a load moan escaping you before you could even hold yourself back. "fuck look at you, princess. you're sucking my fingers in so well," he groans, watching your cunt greedily take in his digits as he begins to roughly pound them in.

your mouth stays open in an 'o' shape as you move your hips in hopes of catching more of what he was offering. jay catches on to your movements, clicking his tongue as he looks at you smugly. "so desperate hm, princess? look at you, so fucking filthy." you whine at his words, "go fuck yours—" jay removes his fingers from your sopping cunt and smacks them down on your clit. "—oh fuck!" you sob out.

"you're going to learn to control that mouth, __. and here i was, being so gentle and kind with you. but clearly, bratty girls like you don't deserve such treatment," he tsks while teasingly rubbing your clit in small firm circles with his thumb. you scrounge your mind for an insult to throw at him before his actions take your breath.

literally.

jay moves quickly, suddenly his hand is wrapped around your throat and he's looking over your shaking and twitching body. he moves behind you, letting you lean against his strong chest as he spreads your thighs wide open—hooking his legs with your own, leaving you unable to squirm. he clamps down his hand firmly between your legs, cupping your cunt as you look up at him dumbfounded.

he gives you no answer, looking down at you with what you could only assume was pure deep dark desire. you moan out in pain, the stretch of his fingers making your eyes rolls back as jay leaves you no time to adjust. his begins to fuck three of his fingers into your cunt, his grip on your throat tightening.

"who knew you took things in you so well, hm? look at you, gushing all over my fingers," he murmurs darkly into your ear. his pace was ruthless, his palm smacking your clit with each thrust. you're a moaning mess, crying out everytime jay pushes into your gummy walls. jay had enough of the noise, moving his hand from your neck to stuff two fingers down your throat—gagging you.

you choke against his digits, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. your makeup was smeared, your mascara running down your cheeks and your lipstick smudged around your mouth—yet jay thought you looked beautiful. he could see tears run down your cheeks and saliva running down his fingers and you struggled to contain yourself. "you close, princess? i can feel you clenching around me," he grins, curling his fingers in you in a 'come here' motion.

"m'close," you try to say only for it to come out as muffled sobs due to his fingers down your throat. he smirks against your skin, "so fucking greedy. come on princess, cum for me. cum all over my fingers," he murmurs in your ear, your eyes rolling back as you feel your body violently convulse at your high. jay looks at you in surprise.

you had squirted.

"holy shit, princess." he removes his fingers from your mouth, finally letting your aching jaw rest—his thumb still rubbing at your clit, helping you ride out your high. "do you know what you just did?" he asks, his hands grabbing at your waist before hes pulling off your dress completely. you lay against him, unable to comprehend anything after you came. when you don't respond he continues, "you just squirted, princess. that's not going to waste."

he moves you away from his chest, letting you lay back against the bed before he's between your parted thighs again. he doesn't give you a chance to recover before his tongue is licking up your slit, his hands gripping the plush of your thighs—holding them back from closing in on his head. "you taste so fucking good," he growls, lifting his head just enough to watch your face twist in painful pleasure. "all that attitude, and here you are, shaking for me like a good little slut." you slowly regain your sense of thought, still hazy from before—but not enough to stop you from acting out.

you bite your lip, glaring down at him through hooded and now swollen eyes. "fuck—you," you pant, but your words lose all their venom when he dips his tongue back inside you, curling just right against that sweet spot that makes your toes curl. jay chuckles darkly, the sound sending another jolt of heat straight to your core. "still talking shit?" he pulls back, smirking at the way your hips chase his mouth. "maybe i should just leave you here, all tied up and desperate. let you think about how badly you need me."

your stomach clenches at the thought, but you force yourself to let out a weak scoff. "like you could walk away." jay's eyes darken, his fingers trailing up to circle your clit, pressing just enough to make you gasp. "try me."

you don't get the chance to respond. in one fluid motion, jay flips you onto your stomach. his weight pins you down, his hard clothed cock pressing into the curve of your ass.

"you don't get to call the shots here," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "not until i say you've earned it." you whine as he grinds against you, the friction maddening. "jay—"

"what?" his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back. "use your words, princess. tell me what you want." you swallow hard, pride and desire warring inside you. but the way his fingers tighten in your hair, the way his cock pulses against your ass—it's too much.

"i want—fuck—i want you to fuck me," you finally admit, your voice shaking. "i'll fuck you when you stop being a brat and admit it."

you whine, shaking your head in defiance. you had made it this far without admitting your feelings, what's a bit longer?

"say it."

you shake your head furiously, breath shaky as you glare up at him. "no." jay clicks his tongue, his grip on your waist tightening. "wrong answer, princess." you whimper, body trembling, but you still refuse to give in. you won't let him win—not like this. jay leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "you're so fucking stubborn. but you'll say it. we both know you will." your fingers curl into the sheets, your pride the only thing keeping you from giving him what he wants.

"fuck you," you grit out.

jay only laughs, shaking his head. "not until you tell me the truth." you squeeze your eyes shut, refusing to look at him. you can't. not when he's so close, not when his voice drips with that dangerous confidence that makes your heart race. he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "look at me." you do, reluctantly, your body burning under the weight of his stare.

his eyes darken. "you love this. you love me." you inhale sharply. "i—"

"say it," he commands. "say you love me, or you don't get my cock." your pride wars with your need, but jay is relentless. he watches you like he already knows he's won. you try to hold out, but his smirk deepens as he pulls away slightly, putting even more distance between you. your chest rises and falls rapidly. you can't take it anymore.

"i—" you hesitate, jaw clenching. jay waits, patient but smug. you hate him for this. you hate him for making you want him so badly.

"i love you," you finally gasp out, the words falling from your lips like a confession you've been holding in for too long. jay exhales, his smirk turning into something deeper, something real. "that's my girl," he murmurs, pressing a slow, possessive kiss to your lips.

you barely have time to recover before he pulls back, eyes locking onto yours with a dark promise. "now," he breathes, "let me show you just how much i love you too." in one swift motion, he flips you back over, his hands sliding under your thighs to hook your legs over his shoulders. he leans down, his lips brushing yours, so close you can taste yourself on his tongue.

"good girls get what they want," he murmurs, his hands pulling down his boxers. and then he's pushing inside you in one sharp thrust, stretching you, filling you, stealing the breath from your lungs. your back arches off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat as jay bottoms out inside you, his grip bruising on your hips. you cry out in pain and pleasure, the stretch of his cock making you dizzy as your walls flutter around him—struggling to adjust.

"mine," he growls, his voice rough with possession. and as he starts to move, hard and deep, you realize—you always have been. the years of back and fourth bickering, dirty glares and snarky comments. all of that, had led to this moment.

jay's hips snap forward, each brutal thrust driving the air from your lungs. his cock is relentless, pistoning into your slick cunt with a rhythm that leaves no inch of you untouched. the slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, mingling with your desperate whimpers as he fucks you into the mattress. your bound hands twist against the belt, the leather biting into your wrists, but the burn only feeds the fire coursing through you. jay's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive, claiming—like he wants to leave bruises. like he wants you to remember this tomorrow when you try to walk away like you always do.

"f-fuck, jay—" his name spills from your lips, ragged and broken, as he drags his cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, the tip hitting that perfect spot deep inside that makes your vision blur. jay feels you clench around him, grunting as he fucks into you—making sure there was no inch of you that he hadn't touched.

one of his hands come down to grab at your tit, pinching your nipple almost painfully when you begin to close your eyes—making you whine. he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a mockery of tenderness. "what, baby? gonna come already?" his voice is rough, dripping with amusement. "you're so fucking tight around me. bet you're close, aren't you?"

you squeeze around him involuntarily, your walls fluttering as pleasure coils tighter in your belly. you don't answer, you can't. he's angling his hips just right, grinding against that swollen spot inside you with every thrust—your orgasm is right there, hovering just out of reach. jay growls, sensing it, and suddenly his thumb is on your clit, rubbing tight little circles that make your whole body jerk.

"come on," he demands, his breath hot against your ear. "cum on my cock like the greedy little spoiled slut you are." you shatter. your back arches off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as pleasure explodes through you, white-hot and consuming. your cunt clamps down around jay's cock, milking him as waves of ecstasy crash over you. he doesn't stop.

jay fucks you through it, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own release. his fingers dig harder into your hips, the pain of your high coursing through you. "gonna fill you up," he snarls, his voice thick with need. "gonna pump you so fucking full of me, you'll drip with it." the filthy promise sends another shiver through you, your oversensitive body trembling beneath his. and then he's burying himself deep, his cock twitching as he spills inside you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours to make sure every last drop is where it belongs.

you pant beneath him, boneless and wrecked, the only sound in the room the ragged pull of your breaths. jay finally pulls out, his cum already leaking from your well-used cunt. he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a slow, filthy kiss. "now," he murmurs, his thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pushing it past your lips, "tell me again how you feel about me."

you suck his thumb clean, your eyes locked with his. and this time, you don't bother lying.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you wake up to the warm morning light slipping past the curtains, painting soft lines across jay's sheets. your body aches, sore in places you didn't even know could ache. your throat dry from the sounds he pulled out of you the night before.

you blink slowly, adjusting to the light. the bed is cold beside you. jay is gone. you groan softly as you shift, the soreness between your thighs making it nearly impossible to move without wincing. "jesus christ," you mutter under your breath, rolling onto your side. your fingers instinctively brush the soft cotton clinging to your skin. it's a plain white t-shirt, oversized and hanging low on your frame. his scent clings to it, to you.

your legs dangle over the side of the bed, and you wince as you slowly stand. every step is careful, every movement a reminder of what he did to you—what you let him do. you spot your phone on the nightstand and grab it with shaky fingers. it lights up immediately.

minho (12 missed calls) dad (8 messages) dad (4 missed calls)

you sigh, heart sinking a little. it all comes rushing back—what you left behind last night. the party. the lie. jay's anger. and now... the aftermath. you pull your hair up loosely and make your way downstairs, your bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. the house is eerily quiet. no tv, no kitchen sounds, no jay.

your heart sinks in your chest. your eyes dart around as you descend down the flight of stairs—no trace of him. the living room is spotless, the kitchen untouched. not even a half-drunk cup of coffee left behind.

your heart skips for a second.

did he leave?

you glance toward the hallway and peek your head into seojun's room. the little boy is still curled up under his blankets, breathing soft and steady. safe. peaceful. you step back out and stand in the middle of the quiet house, unsure of what to do with yourself. "where the hell did you go, jay..." you mutter, fingers tightening around your phone.

your thumb hovers over minho's name, but you can't bring yourself to call him. not yet. not when your body still carries evidence of last night. not when you still smell like jay. the silence around you is loud—too loud. and the way your mind spins with questions only makes it worse.

what did last night mean?

why did he leave you alone like this?

is he even coming back?

you let out a soft sigh and head toward the kitchen, aimlessly grabbing a glass of water just to keep your hands busy. your reflection catches in the oven door—jay's shirt draped over your frame, legs bare, lips still a little swollen. you noticed that your face was clean and bare, jay had taken off your makeup last night.

well, whatever was left of it.

you look like you belong here. but for the first time. you're not sure if that's a good thing.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the sound of the front door unlocking makes you flinch slightly as you're crouched down in the living room, gathering all of seojun's toys. jay walks in like he didn't flip your world upside down last night.

"hey," he says casually, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his shoes. his voice is easy—too easy. like nothing happened. like he didn't press every button you had until you broke, until you confessed things you'd been biting your tongue about for weeks. "morning," you mutter without looking up, trying to keep your expression neutral as you tug the lid of his toy basket open.

jay steps into the living room, eyes glancing over the scene— the living room now spotless as you sit on the floor with your legs folded awkwardly under you like you hadn't spent the entire night being ruined by the man. the same man who was now acting like your confession wasn't still echoing in his ears. your phone buzzes again beside you on the couch. minho's name flashes across the screen for the sixth time that morning. you finally texted him.

minho: hey u get there ok?

minho: heeelllloooo

minho: istg if ur getting dicked down rn

minho: U SO R

minho: OMGGG

minho: u slut

minho: call me after or ill acc burn ur house down

minho: u so owe me a drink

you: i'll call u later ..

minho: U BETTERR

your dad had also called twice. he was worried, demanding to know where you'd disappeared last night. you told him the lie you'd practiced in your head: i stayed over at minho's. i'm at work now.

jay gives you a glance then, brief and unreadable. "he still asleep?" he asks, nodding toward the stairs. you nod once, "should be up soon."

jay hums. he runs a hand through his hair, moving past you both to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. no acknowledgment. not of your night together. not of your confessions. not even the smallest smirk or sly comment he's usually so quick to throw your way. it stings more than you thought it would.

"so this is just nothing?" you say quietly. you keep your voice low, tense. "you're really going to pretend nothing happened?" jay doesn't turn around. he twists the cap off the bottle, takes a sip. "didn't say that."

"then what are you doing?" you snap, standing. you're still in his clothes—his t-shirt drowning your frame and his sweatpants tied loose around your waist. "you spent all night dragging it out of me. making me say things i wasn't ready to admit, and now what? you ignore me?" jay finally turns, his jaw set, expression unreadable. "what did you expect?" he says flatly. "you think we can just pretend like that shit doesn't complicate everything?"

you blink, stung. "you complicated it. not me. you crossed the boundaries. not me." he takes a step toward you. "you think i didn't feel it too?" he snaps. "you think this is easy for me?"

"you sure act like it is." jay's breathing hard now, his eyes dark as they search your face. "i'm trying not to make things worse. you said what you said, and yeah, i heard you. but i don't know what the hell to do with it yet. it's not like i didn't tell you how i felt."

your throat feels tight, heart racing with hurt and frustration. "then maybe you shouldn't have forced it out of me." he doesn't respond right away. just stares, like he's trying to figure out whether to argue or admit you're right. you glance away, swallowing hard. "i meant what i said," you whisper, "and i hate that i did."

jay steps closer then, enough that you can feel the heat from his body. he's silent, watching you, torn between his own emotions. "...i didn't hate hearing it," he finally says, voice lower, softer. "but i can't pretend i know what to do with it either." you don't say anything, just cross your arms tighter over your chest.

it's quiet for a long moment. then jay murmurs, "but if it means anything... i don't want you with anyone else." your gaze snaps to his. "last night wasn't just sex," he says, voice rough. "and you damn well know it." you swallow around the lump in your throat, arms still crossed tight like it'll protect you from how exposed you feel. like it'll keep your heart from beating too loud.

"so... what now?" you ask, your voice quieter than before. more hesitant. "what are we supposed to do?" jay's eyes drop, his thumb tapping against the water bottle in his hand. he looks like he wants to pace but forces himself to stay still. "i don't know," he admits. "i've been trying to figure that out since last night."

you frown. "what's stopping you?" he exhales sharply. "everything. you're 23, i'm 35. your dad would kill me if he knew what happened last night." he glances up at you. "you were just a kid when i met you."

you flinch at that. "i'm not a kid now." "i know," he says quickly, his jaw clenching. "believe me, i know. last night proved that more than anything." you look away, chewing the inside of your cheek. "you think this is just a phase? that i'll grow out of it?" jay steps closer, his voice low. "no. i think that's what scares me the most."

you meet his gaze again, your heart thudding. "...was it ever just me?" you ask, needing to know, needing to hear it. "or am i just filling a space someone else left behind?" his expression hardens slightly, like the question caught him off guard.

"is this about her?" you push, barely whispering. "seojun's mom?" jay's face shifts, something bitter and tired flashing through his features. he looks away, jaw tight. "she left the second he was born." your eyes widen in shock, "what?"

"she didn't want to be a mom," he says flatly. "we were never in love. it was a mistake. she got pregnant, and i told her i'd raise him. she agreed and walked out of the hospital with a suitcase and a plane ticket." you stare at him, stunned. he's never talked about her. never even hinted.

"so it's just been you," you murmur. he nods. "just me. for the last 5 years." you don't know what to say. you feel your chest ache for him—for the boy upstairs, for the man who's been carrying the weight of parenthood alone, pretending like it never crushed him.

"and then you," he says, voice quieter now. "you crash into my life, literally. and then suddenly you're here, and seojun loves you, and i—" he cuts himself off. you blink. "and you...?"

his eyes lock with yours, expression unreadable as he forces himself to swallow his words, "—and i don't know how to let myself want something that feels like it'll ruin everything." you step forward this time, closing the space between you. "what if it doesn't?" jay looks at you like he wants to believe it. like the hope hurts more than the fear. you reach up slowly, resting your hand against his chest. his heart's pounding under your palm. "you don't have to protect me from this," you whisper. "just... tell me what you want."

he looks at you, his voice hoarse. "i want you." you feel it in the way he says it—like it's been sitting on his tongue for days, weeks, maybe years. like it's the one thing he's been trying not to say. your breath catches. "then why are you acting like last night never happened?"

jay exhales, finally turning away from you—unable to look you in the eye. he runs a hand through his hair and mutters, "because i don't know how to be around you without wanting more." you bite the inside of your cheek, heart pounding. "you think i don't want more too?" his back is still to you, shoulders tense. "you don't understand what more looks like with me. it's not just cute dates and taking seojun to the park. it's complicated. it's messy."

you step toward him, slowly. "i'm not scared of messy." he finally turns around, eyes meeting yours again—and this time, it's all there. the frustration. the want. the guilt. the hunger. "i forced you to say it last night," he says quietly. "i made you admit you loved me just so i could hear it. do you know how fucked up that is?"

your chest tightens. "maybe. but it doesn't make it a lie." jay doesn't say anything. his eyes just search your face like he's trying to make sense of you. the silence stretches, so loud it feels like it might shatter between you when suddenly— "daddy? noona?" a sleepy voice calls from the stairs.

you both snap your heads toward the sound. seojun stands there in his pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, clutching his stuffed lion. jay's face softens instantly. "hey, buddy."

you blink away the emotions clogging your throat, quickly moving toward the stairs. "come on," you say gently, crouching down to his level. "you want breakfast?"

he nods, rubbing his eyes. "pancakes." you laugh softly. "you always want pancakes."

as you lead him into the kitchen, you feel jay's eyes on you the whole time. there's so much unsaid between you both, but right now, you fall into routine—mixing batter, pouring it onto the hot pan, seojun sitting on the counter watching you with half-lidded eyes. it looked like a scene out of a movie, jay admires your relationship with his son based one the circumstances the two of you had bonded. seojun loves you, and as complicated as his feelings make things—jay loves you too.

jay joins eventually, helping slice fruit, moving around you like muscle memory. and then he brushes past you to grab a plate, and his hand lingers a second too long on your waist. your breath hitches.

you don't look at him. but you feel it.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the house was finally quiet. seojun had gone down for his nap without a fuss, leaving you sprawled across the couch in jay's living room, phone pressed to your ear.

"okay, wait—start from the beginning," minho's voice crackled through your speaker. "did he take his shirt off or did you rip it off?" you rolled your eyes with a laugh. "neither! i wasn't some feral animal."

"please, you definitely were," he teased. "i know that tone in your voice. you're trying to act like it wasn't the hottest night of your life."

"shut up," you said, biting back a smile. "you're so annoying."

"you moaned his name, didn't you? tell me you did." he then pauses, clearing his throat as he prepares his best girly impression, "oh jay! jay right there." you roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh before glancing down at the little scratch marks on your thighs. "...maybe."

minho gasped like he'd just won the lottery. "i knew it! i need the full play-by-play. what was he like? slow and sensual? aggressive? did he say something like—'you're mine now, princess'?" he deepened his voice dramatically. you snorted. "why are you like this?"

"i live through your drama. and honestly? the hot single-dad boss fantasy? ten out of ten." you rolled your eyes again, but the smile stayed on your face. "you're insane."

"no, i'm just invested. i mean, your dad's going to lose his mind when he finds out you're hooking up with his business partner. this is better than any k-drama." you were mid-laugh when a throat cleared from the doorway.

you froze. you turned your head slowly to find jay standing there—back early from his meeting, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was annoyed... or worse, jealous. your heart dropped.

"i gotta go," you mumbled into the phone.

"why? what's—" you hung up before minho could finish. jay didn't say anything at first. he walked in slowly, setting his keys on the counter. his gaze stayed on you the entire time."minho, huh?" he said finally, his voice casual—but the edge was there, sharp and unmistakable. you shifted on the couch. "he's just a friend. you know that."

"yeah, i know," he said, but he didn't sound convinced. "didn't realize your 'just a friend' needed all the juicy details about what happens in my bed." you flushed. "you were eavesdropping?"

"i walked into my own house," he said coolly, raising an eyebrow. "and caught you giggling about our sex life." "we weren't giggling,” you murmur, embarrassed. "sure," he said, stepping closer. "so you didn't tell him how good i made you feel? how you squirted all over the bed? how loud you got when i—"

"okay, stop," you cut in, face burning. "you're being jealous over nothing." he tilted his head. "maybe. or maybe i just don't like the idea of some boy thinking he's got a chance with you." you blinked in confusion, "minho doesn't—"

"he does," jay interrupted, stepping even closer. you crossed your arms, not backing down, "and what exactly are we, jay? we haven't talked about last night properly. what we did, what we are. so you suddenly get to be possessive now?" his jaw flexed. "i don't know."

that caught you off guard. "i don't know," he repeated, softer now. "i didn't plan for this to happen. i didn't plan for you. but now you're in my house, you're in my bed, and my son asks for you before he asks for me." you blinked, heart stuttering.

"i think about what this means," he said. "what your dad would say. how he'd probably try to kill me." you cracked a smile. "he would. slowly and painfully." jay didn't smile back, not finding amusement in having to deal with your father, "and what seojun would think... if he knew. if he understood."

your expression sobered. "i don't want to confuse him," jay said quietly. "he's already had to grow up without a real mother. your chest ached.

"so it's always been just me and him," jay continued. "and now... there's you." you looked at him, your voice gentle. "do you want me to be there?" his eyes met yours, something raw in them, "yeah," he said. "i do." your breath hitched.

"but this won't be easy," he said. "not with the age gap. not with your dad. not with the way i feel when some kid like minho calls you and makes you laugh like that." you stepped closer. "i'll deal with my dad, and you know minho is my friend." jay scoffs at the last bit. "and seojun?" you paused, a smile appearing on your face when jay mentions the little twerp, "he loves me."

jay softened, "he does." you looked up at him. "so maybe this can work. maybe we just take it one day at a time." he studied you, then nodded slowly. "one day at a time."

and just like that, you felt the air between you shift—something fragile and uncertain, but also real. jay reaches for your hand, the warmth of his fingers interlocking with your own. you sigh in content. "no more secrets," he said.

you nodded. "no more eavesdropping." he smirked. "we'll see."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

"are you and appa married now?"

the question drops like a bomb in the middle of the warm living room. you freeze where you're kneeling, halfway through tying seojun's tiny sneaker. your eyes snap up to meet his, wide and innocent—but there's something suspiciously knowing behind them. he had a small grin on his face, looking at you mischievously.

smart ass.

"what?" you blink, confused and shocked. "what makes you say that?"

"because appa never lets anyone touch his hair, not even me!" seojun says seriously, eyes narrowed like he's putting the clues together in his tiny head. "but you touched it yesterday and he didn't even yell. and you didn't yell at him either. you said 'thank you' when he brought you water."

"i always say thank you," you mumble, suddenly very interested in the velcro strap you're adjusting. you begin wondering if they make velcro sneakers for adults. "no you don't," he says bluntly. "you fight all the time. but now you smile. and he smiles too. and he puts his hand here when you walk." he pats the small of his back, mimicking jay's subtle touches. "so... are you his wife now?"

you sigh, resting your forehead lightly against his, "no, junnie. i'm not his wife."

"but do you love him?" your heart lurches. you swallow at his bluntness, "you ask a lot of questions for a 5 year old." he shrugs like an old man. "i'm smart. i know things."

you pull back, smiling softly at him, "yeah, you really do." just then, jay walks into the room, ruffling seojun's hair. "ready to go, bud?"

"appa," seojun turns to him seriously. "if she's not your wife yet, you better hurry. i want her to stay. she makes good pancakes." you look at the boy offended, gasping at his words, "so you only want me here for pancakes?" seojun grins in response, squealing when you attack him with tickles on his tummy.

jay glances at you—eyes dark, flickering with something unspoken and then he chuckles, low and affectionate. "working on it, buddy," he murmurs.

you roll your eyes, cheeks burning at his words "liar." jay smirks when he sees your face turn red, "brat."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

jay gave you a quick pep talk before you left his home to finally see your father.

you chew at your lip nervously as you stand in front of your father's study door, your fingers twitching by your sides. he had texted earlier asking where you'd been the night before, and you lied—again. but you're not sure if he believed you this time. not when he knows how close you've gotten with jay. not when he's always been a little too observant for your liking. you take a deep breath, knock once, and step inside.

he looks up from his laptop, brow furrowed. "so. you're alive." you wince. "hi, dad."

he leans back in his chair, arms folding. "i'm guessing you didn't spend the night at minho's like you said." you hesitate. "no."

"then where?" you glance down, then back up. "jay's."

he doesn't respond at first. the silence thickens. "and?" he finally asks, voice tight. "is there something you want to tell me?" you swallow hard, fingers locking together. "we've... gotten close." his eyes narrow slightly at the term, repeating it with distaste, "close."

"i care about him," you admit. "and seojun. it's not just... it's not a fling, dad. i know he's older, and i know he's your business partner, but—"

"23 and 35, sweetheart." his voice is low, clipped. "he has a child. responsibilities. baggage. you really think you're ready for all that?"

"i've already been dealing with it," you fire back, trying to stay calm. "i've been helping take care of seojun for months. i love that kid. and jay... he's—he's good to me. in his own grumpy way." your father scoffs. "grumpy is one word for it." you cross your arms. "you don't get to judge him. you've worked with him for years. you know he's not some asshole." he sighs, rubbing his temples. "i know. i know he's not. he's a good man. he's just... not who i pictured for you."

"me neither," you say quietly. he looks up at you again—less angry now, more tired. "does he make you happy?" you nod. "yeah. even when we fight. especially when we fight." he huffs out a reluctant laugh, knowing that jay at the very least was able to deal with his daughter's attitude, "sounds like you two deserve each other."

"but that doesn't mean that i'm fully okay with this. i need to chat with mr.park as well, about this." you nod at his word, a small laugh escaping you as you watch your father struggle to contain his protectiveness.

a beat of silence passes. "just... be careful," he says finally. "this changes a lot of things."

"i know," you say softly. "but i think it's worth it." he nods once, slowly. "alright." and just like that, a line has been crossed. awkward tension still lingers in the air, but there's something softer now. something almost like acceptance.

you step forward to hug him, and after a beat, his arms wrap around you too. "just don't let him break your heart," he mutters.

you smile. "i'll break his first."

he groans. "god, you're still your mother's child."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

it's been a few weeks since everything changed—since your father reluctantly accepted the relationship, since seojun's wide eyes and perceptive little voice called both you and jay out, and since you finally stopped pretending what was happening between you and jay was just physical. things had shifted. not abruptly, but with slow ease.

the mornings in jay's house were no longer just routine—they had rhythm. you're in the kitchen, barefoot and sleepy, stirring the oatmeal you promised seojun the night before. the little boy's perched on the counter next to you, legs swinging as he munches on an apple slice with a bag of gummy bears wound tightly in his palms—humming some made-up song under his breath.

"you gonna tell your dad i let you have gummy bears before breakfast?" you tease, bumping his knee with your hip. seojun giggles. "hmm... depends. will you make pancakes this weekend?"

"blackmail? wow, you really are his son."

"damn right," jay's voice cuts in from behind, gravelly and amused, his hair still damp from the shower. he's buttoning up his shirt slowly, eyes scanning the scene in front of him like it's his favorite sight in the world. his son and you in his kitchen, soft morning light catching the curve of your cheek, your voice warm and teasing. he lives for this now. these little domestic moments of peace. "don't tell me you're bribing my kid," he mutters, brushing a kiss against your temple as he grabs his coffee.

you roll your eyes, "he's blackmailing me and bribing implies i'm getting something out of it." jay smirks, "you get to wake up in my bed. that's gotta count for something." you shoot him a look, but your cheeks warm anyway. he never misses a chance to fluster you, and he knows exactly how to do it—especially when seojun's around and your only defense is a quiet huff and a shake of your head.

breakfast is chaotic in the way that all good families are. seojun accidentally knocks over his juice, you forget the toast in the oven, jay's tie somehow ends up in the butter dish, and yet... it all works. it's loud and messy and full of laughter.

later, after jay drops seojun off at school, it's just the two of you again. you're curled up on the couch with your laptop, trying to work as the summer was over and you no long had the pleasure of rotting around. you can feel his eyes on you from across the room. he's supposed to be reviewing contracts, but instead, he's watching you—his bratty, stubborn girl who somehow wormed her way into the quiet places of his life and made them glow.

"what?" you ask, not looking up. he shrugs. "nothing. just thinking." you lift a brow, "dangerous."

"about how you were made for this," he adds quietly. "for me. for him. for all of this. even though the beginning of our relationship revolved around constant bickering.” you scoff, half touched, half embarrassed. "so dramatic." but he doesn't deny it. just leans back, arms crossed, eyes soft. "tell me i'm wrong."

you don't. not because you can't, but because for once—you don't want to.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

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dreamersparacosm · 3 months ago

Text

jeon jungkook - handle with care

warnings ; oral (f recieving), he hits it from the back, hair pulling, blue collar dick🚨🚨

prompt ; in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.

note ; if you are reading this.. this is a queue’d post while im in MEXICO!!!!! you horny little sluts really thought i would leave you alone for 5 days.. i would never. i figured — hey if i can’t post part 5 of tpod i can at least give a life lesson on blue collar dick, right? backstory here is that the other day my best friend and i had a conversation about our sexy ass landlord and that got me thinking… jungkook..? blue collar..? big dick..? so anyways this is the product of that convo! (and also a standalone one shot bc yall be loving these!)

Later, when someone asks you to recap this story, you’ll say that in your defense, you weren’t expecting the electrician to look like he walked straight off some cringy Pornhub set. You’ll say you just wanted your electricity fixed, not to be spiritually humbled by a man who smells like sawdust and pine.

Your apartment is the kind of place that builds character. And by character, you mean mild trauma.

The kitchen light flickers like it’s been possessed since the day you moved in. The ceiling creaks when your upstairs neighbor sneezes. Your shower only has two settings (arctic and molten lava). There’s a weird stain on the ceiling you’ve been ignoring for three months. And today, of all days, the universe decided to cut the last thread holding your sanity together: the power.

No lights. No working outlets. No WiFi. Which means you’re sitting on your couch, in a hoodie and shorts, trying to hotspot your laptop with 3% battery left while rage-texting your landlord like you’re filing an official grievance with Satan himself.

You immediately text your landlord, fully expecting a five-day delay and a $30 deduction off your next rent.

You: hi. respectfully. what the FUCK is happening?

You: i work from home. i pay rent. i have needs. pls fix ASAP.

He replies five minutes later like he’s doing you a personal favor.

Landlord: sending my guy over. 15 mins.

Your landlord is somehow both your greatest nemesis and your weirdest emotional support system. He’ll ignore three maintenance requests, ghost you for a week, then show up unannounced with a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos. You’ve threatened to sue him in writing and sent him a happy birthday meme in the same month. And you’re already halfway into a mental spiral about “his guy” being a 60-year-old with pants that don’t stay up and opinions about the current political climate when there’s a knock at your door.

You swing the door open, fully expecting to see a crusty old man with a clipboard and a wheeze, and instead, you see… (and you’ll remember this moment until the day you die.)

Lip ring. Tattoo sleeve. Tool belt slung low over cargo pants. A black tee stretched across broad shoulders. Jesus Christ, the hair. Dark, slightly shaggy, pushed back on top but long in the back, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that should not be allowed near unsupervised women.

“Hey’,” he says, like this isn’t a pivotal moment in your sexual awakening. “I’m here about the outage?”

You blink at him. You are officially unfit for conversation.

This man has a mullet. A tattooed, lip-ringed, mullet-wearing man is standing in your hallway holding a voltage tester like its foreplay.

Suddenly, your pajama shorts feel too short for this moment. You fumble with the doorknob, “Uh. Yeah. Come in. It’s, uh.. yeah.”

Brilliant. Shakespeare could never.

He steps inside, and holy shit, he’s even taller than you thought. The kind of tall that makes your ceilings feel shorter. The kind of tall where you have to crane your neck just slightly to look up at him, which is offensive because you’re not exactly short yourself. He smells like a mix of sawdust, a hint of pine, laundry detergent, and a 2002 Nissan Altima. It’s oddly specific.

He glances around like he’s surveying a battlefield. “Power cut out completely?”

You nod, shuffling behind him as he moves farther into your apartment with the kind of confidence like he’s somehow been to your home before. His boots thud across your hardwood floor, scuffed and loud. The tool belt clinks. His shirt rides up when he stretches his arm to check something near the ceiling and there’s a flash of golden skin and low-slung cargo pants and—

You’re not doing well.

He pops open the panel in the ceiling like it’s nothing. “Y’all been having issues with this before? Flickering? Dead outlets?”

“Sometimes the kitchen light hums like it’s possessed,” you say, which you regret immediately. “I mean, not literally possessed. Not like.. haunted. Just… you know. Buzzing.”

He chuckles. It’s a low, gravelly sound that sinks its teeth into your spine and doesn’t let go.

“Probably a loose connection in the junction box. Nothing too crazy,” he says, grabbing something from his belt that you will now dream about tonight. “You work from home?”

You nod again, helpless. “Yeah. Marketing.”

He glances back at you. “Tough with no WiFi.”

You turn around under the guise of “letting him work” but really just to text your roommate, Sana, with trembling fingers.

You: help. our power went out and the electrician we got sent is so hot

You: he has a MULLET. a mullet, sana. he said “junction box” and i almost moaned

You hear him grunt softly as he stretches to reach something and you nearly drop your phone.

Sana: SEND A PIC RN

You sneak a glance back — he’s perched on your step stool, arms flexing as he reaches into the ceiling. His hair is curling perfectly at the back of his neck, a little messy from the heat.

You don’t send a pic. You can’t. It feels criminal. You feel like you’re watching live porn with consequences.

Then he speaks again, casually. “You smell something burning last night? Or anything weird before it cut out?”

You nearly say “just my ovaries,” but God reaches down and slaps your mouth shut.

Instead, you clear your throat. “Nope. No sparks, no smell. It just… died this morning.”

He nods, focused. “Might be a fuse then. I’ll check the basement in a sec.”

He drops down from the stool with a casual thud and wipes his hands on that rag in his back pocket. That ass, that rag. This is no longer an apartment. It’s a crime scene.

You glance up just in time to see him walking toward your front door, lifting the back of his shirt to wipe his forehead. You black out for a second.

You: he just wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his shirt. i saw ab muscle. like cut definition. i think it smiled at me.

Sana: you need jail or a CONDOM stat. get his number???

You’re halfway through typing “I don’t even know his name yet” when the front door opens behind you, and you almost launch your phone across the room like it’s a grenade.

He steps back into your apartment with that casual, unbothered energy he’s so good at carrying. Hair slightly damp at the edges now, cheeks pink from the walk up your stairs, tool belt still jingling.

“Basement breaker’s fine,” he says, brushing his palm down the front of his shirt. “Might be a wiring issue. Gonna check one more thing.”

You blink. Nod. Attempt human speech. Fail. “Cool. Yeah. Check… stuff.”

Christ. You sound like you learned English from Duolingo five minutes ago.

He smiles then, actually smiles. Full teeth, little bunny front ones peeking out. His lip ring glints as he does it, and your brain goes completely static for a second.

“Want some water?” you blurt, and immediately hate yourself. “Or iced tea? Or, whatever I have in the fridge that isn’t expired?”

He huffs out a little laugh, shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks, sweetheart.”

You freeze like you’ve been slapped by a porn star. He walks past you again like nothing happened, reaching for something in his tool bag, completely unaware that your soul just evacuated your body.

You unlock your phone immediately, fingers trembling, and text in all caps.

You: HE CALLED ME SWEETHEART.

You: arrest him. make him marry me. i don’t care just make it LEGAL

You barely get the message out when he turns slightly and casually, and says, “So… you live here with your boyfriend, or…?”

You blink hard.

The question hangs there, just slightly too relaxed. Like it’s not loaded with potential. Like it’s not every Wattpad plotline you’ve ever read come to life in front of your half-broken Ikea bookshelf.

Your brain short-circuits harder than your kitchen socket. Is he flirting? Was that… are you being flirted with? It’s been a minute. Like, a long minute since you’ve had someone show genuine interest in you. You can’t tell anymore. He could be asking because he needs to know whose ass he’s about to get chewed out by if he knocks something over, or because he’s just curious.

You manage to croak out, “Just my roommate. Sana.”

He nods and doesn’t press. He lets out a low, distracted, “Hm,” like that’s useful information. Like it slots into place somewhere in his head and he’s okay with it.

You, meanwhile, are mentally drafting a will because you’re not sure your heart’s going to survive the rest of this visit.

He leans over your couch armrest to reach the outlet near the floor. His cargo pants pull slightly tighter around his thighs and you look away so fast you give yourself whiplash. You try to look normal, like a woman who isn’t catastrophically horny over someone adjusting your voltage.

You: HE ASKED IF I HAD A BOYFRIEND

Sana: I AM SCREAMING. I’M IN LINE AT TRADER JOE’S. OFFER TO MAKE HIM LEMONADE OR SIT ON HIS FACE IDK CHOOSE FAST

He stands back up, wiping his palms on that stupid fucking rag again, and glances over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t take much longer,” he quips with that lazy, dangerous smile.

You nod, eyes wide, pretending you’re normal. “Cool. Thanks. No rush or anything. It’s not like I need power to… survive.”

He quirks a brow at that, like he finds you kind of funny, or kind of tragic.

You sit on the couch, phone hidden in your lap like it’s a shameful secret. He crouches near another outlet, testing something with one of those little gadgets that beeps and blinks.

“So, marketing,” he says over his shoulder. “Like… ads?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah. I work for a beauty brand. Mostly social media, some campaign strategy. Lots of pretending I know what I’m doing and hoping the algorithm doesn’t hate me that day.”

He chuckles. That low, amused sound that makes your toes curl. “That why you’re so good at talking?”

You freeze. “What?”

He glances back, smile creeping in slow and lazy. There’s an unfortunate amount of sarcasm behind his tone. “You seem to stumble a bit over words.”

You blink again, officially out of working brain cells. “Sorry. I—I can stop. I don’t mean to be annoying, I just—”

“I didn’t say it was annoying.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He crouches lower again, tapping something against the outlet. But you hear it anyway and feel it, low in your stomach like a dropped elevator.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, blessedly interrupting the moment before you combust.

Sana: girl. do i need to walk around the block or are you gonna fuck him. be honest.

You bite your lip so hard you nearly draw blood. He straightens up, wiping his palms again. “So do you like it? The job?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. It’s… stressful. But fun, sometimes. I guess,” You scratch the back of your neck.

“You good at it?” He grunts out, looking for something in his toolbox.

Your mind blanks. “What?”

He turns to look at you full-on now, arms crossed, shirt clinging to the curve of his shoulders. “Marketing. All that stuff. You good at it?”

You let out a nervous little laugh. “I mean, I hope so. I’ve been doing it for a few years now, and nobody’s fired me yet.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His tone isn’t aggressive. It’s low and relaxed. But something about the way he says it makes your pulse skip.

“I… I think I am,” you say, slower this time.

He nods once as if that answer pleases him. “You seem like you’d be.”

You’re gonna die. You’re going to actually die. This man is being nice to you, and it feels like your body isn’t prepared for that level of stimulus.

You glance at your phone again.

Sana: WHY ARE YOU TAKING THIS LONG TO RESPOND??? IS HIS DICK OUT. BLINK TWICE

You look back up and he’s leaning against the doorframe that divides your kitchen and living room now, arms still crossed, lip ring catching the light. “So your roommate…?”

You nod, trying not to choke. “Yeah. Her name’s Sana. We’ve lived together since college.”

“She at work?” You swear he looks at your legs in your shorts, but could also be wishful thinking.

“Not right now. She works night shifts at the hospital 15 minutes away from here.,” You twiddle your thumbs in your lap.

He hums, still watching you. “So you’re here all alone today.”

It’s not a question. It shouldn’t be hot. It’s just a sentence. But, the way he says it? The tone? The slight lilt at the end, like it means more than it says?

You let out a strangled sound that you hope reads as a laugh. “Yeah. Just me. Alone. In this… apartment. Where you are. Currently.”

He tilts his head, smiling again. “You’re kind of funny for someone with no electricity.”

You hesitate. Then, blurting before you can stop yourself, “And you’re kind of cocky for someone who still hasn’t turned my lights on yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly appearing. “Hm?”

You shake your head way too fast. “I mean—just—like, you’ve been here for a bit now and you’re fixing my power and it is taking quite long, but I promise I’m not mad about it.. I’m sorry.”

He lets out a real laugh this time. Full, low, and stupidly hot. He pushes off the wall and walks back toward the kitchen like he didn’t just wreck your central nervous system.

You take another breath and text Sana.

You: he’s flirting. he’s literally flirting. i want to crawl inside the oven

Sana: girl. jump on the counter and say “while you’re fixing things, i’m also broken.”

Almost like he was trying to prove a point to you, the lights come back on with a quiet click, a whirr of electricity humming back to life through your walls, and you swear the sound might as well be a death knell.

He steps back from the panel in your hallway, tapping the side of it with a knuckle like he just fixed your entire infrastructure. “There we go,” he says, “Should be good now. Might’ve just been a loose connection behind the breaker, it’s common in these old buildings.”

You nod slowly, like you understood a single word of that. All you really heard was competency and your brain whispered: breedable.

“That’s… great,” you reply, way too softly. “Thanks.”

He wipes his hands again on that same rag and starts packing up his tools, metal clicking together as he slips things back into place. His forearm flexes with every movement, tattoos shifting across his skin like they’re in on the joke.

“Need help with anything else?” he asks casually, not looking at you as he zips up the tool bag. His voice dips slightly.

Your heart stutters. You should say actually, yeah, my back is acting up and I think the solution involves that couch and maybe you using me like a handrail. But instead you go, “Nope. That’s all.”

Your phone vibrates against your thigh, dragging you back to earth.

Sana: have you ever heard of blue collar dick??? this is ur chance

You squint at that text, thumbs pausing mid-reply.

Blue collar dick.

The phrase unlocks something buried deep in your brain. A memory. A TikTok you watched half-asleep one night at 1:37AM, under the glow of your LED lights, while eating dry cereal out of a mug. The girl had looked straight into the camera, wide-eyed and deadly serious, and whispered: “Blue collar dick is not just a concept. It’s a lifestyle. It’s the kind of unholy grip someone develops on you after a man with calloused hands and a union paycheck fixes your sink and rearranges your soul in the same afternoon.”

You’d laughed. Scoffed, even. How dramatic.

He zips up the last pouch on his tool bag and stands tall, glancing toward the door like he might head that way but he doesn’t. He stays.

He rolls his shoulder a little, absently adjusting the strap, and you watch his fingers drag across the curve of his neck.

“You think everything working alright?” he asks, voice low and unhurried like he’s trying to fill the silence. Like he knows you’re still stuck in some sort of horny trance and he’s being generous enough to let you catch up.

“Yeah,” you say, breathier than intended. “Power’s on. Looks like the WiFi is back. I can check if my laptop came back to life.”

You gesture toward your computer like it matters. Like any of that is worth focusing on when he is standing six feet from you.

He hums, looking around your living room where you’re still on your couch. “Place is cute.”

You blink. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. It’s… falling apart slowly, but charming.”

He doesn’t really acknowledge that. “Anything else broken in here?” he asks, stepping away from the wall a little. “Leaky faucet? Shaky table leg? My dad taught me how to fix a ton of stuff, I’m pretty handy with anything. You want me to check something else?”

Your mouth opens and closes. Your brain struggles to find the words, and the words you want to say are not coming out easily, so you just respond with, “No. I mean… no, I think we’re good. You fixed the lights.”

His eyes flicker and stay on you just a second too long. Then he shifts slightly, sets the tool box down again with a thud, and stretches his arms overhead like he’s got nowhere to be. Shirt rides up just enough for you to see the line of his waistband and the shadow of toned skin beneath it, and you almost bite your tongue off.

“You sure?” he asks again, tone casual, almost amused now. “You looked kinda… bummed when the lights came back on.”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. I wasn’t.. I mean, not bummed. Just surprised. Happy. Grateful. Electrified, if you will.”

Electrified. You’re going to throw yourself off the balcony.

He laughs again, and you swear it vibrates in your chest. “I could hang out a sec,” he offers, and it’s not subtle anymore. “Just make sure everything stays stable. Sometimes the lights will turn back off randomly.”

Everything’s stable, you repeat in your brain like an idiot. I am not.

He’s leaning one shoulder against the wall now, lazy and relaxed, eyes still on you like he’s just waiting to see what you’ll say next.

Before your brain can stop your mouth from doing anything reckless, you blurt out, “Have you eaten?”

His brows lift. “What?”

You clear your throat. “Lunch. Have you had any?”

He tilts his head, eyes flickering down to your mouth for one half-second too long. “Not yet,” he says, “Didn’t get the chance.”

You nod like this is normal. Like offering food to electricians with tool belts and stupidly sexy mullets is part of your daily routine. “I can make you something if you want.”

His mouth curves, slow and teasing. “Yeah? You feed all the guys your landlord sends over?”

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly eject from your skull. “Only the ones who save me from having to live in darkness.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Then yeah. I’m kinda hungry.”

He walks over to where you’re sitting, drops his bag beside the couch, stretches with a casual groan that shoots straight between your thighs, and flops onto your couch like he’s done it a hundred times. Like your couch is a perfectly acceptable throne for his man-spreading, bicep-showcasing, very-much-staying presence.

You twiddle your fingers, “If i make you food, it’s only right if I get your name.”

Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

“Jungkook,” He looks over to you, trying to bite back a grin. “And yours is [Y/N], right? Saw it on the assignment sheet.”

“Yup. Cool,” You gulp down some saliva that was lodged in your throat.

You march to the kitchen like a woman on a mission, flinging the fridge open with the determination of someone prepping for an exorcism. It’s not that you want to impress him. It’s just that… okay. No. You do want to impress him. You want to serve this man a sandwich so good he files a formal complaint against your thighs for being too far from his face.

You find good bread. Not the sad white slices. You find turkey. Cheese. Lettuce that isn’t slimy. A tomato you aggressively pat dry with a paper towel like a psychotic housewife. You toast the bread and add a little mustard. You even cut the sandwich diagonally, because if you’re going to be delusional, you’re going to be domestically deranged about it.

Your phone buzzes for the billionth time.

Sana: DID YOU FUCK HIM YET

You ignore her. You grab a little paper plate with a cup of water and a napkin and present this meal like you are some Michelin chef. You walk it out carefully, feeling like you should have a white linen apron and one of those vintage Coke ads playing behind you.

“Damn,” he says when you hand it to him, voice warm with surprise. “You really went all out.”

You shrug, trying to act chill. “Just a sandwich.”

He takes a bite and groans.“No, this is next level. Wife-tier sandwich.”

Your face goes hot. You sit down beside him on the couch, one cushion away, legs crossed, heart racing. You grab your phone and finally reply to Sana before she drives to the apartment and physically removes you.

You: sana i need you to take a lap. actually take a five-mile lap. this house needs to be mine for two hours minimum.

Sana: i will literally be gone until sunset

You set your phone down and glance at him again. He’s halfway through the sandwich already, clearly enjoying the hell out of it, crumbs on his fingers, lip ring glinting as he chews.

“So,” you say casually, “how’d you get into electrical work?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth, and shrugs. “Started out helping my uncle with his crew back home. Learned enough on the job that I stuck with it. Took the exam, got certified, picked up my own clients.”

“That’s hot,” you say before thinking.

He pauses, blinks, then smirks again. “Yeah?”

You want to shrivel into the cushions. “I mean, just like the hands-on thing. Fixing stuff. Being good with your hands.”

He glances at you, faintly amused. “It’s a bold choice… Flirting with the guy who knows your wires inside out better than you ever could.”

You’ve made your decision. You’ve committed to the bit. You’re going to have him. You don’t care how. You don’t care if it’s a terrible idea. You’re already halfway there, and if blue collar dick is a myth, you’d like to be the one to confirm or deny it firsthand. You smile, tilting your head. “I like living on the edge.”

He finishes the sandwich and sets the plate on your coffee table with a little sigh. “Damn. Guess I should’ve been in this line of work sooner.”

You let out a soft laugh, glancing at him through your lashes like you’re not actively in the process of losing your mind.

He shifts slightly on the couch, one arm thrown casually along the back cushion, knee brushing yours now, and your whole body tightens at the contact. You look down at his hand, rough, calloused, fingers spread just enough to imagine what they’d feel like anywhere else.

Focus. Focus.

“So,” you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around unhinged, “do you, like… do this for a lot of people?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fix electricity?”

You laugh too fast. “No! Well, yeah. I mean. Yes. But like… do you do this for one person a lot? Regularly? Like… someone special. Like a client. A consistent client.”

He’s still watching you, brows slightly raised, clearly trying to follow your logic. “Huh?”

You look down, embarrassed. Shit. Too subtle. You double back. “Sorry, I meant… like… is there someone who, you know, gets their power fixed all the time? Like a… girlfriend?”

Oh my god. Girlfriend. You say it like you’ve never spoken English before, like the concept of casual inquiry never existed.

His lips tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re asking. “Nah,” he replies. “No girlfriend.”

He reaches for the glass of water you’d set on the coffee table earlier, and you watch his throat work as he takes a slow gulp. His lip ring catches the light again, and your brain completely flatlines.

No girlfriend.

No girlfriend. That’s… fine. That’s great. That’s also dangerous.

Your heart is pounding so loud in your ears you barely register that he hasn’t looked away. When he sets the glass down again, his eyes don’t drift back to his phone or the room or the vague distance.

They stay locked on you.

You shift slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers are still relaxed against the couch cushion, a breath away from the curve of your shoulder.

“Should I expect a full background check with your next outage?”he says, voice low now.

You’re officially in the danger zone now with no intentions of stopping. “Already ran yours. Five star reviews all around. “

He chuckles, quietly. “I’m honored.”

Your breath catches. It’s a small sound. Barely audible. But his gaze dips lower at the sound of it, flickering between your mouth and your throat. He doesn’t hide it anymore. There’s no playfulness left.

“Stop staring” you mutter, trying to keep your voice even.

He lifts a brow. “I’m not.”

“Are you… thinking about kissing me?” This is worse than that one time in 10th grade when you got put in a closet with your crush and you practically slammed him against the door begging him to kiss you.

However, Jungkook doesn’t smile or smile. His gaze lingers on your lips still like he’s counting the seconds. “Would that be a problem?”

Your stomach drops. The air between you turns solid. “No,” you say softly. “It’d be the opposite of a problem.”

He doesn’t move right away, or lunge and lean in. He lets the silence fill with heat, with potential, like he wants you to feel the choice stretch out and make sure you want it just as much as he does. (Is he insane? Of course you do)

You want him to kiss you so bad it’s physically painful. Every nerve in your body is waiting for it, screaming for it, for the weight of his hand on your jaw, the feel of his lip ring pressing into yours.

You inch just slightly closer and your knee brushes against his fully now. Your face is tilted up toward his without even thinking.

“Are you gonna?” you whisper, voice barely there.

His eyes flicker again and then he smiles. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He leans in, not in some clumsy rush. He drags it out just long enough for you to feel your whole body tense with anticipation. His hand finds your jaw first, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers curling gently under your chin.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like it’s his job, like he’s done this a thousand times but still finds something new in the shape of your lips. His mouth moves with intention, none of that awkward fumbling, none of the soft, shy hesitation. It’s confident. His lip ring drags against your lower lip and you actually whimper, because of course he knows how to use it.

He groans low in his throat when your fingers knot in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. One hand slips around the back of your neck, the other finding your waist, pulling you across the couch and into him like he can’t stand even a breath of space between you.

He tastes like faint mint and the sandwich you made him. Your legs shift, tangling with his. His hand is already on your thigh, rough palm skimming under the hem of your shorts, gripping hard enough to make your breath stutter into his mouth.

You gasp when he bites down lightly, but enough to make you feel it. He soothes it with a kiss immediately after, dragging his mouth down your jaw, and murmurs into your skin, “You’re a good kisser.”

You could die. You could die right now and it would be worth it.

You tilt your head back to give him more access, voice breathless. “Yeah? You’re not so bad yourself.”

That earns you another groan, this one deeper, more possessive. His hand slides up your side, under your hoodie, fingers grazing bare skin and making your back arch instinctively.

He kisses you again, messier now and wetter. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing. His fingers sink into your thigh, pull you closer until you’re practically straddling him on the couch and you feel him, hard beneath his cargo pants, pressed against your hip like a threat.

“You sure you don’t need anything else fixed?” he murmurs against your mouth.

And all you can do is nod, eyes heavy, hands trembling against his chest as you whisper: “Hmm. I think my body is out of order. Needs fixing.”

Big hands grip your thighs, and with one swift, greedy motion, he’s pushing you back into the couch cushions. You land with a quiet gasp, hair fanned out, lips swollen, hoodie riding up over your stomach.

He’s hovering, body caged above yours, weight pressed into one arm braced beside your head, the other skimming up your waist and dragging your hoodie even higher. His silver chain dangles loose from his neck and every time he leans down to kiss you again, it smacks against your throat, cold and heavy, sending a shiver straight through you.

He groans when you arch up into him, letting your hips roll slightly, needy and desperate, and he feels it, feels how bad you want him and how worked up you are.

His bicep flexes beside your head, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you but you kind of wish he would. You let your hand drift up, fingertips grazing the muscle slowly, shamelessly.

Holy fuck, he’s strong.

Strong in the way that makes your thighs press together, that makes you want to find out what else those arms can hold you down against. You squeeze just a little, test the resistance, and he grins against your lips.

“That’s what you’re thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth to your neck now, teeth grazing your jaw. “My arms?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is literally melting.

He licks a stripe up the side of your throat and bites, just enough to make you whimper, and the damn chain swings again, cold against the same spot.

“You like that?” he asks, “Hmm?”

You nod frantically, whining. You’re gone.

His hand slides down to grip your thigh again, hiking it up around his waist, and the angle has you gasping. His hips dip into yours just enough to make it obvious: he’s hard, and he’s not even trying to hide it now.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he mutters, biting your earlobe. “Since you fed me and everything. Feels only fair.”

You nod again, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Been thinkin’ about kissing you since the second you opened that door.”

His hands are already slipping under the hem of your hoodie, thumbs dragging across the skin of your waist as he mutters, low and sinful, “Lift your hips for me.”

You do instantly and he slides your shorts down so slowly it feels like punishment. They snag slightly at your thighs before he gets them off, flinging them somewhere over the armrest, and then he just stares. Lets his eyes drag from your knees to the place between your thighs like he’s about to pray and commit a felony in the same breath.

You’re not even fully naked, but you already feel exposed. Every part of you twitching with anticipation because the way this man looks at you? It’s like he already knows what you taste like.

He lowers himself, right between your knees and spreads your legs open with two hands and drags your body closer to him.

“You’re already shaking,” he whispers, lips brushing along the inside of your thigh. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”

You want to answer. You try to answer. But then he presses a kiss right above your knee, then lower and lower. It’s like he’s savoring every inch of you, kissing a trail up your thigh like you’re dessert and he’s been starving all day.

When he finally gets to your underwear, he lets out a low hum.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, thumb dragging along the edge. “You’re soaked.”

You choke on your own spit. He hooks his fingers under the waistband, and looks up at you, eyes dark. You’re propped up on your elbows, watching him like you’re in a live-action fantasy, because that’s exactly what it feels like.

“Gonna take these off now,” he says, almost too gently.

You nod like a bobblehead. “Please.”

He tugs them down painfully slow, and when they slip off your legs and drop to the floor, he doesn’t even hesitate. He just dives in.

Tongue flat, broad, ruthless against you, dragging through your folds. You jolt, hips bucking off the couch, and his hands immediately slide up to pin you down, fingers bruising your thighs as he holds you in place.

He moans into you, tongue curling, lips wrapping around your clit with slow, maddening pressure. The suction makes you cry out, hand flying to grab at his hair, soft, messy strands you curl your fingers into.

“Fuck, J-Jungkook,” you gasp. His grip tightens on your thighs in response. He flattens his tongue again, licking long and slow, nose nudging against your clit just enough to make your legs shake. Then he shifts, tilts his head just slightly, and flicks the tip of his tongue in tight, fast circles.

You swear you see God.

He doesn’t stop, and it’s obscene how good it is. You can hear it. Mapping out every flick, every swirl, every suck that makes your thighs twitch and your head fall back in helpless, high-pitched whines.

He’s so good at it, it’s almost infuriating. Like he’s been training for this specific moment, like he knew your body before you ever laid eyes on his goddamn toolbelt.

“Shit,” you whimper, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch like you’ll fall off the earth if he keeps going.

He pulls back barely, enough to murmur against your soaked skin, “What’s that, sweetheart?”

You look down at him, wide-eyed and desperate, and the sight makes your stomach flip.

His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, locked on yours with zero shame. His lips are wet, his lip ring gleaming, his chain dragging down your thigh. His hands are still gripping your legs tight. “You’re already shaking,” he taunts, “You gonna fall apart before I even get my fingers in?”

You let out a sound you don’t recognize. Your hips buck without permission, trying to chase more friction, more pressure, anything, and he laughs.

“Thought you were gonna take it,” he mutters, kissing your inner thigh again, right where it’s already slick. “Thought you were tough.”

“Jungkook,” Your voice breaks.

“Yeah, baby?” he smiles, “Want more?”

You nod frantically. “Please. Please, please.”

“Mmhmm.” He drags his tongue back up, slow and torturous. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” you gasp as he suckles your clit again, just hard enough to make your legs spasm. “I want your fingers please. I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, way too calm. “You’re gonna. Not done with you yet.”

He slides one hand down between your thighs, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, slow and unhurried. You feel the first press of his fingertip at your entrance and it’s over.

When he finally pushes in just one thick finger, your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. It feels so good, too good.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he notes more to himself than to you. “Fuck. Gripping already.”

He curls his finger and you practically wail. You slap a hand over your mouth but he sees it, and then lowers his mouth back down to your clit like he’s starving for it.

His tongue and his finger move in tandem. Circles and pressure and heat all at once, building you up, pushing you higher, dragging desperate sounds out of you that you’ve never made before.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you sob, grabbing at his hair. “Please, I need—”

“You need what?” he murmurs against you, adding a second finger slowly, the stretch perfect, his mouth never leaving your clit.

“I need, need to cum, please—”

“Nah,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his fingers start to fuck into you even deeper, “Not yet.”

You’re near tears at this point.

He flattens his tongue and moans into you, and your hips jerk off the couch. Your hands are clutching at him now, your stomach tightening, thighs trembling around his head as he talks you through it.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he exhales, eyes locked on your face. “All needy and loud. Fuck, baby. I could eat you all day.”

You’re so close it hurts. He can feel it, the way your walls clench around his fingers, sucking him in.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice hoarse against you. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

And you do, embarrassingly hard. It crashes over you like a power surge, hot and fast and blinding. Your hips jerk, your mouth drops open in a silent cry, and you’re cumming so hard you forget your own name.

He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until your legs are shaking uncontrollably and you’re pushing at his shoulder with a broken gasp.

Still, he doesn’t let up. His tongue is relentless, fingers even more ruthless. You’re sweating, teary-eyed and so close you’re practically vibrating, when you finally snap.

“Jungkook,” you moan, throat raw. “I need you to fuck me. Please. I can’t—“

That gets him to cease. He pulls back, mouth soaked, lip ring gleaming. His hand lingers between your thighs for a second longer before he pushes himself up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting.

You reach up, fingers clutching the front of his shirt, dragging him down so you can kiss him. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it just makes it worse, makes you needier.

He stands up, stripping down as fast as humanly possible. The black tee comes off first, revealing a chest that’s all muscle, abs that flex when he tosses the shirt aside. Then the cargo pants get shoved down, and…

Holy fucking shit.

It swings free and heavy into his palm, and you gasp.

That’s what they meant by blue collar dick. Thick, veiny, the prettiest goddamn cock you’ve ever seen. Long, curved just right, flushed and leaking at the tip as he wraps his hand around the base and starts stroking himself, slow and lazy.

He tilts his head back with a low groan, lashes fluttering, chain swinging over his chest and you just stare.

You’ve seen good dick before. You’ve had great dick, even. This is different. This is the kind of dick that installs central air and breaks bed frames. The kind that fucks through creaky floorboards, says “good girl” like a prophet, and pays in cash everywhere.

“Yeah?” he rasps, still jerking himself slowly, eyes dark as he looks down at you. “You want it, baby?”

You nod like your life depends on it. “Please. Need it so bad.”

He doesn’t waste another second. “Turn over,” he says, voice commanding. “Face down, ass up. I want that spine arched.”

You scramble to obey, flipping onto your stomach, shoving your hoodie up out of the way. You bury your face in the couch cushion, arms stretched forward, hips high in the air and the sound Jungkook makes behind you is inhuman.

“Fucking hell,” he licks his lips, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Look at you.”

You feel him line up behind you, thick head sliding through your slick folds, teasing but not pushing in yet, and your whole body twitches.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says, one hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades until your arch deepens. “Back all pretty, ass in the air, soaked for me. Fuck, baby.”

He leans forward, voice rasping hot in your ear. “You gonna take it for me like this, yeah? Gonna let me fuck you nice and deep?”

You moan out, whimpering into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Atta girl.”

He pushes in slow, allowing you to feel every inch. You feel the thick, burning stretch of him as he sinks in deeper, splitting you open around his cock. Your breath catches on a whimper, eyes rolling back as he fills you.

“Fuuuuck,” you choke out, voice strangled. “You’re so big.”

Behind you, Jungkook lets out a guttural groan.

“Yeah?” he rasps, still sliding in, forcing your walls to open around him. “That too much for you, baby?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, cheek pressed into the cushion. “No, no, it’s so good, just, fuck—”

He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, and you swear you see stars. You’re so full it’s almost unbearable, like he’s in your stomach, You’ve never felt anything like it; your walls clenching, dripping, pulsing and he’s barely even moved yet.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in, then does it again… and again… and again.

His pace is brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that send shockwaves through your spine and bounce off the walls. Skin slapping, the obscene wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in over and over, the couch creaking beneath you. You’re a full mess under him, and he’s moaning now too.

“Fuck,”Jungkook growls behind you, breath ragged. “You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?”

You do. The sound of your pussy squelching around his cock is loud, echoing with every thrust as your juices coat his length and drip down your thighs onto the couch cushions below.

“Fucking soaked,” he growls again, hips snapping into you.

His hand finds your hair, grabbing a fistful at the base of your neck and pulling. Your head lifts from the pillow you grabbed from nearby in a panic, back arched to its limit, body bent like a bowstring as he fucks into you harder now that he has you right where he wants you.

“Taking it so good, baby,” he pants, yanking your head back just enough to make you moan. He keeps pounding into you, dragging that cock so deep it feels like he’s carving himself into your soul, keeping your head held high by your hair, whispering filth that makes your legs shake.

“You wanna cum, don’t you?” he growls, tone thick and mean. “Wanna fall apart right here on my cock?”

You’re shaking too hard to answer, all that’s coming out are some babbles you nor him have any energy to interpret. Somehow, your brain flashes back to that fucking TikTok. That girl that described “blue collar dick” like it was some natural disaster.

Now you’re living it.

You’re bent over on your own couch, spine arched, tears in your eyes, unable to even think as Jungkook wrecks you with his cock and whispers filthy praise in your ear like it’s his job. This is blue collar dick. This is the goddamn thesis statement of that TikTok. You’re going to send that girl flowers.

“Please,” you cry, “Please, Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” he pants, breath hot against your neck as his fingers reach down and work your clit cruelly enough to keep you from tipping over. “That desperate for it, sweetheart?”

You nod, choking out sobs, your body twitching around him, clenching hard enough that he starts to fall apart.

“Fuck,” he groans, cock twitching inside you. “You’re so tight. Keep squeezing me like that and I’m gonna cum before you do.”

You moan loud into the pillow, your whole body wrecked and burning, still locked in this purgatory he’s created, his cock fucking you deep and hard, his fingers rolling over your clit with precision, holding you right there.

“Say it,” he growls, “Tell me how bad you need it.”

“I need it, please, I need it so bad. I can’t, I’m so close, please let me cum.” Your self -control has exited the apartment.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he grits out behind you, “Fuck, baby, feel how tight you are? How bad your pussy wants to cum for me?”

You can’t answer. You’re drooling into the pillow, gasping, your body jerking with every thrust like you’re being electrocuted.

“Let go,” he groans, voice shaking. “You’re gonna cum for me now, yeah? Go on, baby. Fucking cum.”

The second his thumb presses tightly just right against your clit, you shatter. It hits you like a wave. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, back arching so hard it lifts your hips even higher as your orgasm rips through you, hot and overwhelming. You scream as your pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing and gushing as you cum so hard your vision goes white.

Your arms give out completely. You collapse forward onto the couch with a breathless sob, ass still arched up as your cunt throbs around him, wetness dripping down your thighs in sticky trails. Your face is buried in the cushion, your legs are trembling.

“Oh my fuck,” Jungkook groans, “Just like that. You feel that, baby? Feel how good it is when you cum on me?”

He curses, pulls out fast and you let out a weak little cry at the loss, at the ache he leaves behind.

But then he’s jerking himself over you, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, wrist snapping fast, hips stuttering as he pants over you, chasing his own high.

His head tilts back, bottom lip tucked under his top teeth. A deep, broken moan is ripped straight from his chest as his hips twitch forward and he spills across the curve of your ass in thick, hot ropes. His chain swings with the motion, clinking gently as he fucks his fist through it, painting your skin in messy, perfect streaks.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans, his eyes squeezed shut. “You’re… fuck, baby. You’re unreal.”

You’re too far gone to speak.

You stay face-down on the couch for a full minute post-impact, naked and glazed like a donut.

Jungkook exhales somewhere behind you, like he too is processing the life-altering events that just occurred in your living room. You hear his body move as he leans back, chest rising and falling, the distinct sound of a man who just came so hard he forgot his social security number.

There’s cum on your ass. Your hair’s stuck to your cheek. The throw pillow has a bite mark in it. You are not well.

You finally lift your head a fraction of an inch. “I think I just met God.”

Jungkook lets out a soft, post-nut laugh. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Tell him I said hi.”

You look over at him from where you’re sprawled out on the couch, now on your stomach. “…So do I owe you money, or…?”

He snorts. “For what?”

“For fixing my power?” You say it like it’s obvious.. which it should be.

Jungkook leans over and smacks your ass, casual, affectionate. “Nah. This one’s on the house.”

Eventually, he helps you sit up, grabbing the nearest clean towel in your bathroom like this is all completely normal. You look at each other and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or call your landlord and thank him for being so aggressively useless.

You’ll deal with that later.

Right now, you accept the towel, take a shaky breath. You blink at him, dazed, legs still jelly. “So if I break something else… just a hypothetical, should I call you..?”

He smirks, tugs his pants back up without bothering to button them, and says, “Depends. If you break something else, I expect a personal invitation. No middleman this time.”

masterlist + request

#im not online but my queue is! 🔔#jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts #bts x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jjk #jjk x reader

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asaarii · 3 months ago

Text

ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible) reader: fem wc: 2604 summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend? cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this requested by: @sophsthebest

this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now

Life is strange, really.

One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.

You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.

You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.

MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay

You: i’m fine

You: i’m just scared mark

You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…

MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you

MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw

The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.

Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.

This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love.

Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.

“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.

Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.

Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place.

“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.

“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”

So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.

You don’t get far.

A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.

“Another survivor?”

You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.

“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.

Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.

“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”

The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”

You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.

“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed.

He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.

“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor.

Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.

“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.

Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.

A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?

While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—

“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel.

“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.

“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”

“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!”

The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.

Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”

Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.

Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.

Then he hears it—they all hear it.

The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.

A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.

Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.

Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.

“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”

No.

This can’t be happening—

You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.

“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.

Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.

Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.

“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.

A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.

Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.

“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.

“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.

“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.

“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.

“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”

Shit.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

#invincible—・❥#invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #invincible x fem!reader #fem reader #mohawk mark #mohawk mark x reader #invincible fanfic #omni mark #omni mark x reader #sinister mark #sinister mark x reader #viltrum mark #viltrum mark x reader #invincible variants #invincible variants x reader

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megumismyhusband · 4 months ago

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you’re going to cry. you swear, you’re going to lose your mind right here in the middle of class because this stupid problem refuses to make sense no matter how hard you try.

your pencil is shaking in your grip, and you can feel your breathing getting uneven. you’re on the verge of either breaking down or blacking out, maybe both.

so, against your better judgment, you turn to katsuki bakugo.

“bakugo,” you whisper, tapping his arm. he scowls, glancing at you with that usual irritation in his eyes, but when he sees the desperation on your face, he sighs. “what?”

“help. please.”

he rolls his eyes but takes your paper anyway, muttering something about how he’s “not a damn tutor.” you watch as his sharp eyes scan over your work, and then his gaze pauses, his expression freezing for just a split second.

you don’t notice, too busy fidgeting with your pencil and trying not to let your stress consume you.

but katsuki sees it. the faintest pencil indent next to your name at the top of the page, the remnants of an erased word. his last name.

his crimson eyes flicker to you for a moment. you’re oblivious, chewing on your lip as you wait for his help, completely unaware that he’s just discovered your little daydream scribbles.

his face doesn’t change. not one bit.

calmly, like nothing happened, he picks up his own pencil and rewrites his last name next to yours. then, beneath it, he adds an arrow pointing to the words with a single note.

“soon.”

he hands the paper back to you like nothing happened.

“you were messing up here,” he says, pointing at the mistake, explaining the problem in his usual blunt but effective way. you nod, relieved to finally understand.

it’s only when he turns back to his own work that you notice the little addition to your paper.

your heart stops.

your brain short-circuits.

you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the squeak that escapes, your face burning so hot you’re surprised you haven’t spontaneously combusted.

you steal a glance at katsuki, but he’s acting normal, like he didn’t just casually flip your world upside down.

but you don’t miss the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

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dark-night-hero · 18 days ago

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Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. part2

Imagine the way you laugh, the way you tilt your head back, the way your hand find his like it was your instinct. It was the kind if laugh that he was been longing to hear after all those mission that has been keeping him away from you. And now he is right here by your side, staring into your smile that hadn't changed. How he love to be with you like this.

Imagine the way the two of you were sitting right next to each other at the cinema. The way your head was on his shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your hands as he tries to put his attention in the movie you have been talking all over the phone for the past few weeks, fully knowing he would end up looking at you anyway. Nonetheless, it was a quiet moment, he was at peace. You've always been his home and peace.

Imagine the way this phone vibrated halfway the movie, Caleb was about to ignore it. Pips would not bother his time with you, she learned not to after the last time. He knew he made a promise to be there for her but at the same time, he knows where his priority lies, you. He was about to ignore it, the buzzing of his phone that was been going on for quite sometime now. But then what he saw was unfamiliar, unregistered phone number. It wasn't a mission, not even pips let alone his friends. It was a threat. Not just to him, but to you.

"It's MC." He lied. And fuck, the way he wanted to take it back so bad the moment he saw the way your face shifted, the way the light in your eyes flicker. The glimpse of disappointment in your eyes. Hurt. He knew he had hurt you once again. But then you look away, hiding it from him. You've always been so understanding, even when you don't understand, you tried. You always did. And so he couldn't take it back, it was the easiest way to say something that would have taken him so long to explain.

"Please Caleb. Just after the movie. Can't we have this moment?" You said. Almost, he almost folds. He wanted to say yes. Every part of him was screaming at him, wanting to say yes. To stay right here, to ignore the message and turn off his phone. But he couldn't do that, not when threat was around. Not when he could potentially put you in danger just by staying right beside you. He couldn't do that. He was panicking, he felt like he was running out of time. He felt like every minute with you would only put you in danger. He needs to put an end to this, fast.

Imagine the way the unexpected happened. The way you grab his hand and look at him, hoping, eyes looking for answer to your question. "Why, because you'll choose her?" His heart dropped. He should have told you back then. It wasn't her. That it was you. That he was leaving to protect you. But then he froze. He froze like a coward, something he shouldn't be. He haven't been a coward for a long time, not until they manage to get out of that hell he and MC have been through when they were a child. But here he was, right in front of you acting like one. All because he was afraid to lose you. And you let him go.

Imagine the way he should have stayed. He should have told you. He should have been faster. He should have called earlier. But he wasn't fast enough. The moment he turned onto your corner street was just enough time for him to see your-his home light up the night sky. It was the loud sound of the explosion that split him in half. The way he couldn't even hear the sound of his own voice screaming for your name. He just remember the ringing sound, the smoke, the fire. It felt like he had died once again. And maybe he did, right with you.

Imagine the way he did not even flinch when it was reported as a gas leak. An accident. What a lie. He knew better than anyone that was a fucking lie. It was meant for him. You were just where he lived. Where he loved. And they knew that.

Imagine he woke up at night, cold sweat running down his neck, tears running down his cheeks. He lost you again, this time within reach. It was haunting him. Your smile, your laugh, your eyes. You died thinking he had chosen her. You died thinking he had walked out on you, on us again.

Imagine the truth was just he was trying to save you. In the end, he failed. He tried to be gentle, even in the midst of panic. But in the end, you're gone. All because he thought he had it under control. All because he thought he still had time.

Imagine in the end he reach out for his phone, dialed your number but it doesn't ring anymore, but he pretend it does. Just so he can hear your voice again.

Imagine he could heard that grief is love with nowhere to go. But strangely, his goes everywhere. It burns in his chest, spills out of his hand and sits in every second he was alive without you. He did not just lose you. He killed you. And there is no coming back out of that.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: Penge piso, pambili ng lollipop.

: goodnight- oh wait, i need to tag 🥹😭 edit: I can't tag?!

#dark night hero #live laugh love lads #lads x reader #lads imagine #lads caleb #lads angst #lads non mc #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x you #caleb imagine #caleb x reader #caleb #lnds #lnds caleb #caleb angst #caleb x y/n

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takimakiiiii · 2 months ago

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chicken shop date - LN4 x reader

synopsis!: lando is invited to join you on your dating show but who knows whether it'll be awkward or whether everything will go smoothly?

wc!: 4.9k!! (sorta short lol)

Part 2 is here!

pairing!: lando norris x fem!reader

includes!: A LOT of fluff, mutual flirting, a little bit of swearing, heavy use of y/n, 3rd person perspective, playful banter

a/n: this is heavily inspired by amelia dimoldenberg's chicken shop date that you can find on youtube. i absolutely loved the episode with lando but i thought it he was super shy and awkward so i wrote this as an if he wasn't so shy and was flirting back. i also stole some of the comments from the andrew garfield episode because that comment section is GOLD. anyways enjoy! xx

2 days later. . .

Now Playing: LANDO NORRIS | CHICKEN SHOP DATE

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ: ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

The camera lingers on Y/N and Lando, the soft hum of the shop filling the background as they sit across from each other at a small, worn table. The lighting is warm, almost golden, casting a cozy glow over the scene. Behind them, the counter is lined with empty glasses and in front of them a bowl of chips—forgotten, untouched, as if it’s a mere prop in the moment unfolding between the two of them.

There’s something almost cinematic about the way their gazes lock, intense and unblinking, concentration at its finest. It could almost be romantic—the way they’re sitting there, their eyes caught in a dance of curiosity and something deeper—but there’s a playful edge to the atmosphere. Neither of them seems entirely sure what will happen next. The air is light with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that makes every little thing seem charged, like a game they’re both trying to figure out.

Their smiles are wide, almost too wide, but neither of them seems to mind. It’s the kind of smile that speaks volumes—something just beyond the surface, an invitation for more. Suddenly, the silence is broken by Lando’s voice, gleeful and loud. “HA! You blinked!” He leans back in his chair, letting it rock on two legs, his eyes practically gleaming with the thrill of victory. Y/N freezes for a beat, her gaze still locked with his. There’s a flicker of disbelief, like she can’t quite believe he’s actually won, but it fades as a laugh escapes her. “You’re such a cheater,” she says, the words dripping with playful accusation.

The camera shifts, zooming in on her face. Her lips are slightly parted, eyes twinkling with the mix of annoyance and amusement. Her body leans slightly forward; her arms crossed loosely in a challenge. Lando shakes his head, an exaggerated expression of mock indignation overtaking his features. His grin widens as he holds up both hands in a “What can I say?” gesture. “Nuh-uh, I won. Fair and square.”

Y/N can’t stop the smile creeping across her face, though she rolls her eyes dramatically, as if she’s trying to resist the pull of his grin. “Yuh-huh,” she mutters under her breath, her voice laced with sarcastic sweetness.

And then Lando cracks up. The sound fills the small space between them—loud, genuine, like it’s something only they can understand. There’s a moment where their laughter overlaps, both of them caught in the same private joke. Neither of them bothers to explain it. It’s just theirs, a moment shared in a way that feels impossibly right.

Her eyes narrow, but there’s more mischief behind the look now. She leans in, just a little, her gaze never wavering from his. “That’s exactly what a cheater would say,” she says, her tone low and teasing. She throws the accusation across the table like a challenge, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of the table.

Lando's face morphs into a grin that’s too playful to be taken seriously, his eyes dancing with an unspoken dare. “Well, that’s exactly what a sore loser would say,” he fires back without missing a beat. There’s something about the way he says it—his voice just a little too sweet, the challenge thick in the air—that makes her want to laugh and argue at the same time.

Without warning, Y/N sticks her tongue out at him, the movement playful but with a sharp edge, like she’s daring him to say something more. The action feels charged, innocent and mischievous all at once. And as she pulls back, she can’t help but notice the way his eyes flicker, as if something in him is waiting for her to make the next move.

The camera cuts abruptly, a moment cut off too soon.

♡

"Alright, I’ve got a question for you," Y/N says, her tone light, but there’s something in the way she places her hands on the table that suggests this isn’t just another throwaway moment. The faintest pink blush spreads across her cheeks, and a grin tugs at her lips, betraying her attempt at seriousness.

"Oh yeah?" Lando raises an eyebrow, the teasing glint in his eyes already giving away that he’s curious but expecting something a little out of the ordinary. His smile stretches just a bit wider, the corners of his mouth lifting as if he’s already bracing for whatever quirky response Y/N is about to throw at him.

There’s a flicker of something in Y/N’s eyes—something that’s almost too quick to catch. Maybe it's nerves, maybe it's excitement, or maybe it's just the moment itself pulling them both deeper into the unspoken tension between them. Whatever it is, it doesn’t escape Lando’s notice. She shifts in her seat, a little more composed now, but still with that undeniable edge of playful energy. "What’s your greatest goal?" she asks, the question floating in the air between them, serious for once.

Lando pauses, his lips pressing together as he thinks. For a moment, he seems lost in his thoughts, as if weighing his answer carefully, but then he shrugs a little—relaxed, even if his eyes are still searching for the right words. "Win a championship, you know. That’d be nice." His gaze drifts off for a moment, but then a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, and maybe beat Carlos in chess for once."

Y/N nods, her expression thoughtful, but there’s a spark of understanding in her eyes. She can’t help but smile a little too, the weight of the conversation already lifting. "I see, okay," she says softly, as if she’s already letting the moment slip away, but it lingers in the air—this brief pause of seriousness.

Lando watches her closely, his gaze narrowing with an almost knowing look. He leans forward slightly, like he’s expecting something. "What about you?" he asks, his voice playful, but there's that tiny bit of curiosity woven in. Without missing a beat, Y/N meets his gaze, her smile widening as if she’s been waiting for this exact question. "To be 6ft," she replies, her tone deadpan but with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Lando almost chokes on his laugh, but he quickly suppresses it, his lips quirking into a smile that refuses to hide. "Oh, really?" he feigns surprise, leaning back just slightly, playing along with her harmless game. "That’s your greatest goal?"

Y/N nods vigorously, her eyes shining with an almost childlike determination. "Yep, I mean, just imagine—turning the tables so you'd be the one looking up at me, instead of the other way around." She shrugs, her playful smirk showing that she’s more than just teasing now. It’s the kind of confidence that only comes when someone’s comfortable enough to say something so ridiculous, yet so endearing.

Lando chuckles, the sound light and genuine. "Yeah? I think I prefer it this way, though," he says, shaking his head with a grin that says he’s not about to let her win this one so easily. Y/N rolls her eyes dramatically, though she can’t stop the laugh bubbling up inside her. "No, but seriously—imagine the flex. A tall girlfriend? That’d be legendary," she adds, her tone playful but with just enough conviction to make it seem like she’s really giving it some thought.

Lando leans forward again, his grin widening at the turn the conversation has taken. "Oh? Girlfriend, already? Isn't this our first date?" He raises an eyebrow.

Y/N doesn’t miss a beat, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I like to move quickly in relationships. You might want to take notes," she says, the words light but with an edge that’s both teasing and confident.

"Duly noted," Lando responds with a quick nod, his voice dripping with playful sincerity. But just as the moment feels like it could get too serious, Y/N breaks character, her laughter spilling out of her like an unexpected burst of sunshine. She presses her sleeve to her face, trying to stifle the giggles, but the effort only makes her laugh harder.

Lando watches her with an affectionate smile, the whole exchange leaving an unmistakable warmth between them—something light and effortless, but undeniably real before the camera cuts.

♡

“Kiss, marry, kill… are you ready?” Y/N asks, her voice flat and expression deadpan. Her gaze is steady, and there's a certain gleam in her eye that suggests she’s not playing around, despite her casual tone. Lando freezes for a moment, blinking as though she’s just thrown him into a sudden storm. The look on his face is a mix of surprise and confusion, like a deer caught in headlights. But curiosity quickly overtakes him, and he nods, clearly intrigued but also a little wary. “Okay… go,” he says, his voice tinged with both hesitation and anticipation.

Y/N doesn’t miss a beat. “Kiss, marry, kill: Oscar, Carlos, and me.”

Lando’s reaction is immediate—he collapses back into his chair, clutching his stomach as a burst of hysterical laughter escapes him. It’s loud and unrestrained, like he’s just been hit with the most absurd punchline of all time.

But Y/N remains unmoved, her eyes narrowed slightly, her expression unwavering. She throws her hands up in the air, frustration edging her voice. “I’m being serious! This is an important topic that needs to be addressed!”

Lando’s laughter slowly dies down, but the grin never quite leaves his face. He raises both hands in mock surrender, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Hang on! Hang on!” He presses his palms together like he’s deep in thought, as though the weight of this decision requires every ounce of his mental energy. “I’m thinking.”

Y/N sighs internally, a familiar and tired gesture. She resists the urge to roll her eyes—again—her finger tapping against the table in a slow, rhythmic beat, as though she’s waiting for him to get it together. She can practically hear the tick of the clock in the background.

"Okay, wait, I got it," Lando says suddenly, sitting up straighter in his chair. He pauses for a moment, his brows furrowing in what can only be described as mock concern. “Wait… no, I don’t want to have to kiss either of you guys.” He scrunches his face up, clearly not thrilled by the prospect.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, a smirk forming on her lips. "Wow, and here I was thinking you'd be more concerned with who you'd have to kill."

Lando doesn’t skip a beat. "Well, that’s an easy one. You, for sure." He shrugs casually as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Y/N’s jaw drops in exaggerated shock. “Me? Well, I’m offended,” she gasps dramatically, placing a hand over her heart as if he’s just stabbed her emotionally. She wipes away an imaginary tear for good measure, her tone dripping with mock hurt.

Lando rolls his eyes at the performance. “It’s called flirting, Y/N,” he says, deadpan, though his lips twitch upward.

Y/N smirks, clearly unfazed by his response. “Well, you’re not very good at it,” she retorts, her voice thick with sass. There’s no hiding the playful edge in her tone, but also no missing the fact that she’s not taking this seriously—she’s enjoying every second of it.

Lando bites back a laugh, but it’s obvious from the way his cheeks flush that her words have gotten to him. “Okay, well, I could say the same thing about you,” he deflects, leaning back a little in his chair, his arms crossed defensively.

Y/N arches an eyebrow, her amusement evident. "Sure, Lando.”

Lando looks straight at the camera, his face now the picture of exaggerated deadpan. He gives it a slow, knowing look, as though he's on an episode of The Office. The camera cuts just as he’s about to crack, leaving a lingering sense of humour in the air.

♡

"What's your go-to line? You know, when you're asking people out?" Lando asks, his voice taking on a playful tone, like he’s now the one in charge of the conversation. It feels like the roles have completely reversed, and he’s the one interrogating Y/N, as if he’s suddenly the expert on relationships.

Y/N pauses for a moment, clearly weighing the question. She tilts her head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she considers her answer. “I don’t really have one,” she says, her voice casual, almost nonchalant. “I just sort of look at them and hope that they’re braver than I am.”

Lando’s eyes light up with interest, clearly not satisfied with such a vague answer. “Okay, but how do you look at them?” He leans forward, his hands resting on the table as he eyes her like a curious detective. “C’mon, I need details.”

Y/N raises her hands in protest, then immediately bursts into laughter, the sound bright and infectious. She leans back in her chair, shoulders shaking as she tries to contain her amusement. Lando, on the other side of the table, is wiggling his eyebrows in exaggerated motion, clearly trying to make this into something ridiculous.

“Like this? Or is it more like this?” he asks, giving a dramatic wink in her direction, and the sheer ridiculousness of it makes Y/N’s eyes widen in disbelief. Her laughter grows louder; her face flushed from both amusement and the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“No!” she gasps between fits of laughter, barely able to catch her breath. “If that’s how you pick up girls, I feel bad for them. You look like you’re constipated or something.”

Lando’s face falls in mock pain as if she’s actually physically wounded him. “Okay, ouch,” he says, wincing like she’s just landed a punch right to his ego. His hand presses dramatically to his chest, as though trying to recover from the blow.

Y/N grins, her expression turning teasing as she looks at him with mock sympathy. “Sorry, someone had to let you know.” She throws him a playful, exaggerated sympathetic glance, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Lando nods solemnly, his face adopting a mock-serious expression, though the hint of a smile is barely contained.

“You’re welcome,” Y/N replies, the sarcasm dripping from her voice, but there's something in her tone that’s genuinely warm beneath the teasing.

Lando leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, looking as if he’s about to offer some unsolicited advice. “No, but I think that’s good, you know? Staring at someone creepily from the other side of the room…” he trails off, nodding as if he’s figured it all out, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

Y/N exhales sharply, the sound half exasperated, half amused. “Okay, asshat, it’s not like that.” She shifts slightly in her seat, clearly about to set the record straight. “It’s like this…” she says, her voice softening as she looks at him.

In an instant, the playful banter between them fades away. Y/N locks eyes with Lando, her gaze intense, focused, and completely unbroken. The shift in energy is palpable, almost magnetic, as though the entire world around them has melted away. Even the camera crew seems to hold their breath, unsure whether they’re witnessing something deeper or just a clever game between friends.

The moment stretches, lingering, neither of them breaking the gaze, their eyes speaking volumes that words can’t quite capture. There’s a sweetness in the silence—endearing, even. They’re just two people caught in something unspoken, something real in the quiet between them.

Y/N finally breaks the silence, her voice low and teasing. “Is it working?” she asks, her lips curling up into the smallest of smiles, eyes still locked on his.

Lando’s throat goes dry, and for a moment, he’s completely flustered. His words stumble over themselves, like he’s struggling to find his balance after the intensity of the gaze. “Yes—no, yeah, I can see that working. What’s your success rate so far?” His words come out in a jumbled mess, his neck flushing a deep red as his usual confidence falters under the weight of the moment.

Y/N, still holding the teasing glint in her eyes, leans in just slightly. “I don’t know, you tell me,” she says, the playful challenge still present in her tone.

Lando hesitates for a moment, clearly caught in the spell of the conversation. “100%,” he finally declares, his voice filled with a mix of playful confidence and something softer beneath it, like he’s genuinely caught off guard by the chemistry between them.

The camera cuts before Y/N can react.

♡

"You can only save one," Y/N says dramatically, holding out both hands as if she’s about to present him with a life-altering decision. “A puppy or a kitten. Which one are you saving?”

Lando freezes, his eyes widening in horror, like she’s just asked him to choose between his own limbs. “Okay, well this is just unfair,” he says, his voice dripping with mock betrayal. His lower lip juts out in a dramatic pout, as if he’s already the victim of some great injustice.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her tone unwavering. “You have to pick one.”

Lando’s face crumples as if the weight of the decision might crush him. “No, I can’t,” he whines, flailing his hands in the air dramatically. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be!” Y/N lets out a long sigh, clearly bored of the theatrics. She picks up a fry from the plate in front of her casually, like the fate of two helpless animals isn’t hanging in the balance. “Just pick one already,” she mutters, eyeing him with mild annoyance.

Lando leans back in his chair, his face scrunched in concentration as if he’s making the toughest decision of his life. “Okay… the puppy,” he finally says, almost reluctantly, as if he’s just betrayed a sacred pact. From across the table, Y/N gasps dramatically, clutching her chest as though he’s just committed the ultimate crime. “You’re a monster,” she says, her voice teetering between mock outrage and genuine shock.

Lando’s eyes widen as if he’s just been slapped. “Wait, no! I didn’t mean it like that,” he backpedals, panic setting in. “Okay, okay, fine—then the kitten.” He raises his hands in defeat, clearly hoping this will solve everything. Y/N glares at him, arms crossed with a smug satisfaction. “So, you’d just let the puppy die? Wow, you’re heartless.” She shakes her head slowly, the disappointment practically radiating off of her.

Lando looks at the camera crew behind the lens as though they might somehow come to his rescue. “What!? This is so unfair,” he whines, gesturing wildly for support. “I think you’re the real monster here.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her voice sweet but laced with sarcasm. “You really know how to flatter a person on a first date.” She pulls a sour face; her eyes narrowed in judgment.

Lando shrugs dramatically, rolling his eyes in the most exaggerated way possible. “Says the professional manipulator,” he fires back, smirking triumphantly—but then he immediately regrets it as he sees her narrowing eyes.

Y/N folds her arms, her gaze turning icy, the perfect picture of judgment. “What did you just call me?” she asks, her tone low and dangerously amused.

Lando takes a sip of his drink, trying to regain his composure—but it’s already too late. Y/N’s staring at him like she’s about to deliver the final blow. Lando winces, nearly choking on his drink. “Too far, I’m sorry,” he admits, holding up a hand in apology, though the mischief in his eyes betrays him.

“Yeah, that’s right, be sorry,” Y/N says with a satisfied smile, crossing her arms smugly. Lando, trying to regain some ground, mimics her earlier words in a high-pitched voice. “You really know how to flatter someone on a first date,” he says, holding his hands up defensively as if he’s the victim now.

Y/N glares at him, her eyes narrow and unyielding. “Your words, not mine,” he adds quickly, but the tension evaporates as soon as the words leave his mouth. It’s clear they’re both just enjoying the banter, and it’s impossible not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The atmosphere lightens as they both burst out laughing, the infectious sound filling the space between them. The camera captures the moment, lingering on their laughter, as if the whole world is invited into the little bubble they’ve created. The camera cuts, but this time, it’s a softer transition—no harshness, no rush. It’s just a brief, perfect pause, leaving the warmth of the moment hanging in the air.

♡

"Okay, important question," Y/N says, leaning forward slightly, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she casually pops a hot chip into her mouth. “What would you rate your flirting skills out of 10?”

Lando freezes, his eyes narrowing in deep thought. “Okay, wait, let me think,” he mumbles, his hand rising to his chin like he’s pondering the meaning of life itself. The silence stretches on for a moment too long, and Y/N raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Do you usually take this long to think about things?” she asks, her voice dripping with judgment, though the amusement is obvious.

Lando leans back in his chair, feigning deep contemplation. “Do you usually insult people as a way of flirting?” he shoots back, leaning forward with a mock serious expression. They exchange a quick glance, a silent challenge hanging in the air. Y/N can’t help but play along. “Was it that obvious?” she responds, her grin widening as she leans back into her chair, ready for whatever comes next.

Lando can’t hold back a grin of his own. “Yes,” he says, shaking his head as if he’s just seen the greatest performance of the evening. “Okay, I got it,” he announces, his posture shifting as he places his hands dramatically in front of him, ready to drop his verdict.

“Alright, I’m all ears,” Y/N replies, clapping her hands together, leaning back as if settling in for the most epic answer she’s about to hear.

“A solid 12,” Lando begins, his voice full of confidence. “But I subtract 5 points for social anxiety, and another 2 for sweating through my shirt.” He shrugs as if this is the most reasonable answer anyone could give. Y/N raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “I find the social anxiety part hard to believe,” she teases, a playful challenge in her voice.

Lando shrugs again, his grin never fading. “Me too,” he admits, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Y/N takes a sip of her drink, still processing the absurdity of his response. “So… you're like a solid 5?” she concludes, lowering the cup from her lips. Lando, without missing a beat, nods in agreement. “Yeah, but like a confident, aggressive, average 5,” he explains, leaning back as if he’s just made the most profound statement of all time.

Y/N nearly spits her drink out, her eyes wide with disbelief. She sets her drink down with dramatic flair. “That’s the most honest thing a man’s ever said to me,” she says coolly, as if she’s just heard a confession of the highest order.

Lando smirks, clearly unbothered. “Wow, that’s not concerning at all,” he hums, the sarcasm practically dripping from his voice.

Y/N leans in with a wicked grin. “Incredible,” she muses. “You’re like a red flag with a weird amount of charm.”

Lando leans forward with a knowing look. “You’re like if sarcasm came in a cute little package, labelled ‘Do Not Open,’ and ignores my texts for fun.”

Y/N laughs softly, her grin widening. “I’m flattered, but who says I’m texting you back at all?” she shoots back, the words dripping with teasing amusement. Lando raises both eyebrows, confidence practically radiating off him. “Oh, I’m sure you will,” he says with a wink, as if he’s already won.

“Yep, that’s that overly confident 5 kicking in,” Y/N hums, shaking her head in mock disbelief. She takes another sip of her drink, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Lando’s jaw drops, and he looks to the camera crew for help, as though they could somehow intervene and save him from this onslaught of teasing. “HEY—”

But before he can get another word out, the camera cuts again, leaving the moment hanging in the air, the playful tension between them palpable.

♡

“So why are you single?” Y/N hums from across the table, the question hanging in the air. It’s obvious that Lando’s used to her out-of-pocket questions by now, but this one seems to hit differently. Lando leans back, raising an eyebrow as if she’s just asked him to solve world peace. “That’s a very bold question,” he points out, clearly impressed by her audacity.

“I’m curious,” she shrugs, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world to ask someone why they’re single.

“Not because you're interested, right?” Lando teases, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Y/N shakes her head, but it’s the most unconvincing “no” she’s ever given.

“No. Definitely not,” she says, but her eyes... her eyes betray her. There's a starry look in them that no one can miss, not even herself. Lando catches the slip-up, but he doesn’t say anything, leaning in slightly. “So? Why are you single then?” she presses, her voice rising slightly with mock curiosity.

Lando dramatically sighs, throwing a hand over his heart as if burdened by the weight of the question. “Because society fears men with amazing haircuts,” he declares with a shrug, as if he’s just unlocked the meaning of life. “It’s really that simple.”

Y/N winces from across the table, her eyes narrowing. “I was going to say commitment issues, but that works too,” she quips, a teasing smirk forming on her lips.

Lando rolls his eyes, clearly unbothered by her jab. “Okay, the truth? I only date people who make me feel like I’m in a cute movie or something,” he admits with a dramatic flourish. Y/N leans in, her grin mischievous. “Do I?” she hums, her voice just the right amount of playful. Lando’s expression falters for a second as she looks up at him, a confidence in her gaze that catches him off guard. It’s clear he’s not as used to it as he’d like to think.

“Wow,” he laughs nervously, “bold questions are just shooting out of you right now, huh?”

“What can I say?” Y/N shrugs casually, her eyebrows wiggling in mock innocence. Lando runs a hand through his hair, a chuckle escaping him as he tries to maintain composure. “I feel like you’d be the love interest and the sarcastic narrator,” he muses in amused disbelief.

“Multi-talented. I’m just amazing,” Y/N responds, a careless shrug accompanying her words like she’s casually announcing she invented fire. From across the table, Lando seems distracted, his gaze following Y/N. “Whatever you say,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the playfulness between them—before the scene cuts abruptly, leaving the lingering energy between them to hang in the air.

♡

“If I was the last person on Earth, would you date me?” Y/N asks, leaning back slightly with a mischievous glint in her eyes, watching Lando carefully.

Lando, who’s been laughing and joking nonstop for the last ten minutes, suddenly straightens up, clearly deciding to take this question seriously. He takes a moment to “think,” his brow furrowing as if he’s weighing the fate of humanity. “Only after I build a shelter, farm some crops, and manage to survive long enough to get the necessary survival skills,” he says, nodding slowly as if this is the most practical answer in the world.

Y/N, clearly impressed with his reasoning, tilts her head and grins. “Wow, I love a man with stability,” she says with an approving nod. “But what if I say no?”

Lando shrugs nonchalantly, still in full serious mode. “Then I die alone,” he states matter-of-factly, “Possibly in front of you, for full effect, you know?” Y/N hums thoughtfully, her lips curving into a playful smile. “That’s not dramatic at all,” she replies, clearly amused by his over-the-top answer. Lando pulls a sour face in mock offense, but before he can say anything else, the camera cuts away, letting the playful tension linger.

♡

Lando leans in, the smirk on his face unmistakable. “Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I need to walk past again?” he asks, sending her a wink that could melt glaciers. Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to be moved by his charm. “Please don’t,” she says dryly, her voice unimpressed, “Once was enough.”

Lando pauses, clearly unsure whether that’s a yes or a no. “So, that’s a no?” he asks, as if he’s trying to gauge the temperature of the situation. Y/N looks him dead in the eye and replies, “That’s a ‘try harder.’”

Lando, clearly up for the challenge, clears his throat dramatically, ready for round two. “Okay, okay…” He pauses as if he’s about to drop the smoothest line ever. “If you were a sauce, you’d be extra hot and slightly intimidating.” He flashes a grin at her, clearly proud of his creativity. Y/N, unbothered and clearly not easily impressed, nods slowly. “Smooth,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Flattery and emotional damage? I’m impressed.”

Lando grins at her, his confidence soaring. “Why thank you,” he says with a mock bow, clearly pleased with his work.

Y/N rolls her eyes, but the playful banter between them is undeniable. The camera cuts again, just as the energy between them reaches its peak.

♡

"If we ever dated, we'd crash and burn in a week."

"Yep, but it would be hilarious."

"I'm so glad you agree."

"It would also be tragically funny."

"The best kind."

“Absolutely.”

The video ends.

a/n: tysm for reading! i hope you enjoyed, likes and reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated, stay safe xoxo suji :)

taglist: @curlylando

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #lando norris #f1 imagine #f1 smau #f2 #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #f1 scenario #f1 fic #oscar piastri #carlos sainz #formula 1

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slowfuckintheafternoon · 18 days ago

Text

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Gaz who has a lights off policy with you.

You never intended it to be that way. It started when the power went out one night in the middle of your TV marathon. Pitch black, sitting there in your respective spots on the couch, you both waited for a few seconds, just in case it was a quick flicker.

And then you got up for a candle, stumbled against his stupid knee, and ended up in his lap.

And then... other things happened.

The power didn’t come back on for an hour, but it was plenty of time to learn a lot of new things about your longtime roommate. The way his lips feel against yours, the texture of his chest hair, the way it felt to have his tongue in your mouth while you straddled him, cumming in quiet little gasps of relief.

By the time the lights all sprang to life again, your clothes were back on, his clothes were back on, and it was strangely like it had never happened. He wouldn't say anything, would barely look at you, so you did the obvious thing and hid in your room for the rest of the night.

And in the morning, it was business as usual. He said hi, you both ate your breakfast, and that was it. Off to work, back home for takeaway, mumbled good nights and separate beds.

It was a one time thing, and that’s okay. That’s simple. You can accept it.

Except, it’s not a one time thing. It starts happening, over and over. He starts it, the bastard. A few weeks after the first time, he waits for you to turn off all the living area lights for bed, and then traps you against the doorframe for soft little smooches that turn into something else in the dark, in his bed.

Always in the dark.

Sometimes it’s you who seeks him out, because he always leaves his door unlocked, and it’s no big deal to walk ten steps over to his room and crawl into bed with him when you’re horny.

Sometimes it’s several times a week, other times nearly a month goes by without hooking up. He seems to be good with it absolutely whenever, but you have your own system to let him know when you want it. If your little Lilo and Stitch night light is on, you want to be left alone. If it’s off, your body is fair game for someone sneaking into your covers for toothpaste tasting kisses and exploring hands.

Always in the dark, though, even after months of it. Never a speck of light allowed.

You try not to think about that, but the doubt tugs at you anyway. What if he hates your body? What if he thinks you're ugly?

But he doesn’t act like you’re ugly. He acts like he can’t get enough of you, happily kissing across your face, palming and feeling you in every which way until you’re convinced he’s memorized the shape of your body in his hands.

Sometimes he nuts so fast, he has to spend the next little bit avoiding his own cum leaking out while he coaxes your orgasm out of you with practiced sucks and licks.

Sometimes he fucks you for what seems like hours, shuddering and panting with the effort it takes not to finish. Holds you tight like that, nuzzles into your neck and makes the most delicious, low sounds of pleasure. Like he's never been happier, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

In the dark. Making out with you. Helping you cum. Your bed, his bed, they both start smelling like both of you, and he doesn't seem to be seeing anyone else. You're surely not.

It's just him. In the dark.

Until one night, he makes a mistake.

He finds you in your bed that night. Strips your panties off, kisses across your thighs just as you're giving him a sleepy hello. Tells you to relax, because you're more tired than he is, and he's in the mood to eat.

Kyle gets you all the way to the edge, teasing and withholding until your legs are quivering and you're wide awake, focused entirely on the need to cum. But he wants you to cum while you're fucking, so he crawls up your body and sinks into you. Anchors himself with a hand on the bed--

On your hair.

"OW!" you squeal, instinctively shoving at this arm to try to stop the pain.

"Shit, sor--"

He must overcompensate in his hurry to fix it, must be so upset about hurting you that he gets sloppy. He somehow knocks your lamp off the bedside table, and suddenly you're blinking in shock at the light flooding your room.

Kyle's right there above you, also stunned. Right there, naked. Inside you. Staring down at your wide eyes so close to his face, not moving because neither of you seem to know what to do when you can see each other.

"Alright?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I... I don't mind seeing you."

"No, I meant your hair."

"Oh!" you reach up and feel the sore spot, verifying that there's no missing clump or something. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kyle's eyes trace over your features, sliding down to your breasts and blinking slowly at them.

"It's okay if you want to turn the light off," you offer, self conscious.

"Can't be bothered at the moment," he returns, settling down on his elbows, nudging his hips a little deeper into you.

You curse, screwing your eyes shut because you don't know what to do, everything is so confusing and you're still so turned on.

And then lips find yours. Lips that took their time with your clit just a few moments ago, lips you've memorized against yours. Your eyes spring open again, just to see his already closed, fluffy lashes nearly touching his cheek as he kisses you with the lights on.

He's beautiful, and you don't mind. You let him fuck you like that, let him watch you cum, watch his own hands molding your body, fingers pushing inside you and bringing you another orgasm, naked and exposed to the light. Exposed to him.

You lay there for a while after he's finished, uncaring about the lamp still lying on the floor, probably cracked in half or something. It's still on. You both keep glancing at each other, eyes coasting over familiar lines of faces and arms.

It's a one time thing, surely. An unfortunate accident that forced you into normal sex. He'll be off to his bed soon, and you'll be trying to stop thinking about this, trying to stop your brain from circling--

"You wanna be my girlfriend?"

#kyle gaz garrick #cod gaz #call of duty #x reader #fem reader #chewchewchew

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damselneedssaving · 13 days ago

Text

BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.1

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

�� A/N: yes ik the pic is technically the mark variant who wears a shiesty but that's still mark and it's a hot pic so it's staying. anyway that poll on if y'all would read a mark grayson x reader fic alongside the batboys x reader was almost unanimously yes and i'm so happy because of it 🤭

★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOU ENDED UP HERE—

—trapped in the embrace of a stranger.

One moment, you're in your kitchen, preparing a nice, hot bowl of popcorn for both you and your house guests—the next?—you're at your door, stood rigid and tight and ever-so-still as your arms are pinned to your sides by another pair. A stronger pair.

A stranger's pair.

The embrace is warm, seeping with this longing you've only ever felt from Dick that one time he returned from a mission that lasted way longer than it should've; that one time he hugged you swearing he'd never let go.

But even then... Dick did eventually pull away.

Something about this stranger's tight grip tells you they won't.

Your name is whispered, breathed out on the tongue of whoever it is holding you as he squeezes just that tad bit more, just that tad bit tighter.

It's strange. You're sure you've never met this man in your life, yet something about his embrace feels familiar, intimate in a way no stranger could ever imitate.

No stranger but this one at least.

You can ponder on it for all but a few more seconds before a new warmth is on your shoulder—this time: a recognisably familiar one—and without being given a moment to even blink, you're yanked out of the embrace of the stranger, vision flooded with the broad back of your dear friend as a click bounces off the walls of your once quiet apartment.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't lodge this bullet between your eyes."

Jason stands before you, finger nestled snug against the trigger of his gun like it's just waiting for the opportunity to pull it, like he's just as eager to give it the command to do so.

The stranger puts his hands up, and it's just then that you realise he's clad in a skin-tight suit. Yellow and blue. With goggles over his eyes.

"I don't want any trouble."

"Yeah?" scoffs Jason, "Well you shoulda thought of that before pulling up at princess here's door."

"[Name], get behind me," Dick calls from further in your apartment, a hand quick to spread out over your clothed stomach and push you even further back than before.

You know by the way your light starts to flicker that Duke's also on guard, and you can't imagine that Tim or Damian are that far off either.

The tension in the room is thick—heavy in the air and just as swallowing—the boys' muscles all taut. It's as though they're ready to lunge the moment just a strand of hair moves out of place.

You try to swallow, but all that goes down your throat is sandpaper.

He catches it though.

The stranger's head tilts ever so slightly after your gulp, just enough so that you're fully in his field of view again.

From under those goggles, you can't really see his eyes, but the way his brows visibly pinch is enough for you to feel the desperation radiating off his form when he speaks your name again.

Dick moves to cover you further. "I don't think so, buddy."

"Look," the man states simply, head subtly moving back up, "I don't mean any harm, really. I just wanna see her."

"Tt." The slink of a sword slipping out its sheath sounds from behind you. "And what business is it that you have with her?"

The stranger tilts his head again, letting out a frustrated grunt when Dick only moves to counter once more. "[Name] please," he whispers, tone uneven, watery and wavering, "it's me: Mark—"

Then he does something unlike your boys, unlike any vigilante you've ever seen really, and he moves his hand up to his mask, slipping it off with the ease and trust of someone not currently at the door of a stranger's house.

"—Your boyfriend?"

You can't even fully observe his face before a bang bounces off the walls of your home.

Your eyes widen, pupils shaking and hand already pushing Dick to the side as you hiss out a severely pissed, "Jason!"

But before you can even think of screaming your heart out at him, of having a go at your friend for shooting an innocent person at your door, your mouth falls agape, muscles tensing just as much as the rest of the vigilantes you know as you catch sight of what you're sure should've been a dead man on the ground.

Except he isn't dead. And he's nowhere near the ground.

In fact, he's floating off of it, brows now furrowed and lips pulled tight into a snarl as he yells, "What the hell, man?! You just shot me!"

"And you aren't dead," Jason replies through gritted teeth. "Why the fuck aren't you dead?"

"Not to worry," Damian replies before the stranger—before Mark—can, "I'll fix that."

All it takes is the lights flickering once more and the sound of a staff whirling in the wind for you to snap out of your little stupor, for you to see and hear and feel everything around you once again.

And once you do, your voice rings clear and final.

"Enough."

The boys tense, forms faltering as their eyes finally leave the stranger to fall on you.

You take a step forward.

Duke blocks your way.

"Duke." Your arms fold over your chest, his name stern and heavy on your tongue.

"[Name]"—his brows furrow—"you can't be serious. This is a stranger. A meta too, no less."

"And you aren't?" You quirk a brow. His jaw ticks. "He hasn't done anything. All he did was hug me."

"That doesn't mean he won't do anything," he retorts stubbornly. "That doesn't mean he can't do anything." Then, his tone softens, brows scrunching a little as he regards you with a look all too warm and familiar. "I don't wanna lose you. Not you."

Your arms uncross, one hand gesturing out as you return his gentle look. "And you won't. I promise. Just let me talk to him."

You can tell he's reluctant, can see it in the way his jaw is still tense and his eyes suddenly can't meet your own. But you also know Duke, and you know that he's a hero—one that, if given the chance, will choose the option of peace over all else.

And so, his shoulders fall, and he steps to the side to allow you through, to which you flash him a grateful smile before taking a step forward...

...only to be blocked by yet another wall, one now back to facing the person floating at your door.

"Jason," you call, but he doesn't so much as spare you a glance. "Jason."

His jaw squares, the only sign you have that he's hearing you.

"Put the gun down."

But he doesn't listen. He hears you but he doesn't listen. Because of course he doesn't listen. You're speaking to Jason Peter Todd, when the fuck does he ever listen?

"Jason!"

"I'm not putting the gun down until he's bleeding on the fucking floor."

The meta snarls at Jason's words, and the latter is quick to return it with his own look of disdain, blood boiling enough for heat waves to be visible in the air around him, for even the hottest lava to envy what courses through his veins.

"Then get out of my way so that I can speak to him."

The man lets out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "And let him feed you another lie to bring down your guard some more? I don't think so."

"I'm not lying," Mark hisses, floating just a tad bit closer.

"Oh yeah?" Jason tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting in that familiar way it does when he mocks a crook. "Why don't you say that to your so-called girlfriend? Because to me, it doesn't look like she even knows who you are at all."

That seemed to have hit a nerve, because the next thing you know, Mark is lunging forward, and Jason is just narrowly dodging his shove, rolling to the side and letting out another bullet in his direction.

You're only able to blink once before your form is engulfed, covered by the oldest brother in the room as he regards you with soft, gentle eyes.

Yours only scrunch in return.

"Dick, let go of me."

He tosses a glance over his shoulder as another bang rings out. "Don't think that's the best idea right now, princess."

"Dick."

He meets your gaze again.

"It's either you let me go so that I can break up the fight, or you let me go so that you can break up the fight. Your pick."

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You can't be serious."

You don't say a word, and he blinks owlishly.

"You're serious."

"Deadly."

"Okay, fuck," he curses, head turning to the side as his eyes all but seem to run through a dozen different scenarios at once, acting more like a computer screen than sclera.

Then, after at least two more seconds pass, he turns back to you, shoulders falling in quiet resignation.

"Fine. Stay here. I'll break it up. You're not going anywhere near that fight on my watch."

You feel the way your shoulders fall at his words, a wave of relief crashing over you like a sudden change in tide as you flash Dick a smile much like the one you gave Duke earlier and he starts to slowly get up with a roll of his shoulders.

"Alright you two, break it up."

Mark pauses, and Jason takes the opportunity to lunge, but before his arms can even graze the meta human, Dick hooks them under his own, and you quickly take the opportunity to put yourself between the three men.

You then proceed to waste no time to deliver a mountain of fury to the man who started the fight.

"Really, Jason?"

He pauses his struggling against his brother.

"I mean, seriously"—you throw your arms out in front of you, scoffing the words on your tongue out in disbelief so heavy, it fogs your vision—"you're a grown ass man, starting fights like a child, over something as small as someone claiming to be my boyfriend?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but purses his lips once you send him a narrow look, opting instead to scoff and turn his head to the side.

"Oh, and don't think I didn't notice you two getting ready to join in, Tim, Damian." You turn your stern gaze to the other two currently armed individuals in the room, and they both mirror their brother's reaction to a tee.

It's funny, really, how they react like children being scolded for something like drawing on the walls rather than grown men who were planning on murdering someone in the comfort of your home.

Or at least, Jason was.

Geez, you really thought you had this talk with him already, that he'd changed his previous ways and swapped out his real bullets for rubber ones, that he'd sworn off killing for the rest of his life.

Guess not.

You pinch your nose, taking in a breath and counting up to ten just like your momma taught you when you were little, just like you always do when your veins get a little too heated for your own good.

Each second in your head is a second the heat flushes out your system—and your muscles unscrew themselves from the stiff boards this whole night reduced them to—until eventually, you can feel yourself finally calming down.

Then you open your eyes again and witness the mess that is your living room, and all that effort flushes down the drain.

"Look"—you find yourself sighing, turning to face the still-floating Mark as you address him with heavy eyes—"Mark, was it?"

In an instant, he lowers himself to your height, and now that there's no goggles in the way anymore, you witness the true extent of the way his eyes stare at you, wide, unwavering, like you're the only one they truly see.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow air. "...I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong girl. I've never seen or met you in my life. I don't even have a boyfriend."

At that, his shoulders fall, sagging in a way that has you biting your lip and half-contemplating taking it all back if it meant you'd get to see that look on his face again.

Wait... what?

"Right..." Mark starts, his solemn tone enough to pull you straight out of your thoughts. "Different dimension. My bad."

His words, though muttered, couldn't have been louder to your ears, and you raise your head in time with the rest of your friends, eyes wide and trained onto him.

"I'm sorry..."

He glances up at your voice.

"...Did you just say 'different dimension'?"

TAGLIST: @silas-222, @bloofairyfox, @wiseavenuelove, @inkycapps, @velovicy, @mmentallyelsewhere, @verysynical, @1abi, @bluepartywobblernickel

2K notes · View notes

buckyseternaldoll · 6 days ago

Text

bad desire

this is the final story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Civilian!Female!Reader

Summary: Hydra tried to turn you both into monsters. But even as the Winter Soldier, Bucky still chose you.

Disclaimers: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v (standing & bed positions), oral (m giving), light dubcon (serum influence), winter soldier mode, overstimulation, soft dom!bucky, recovery sex, emotional aftercare, post-Hydra escape, angst with resolution, semi-public surveillance

Word Count: 8.5k

Author's Note: As much as I love Winter Soldier, writing his smut scene is very challenging 🥹😭

Bucky escaped Hydra with Steve’s help—though “escape” wasn’t quite right. It felt more like a release. A bleeding, uncertain kind of freedom.

He vanished into a quiet Eastern European village, tucked between cold hills and roads long forgotten. Somewhere small. A place where the language felt foreign in his mouth, and the people kept to themselves. No tourists. No curious eyes. Just cobblestones, an aging clocktower, and silence.

It was perfect for him.

He rented a room above a bakery. Kept his head down. Never let anyone walk behind him. The locals didn’t pry, and he didn’t offer anything back.

But you noticed him.

He was tall, broad, always in the same dark jacket. He moved like someone studying life from the outside—trying to memorize the rhythm of it. Watched more than spoke. At the bakery, he never haggled—just nodded, paid in full, and left. Over time, he started greeting the baker. Murmured a stiff “thank you” like he’d practiced it. You even caught him trying to smile once. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the attempt was there.

At the market, he lingered. Watched people barter. Mirrored how they tapped scales or leaned in to laugh. He looked like he was trying to relearn how to be human.

He often came to the café where you worked part-time. A small, tucked-away place across from a crooked bench and flickering lamp post. That bench became his perch. He’d sit, stiff-backed, notebook in hand—too small for his fingers, but he wrote in it anyway. Not often. Just a few lines, then he’d tuck it away like it mattered.

You watched him from behind the counter. Pretending not to. But he stood out—quietly. Like a story you couldn’t quite read.

Once, you saw him flinch—actually flinch—at a fat green caterpillar crawling over a daisy by the café door. He took a full step back like it had hissed at him. You barely kept your laughter in. He took a full step back, like it had hissed. You barely kept your laughter in.

Another time, a stray cat jumped onto his bench. He just blinked at it, then scratched behind its ear like he wasn’t sure how. Two more joined. That evening, he walked in covered in cat fur.

You handed him his usual—black coffee. No sugar. No milk. But this time, you added a glazed donut beside it.

“On me,” you said softly. “You’re a regular now.”

He stilled. Shoulders tense, gaze sharp. Like he hadn’t planned for kindness.

You raised your hands gently. “No pressure. Just sugar.”

He hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

And he ate the donut.

—

The next day, he was back on the bench again—early afternoon, sunlight brushing through the thinning trees. You brought his coffee out and hovered a little longer.

“Do you like cats?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just gave a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.

Your grin grew. You pulled out your phone. “Wanna see mine?”

You held up your phone—a photo of a chonky black cat sprawled across your kitchen table like a lazy prince, belly up, legs akimbo, mid-yawn. “That’s Noa,” you said, grinning. “I found him at night, back in Romania. So—Noa. From noapte (night). He only answers when he feels like it. Fat chonk gremlin thinks he’s royalty. Loves pumpkin purée more than tuna, for some reason.”

You chuckled softly to yourself, expecting silence again.

But then came his voice—quiet, deep.

“Noa. Suits him.”

You blinked. It caught you off guard—not just that he spoke, but the way his voice wrapped around the name. Calm. Unhurried.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You can actually talk?”

He huffed through his nose. A breathy, reluctant sound. But it was amused. The closest thing to a laugh you’d seen from him yet.

You’d take it.

—

A week later, he tapped the edge of the table when you brought his drink.

You raised a brow. “Want me to sit?”

He nodded, eyes still on his cup.

So you did.

You didn’t talk that first time. Just sat, close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table whenever one of you shifted. He didn’t flinch. That felt… like something.

It became a habit. Not always. But often enough that the seat across from him started feeling like yours.

One quiet day, after closing early, he was still there—scribbling in that little notebook. You sat down with your tea, watching him.

“I’ve seen the way you move through the village,” you said. “Like you’re learning. Studying how people work.”

He stilled, pen pausing mid-stroke.

“I think you’re trying to be more human. Or trying to remember how. If you ever need help… I’m good at pretending to be human.”

Still no reply. But he didn’t leave.

You leaned in slightly. “I swear on Noa, I’m a solid secret keeper. He’s the only one I tell things to. And unless he starts speaking, your secrets are safe with the cats.”

That did it.

A low chuckle escaped him. He shook his head, eyes down—and smiled.

It wasn’t wide. Not perfect.

But it was real.

Something pulled tight and warm in your chest. You smiled back, trying to play it cool while your heart scrambled.

—

You’d started seeing him outside the café more often.

Not exactly planned meetings—but they became frequent enough to feel like a habit. You’d catch him on your way home. Sometimes, he’d be waiting at the park bench with his notebook. Other times, you’d spot him loitering near the market until you finally walked up and dragged him into conversation.

You were the one insisting on it—on helping. And to his quiet credit, he let you.

“I mean,” you said one afternoon as the two of you strolled down a quiet lane just past the edge of the village, “you’ve gotten pretty damn good at talking, considering how you used to communicate in grunts and side-eye.”

He gave you a sharp glance, but there was warmth tucked into it. “Didn’t grunt.”

You snorted. “You did. I have witnesses.”

He shook his head, but you caught the curve of his mouth. He wasn’t quite smiling, but it was there, that pull—like he was getting used to the idea of letting something reach him.

“I’m serious, though,” you said, more gently now. “You’ve picked up on social cues really well. You don’t stare at people like they’re puzzles anymore. You even laugh sometimes.”

“I don’t laugh.”

“You chuckled when I told you Noa tried to eat my eyebrow pencil. That counts.”

He sighed. It wasn’t irritated. Just resigned.

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Anything else you want to work on? Anything you need practice with?”

That made him pause.

You both stopped walking, the dusty road quiet around you. The breeze shifted, carrying the smell of firewood and something herbal from a nearby window.

Then he said it—low and measured.

“Human touch.”

You turned to face him. “Touch?”

There was a silence between you, and in that moment, it held weight. Like a breath held too long.

“I forgot,” he said slowly, eyes not quite meeting yours. “What normal touches feel like.”

You felt something stutter in your chest. You wanted to ask more—about what he meant, about what kind of touches he did remember—but something in his voice told you not to. There was a darker layer beneath that calm tone, a history stitched into his skin, and you knew better than to tug at those seams without invitation.

Your gaze dropped for a second—to the gloved hand at his side. The right one.

That other arm—his left—was usually hidden, but sometimes you’d catch it glinting beneath his sleeve. Sleek metal, darker than silver, and forged with faint grooves along the knuckles. You’d never asked about it. Even though you were curious as hell.

Even now, it caught the light—a quiet shimmer beneath the worn fabric.

You took a slow breath. “Do you want to try?”

He blinked. “Try what?”

You lifted your hand, palm up. Open. Gentle.

“I mean… my hand’s not exactly groundbreaking,” you said with a light smile, trying to ease the sudden weight of the moment, “but if you want to… I dunno. Start small. No pressure.”

He stared at your hand.

For a second, you weren’t sure he’d move.

But then—without a word—he reached up and tugged the glove from his right hand. His flesh hand. The one that looked weathered but strong, broad-knuckled with veins that caught just beneath the skin. His fingers flexed once in the air, almost uncertainly, like they were trying to remember how to approach something.

He didn’t grab you. Didn’t squeeze.

Instead, he touched the center of your palm first. Just with the tips of two fingers. A featherlight stroke.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He traced slowly. His forefinger curling against your skin, drawing a slow, shaky line toward the base of your thumb. His touch wasn’t smooth—it trembled, faintly. Like he was afraid he’d do it wrong. As if even this small contact required permission.

Then, after a pause, his entire hand lowered into yours—deliberate, careful. He fit his fingers into the spaces between yours, but not all the way. Just hovered there. Testing.

You let your fingers curl softly around his. Closed the gap.

His breath caught.

For a long, quiet moment, you stood like that. His hand warming against yours, every inch of skin-to-skin charged with something unspoken. And when he finally wrapped his hand fully around yours—gently, so gently—it felt like a tether. Like he was anchoring himself to something he couldn’t name.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. You just let him hold you, because it felt like he needed it.

And when he looked down at your joined hands, eyes blinking slow, the smallest crease formed between his brows—confused, maybe. Or overwhelmed. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with softness that didn’t come with strings.

You squeezed lightly. Just once.

He didn’t let go.

And something about that… moved in you.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly—only that it lit something behind your ribs. Like an invisible string tugged its way from your palm to somewhere along your spine, curling low and quiet and warm. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t wrong. But it made you feel… squirmy. Restless. Like there was something else happening beneath your skin that hadn’t been there a second ago.

You stayed still anyway. Let the moment stretch.

But he must have felt it—something shifting, or maybe just the timing of it all—because after a few more seconds, he slowly unhooked his fingers from yours and pulled his hand back. Carefully. Like he didn’t want to break something.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But from that day on, the “touch training” became a regular part of your meetings.

It started innocently enough. A brush of shoulders while walking. The occasional graze of his knuckles when he passed you something. You let him explore the idea of safe contact—real, present, unprogrammed. And in turn, he let you see how deeply lonely he must have been to crave it in silence all this time.

Today, you told him you were ready for the next step. “We’ve done hands,” you said with a teasing smile, standing beneath the low branches of a pine tree that shaded your usual path. “Now let’s try hugs.”

He didn’t move at first.

Then—slowly—he nodded.

You took a breath. Arms out. Waiting.

He stepped forward, movements uncertain but controlled. His arms wrapped around you not like someone who had done it a thousand times, but like someone trying to replicate something from memory. Not tightly at first. Just enough to encircle you.

You stood there, letting the contact settle in. His chest was warm. Firm beneath your cheek. His breath slow against your hair. But then…

Something inside you curled.

It was that feeling again—that tight, electric buzz in your stomach. That low twist of pressure that felt… weird. Not in a bad way. Just… complicated. Your insides knotted, not from fear or nerves, but something else. Something unnamed.

He smelled like cedar soap and wood smoke. His heart beat slow. Heavy. Constant.

And then his arms shifted—pulling you in closer. Just slightly. But closer.

The hug deepened. Changed.

You weren’t sure how, but the second his body pressed more fully against yours, you felt it again: that same shiver in your chest, sliding low through your belly like something melting. Your breath caught. You didn’t understand it, not really. You didn’t even have a name for the feeling.

You didn’t know that was what want felt like.

You swallowed hard and buried it. Ignored it. Because he didn’t seem to notice anything strange.

At least, you didn’t think he did.

—

The last thing you remembered was the sound of his breath near your ear. His hand between your shoulder blades, steady and warm.

The next time you opened your eyes—he was gone.

You were no longer in his arms.

You were strapped to a chair.

Metal. Ice-cold. The kind that bit through your clothes and dug into your spine. Thick cuffs pressed around your wrists, holding you in place. Your ankles were bound, too—tight and immovable. The room around you was dark, echoing. Empty, except for the faint buzz of electricity overhead.

A single bulb swung slowly above you, the only source of light. It flickered once. Twice.

Your vision was still blurry. Mind fogged, sluggish. But your body knew something was wrong before your brain could catch up. Your head pulsed with pressure. And your arm—your right arm—ached.

You blinked downward, slow and heavy, catching the faint pinprick of dried blood at your inner elbow. A needle mark.

You’d been injected.

The panic didn’t hit all at once—it crept in slowly, like ice cracking beneath your skin. Your breath came shallow. You tried to move, to speak, to scream, but nothing useful came out. Just a hoarse breath. Dry. Weak.

And then you heard it.

Voices. Low and sharp. Coming from beyond the door.

Russian.

At least three men, maybe four, talking quickly—too quickly for your foggy brain to translate. The hinges of a metal door groaned. Then footsteps. Heavy boots. Closer. Echoing.

You tried to brace yourself.

But you couldn’t even remember how you got here.

All you knew was that a moment ago, you were in his arms.

And now… you were alone.

—

The door creaked open with a loud metallic groan, and four men stepped into the cell.

All in black. Boots heavy. Faces unreadable under buzzcuts and shadows. One of them—broad, smug, older—stepped forward like he owned the ground he walked on. The others fanned out like guards, or wolves waiting to be told when to bite.

He tilted his head. Eyes gleamed as he looked you over like you were inventory.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Feeling better?”

You barely lifted your head. Everything ached—your skull, your arm, your gut. You tried to speak, but the words clung to your tongue like glue.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Got what we needed, thanks to you.”

You blinked at him, dazed and confused.

He grinned like a jackal. “Soft little village girl walks into his life, and boom—he forgets what he is.”

He crouched a little, closer to your face now. His breath reeked of blood and smoke.

“Our asset went soft,” he spat. “You made him soft.”

The word dripped with disgust.

You stared at him, blinking through the fog in your brain.

“Where is he?” you rasped. “What did you—where’s the man I was with?”

His grin widened. “Man?”

He laughed. Sharp and cruel. One of the others snorted behind him.

“That wasn’t a man, darling. That was a weapon. And now he’s exactly where he belongs.”

He rose to full height again. “Different cell. Alone. Like he should be. We’re reprogramming his brain.”

The blood in your veins turned to ice.

Hydra.

You didn’t even have to ask.

You knew exactly what they were—what that name meant, what it carried.

The older man smirked, noticing your change in expression. “Ah. Now it clicks.”

You felt sick. Your stomach turned. But still—you shook your head.

“No,” you said. “You’re wrong. He’s not like that anymore. He’s—”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the man interrupted, lips curling with glee. “Winter Soldier. Ring any bells?”

You went still.

James.

The name slammed into your chest like a blunt weapon.

“And you,” he sneered, “got in the way. Made him weak. Turned him into a fucking puppy.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

“We should’ve killed you,” he added, almost casually. “Collateral damage. But lucky you—we had something better.”

He gestured to your arm. “You’ve been injected.”

You glanced down, breath catching at the sting on your inner elbow. The tiny welt. The bruising.

“A gift,” he said, all false cheer. “We call it a mirror. Brings out the dark stuff. Whatever’s locked deep inside. Instinct. Want. Urge.”

He leaned down one last time, lips close to your ear.

“You’ll be placed in his cell when it’s time. Once he’s been… tuned.”

He straightened, already walking away.

“Let’s see what happens when we give the monster exactly what he wants.”

The men laughed—cold, barking sounds that echoed as they stepped out.

The door slammed shut behind them with a brutal, final thud.

—

[BUCKY POV]

The sting in his neck came first.

Then the cold.

Then nothing.

Just flashes.

Boots dragging him across concrete. Metal floors. Voices scraping through static—low, clipped, familiar.

Russian.

Fucking Hydra.

He came to strapped into a chair.

No. The chair.

The one they used when they wanted to rip you out of yourself and leave the bones behind.

Thick leather cuffs bit into his wrists. Ankles locked. Wires pressed cold and sharp against his chest. A band wrapped tight around his head, wired into the humming machine behind him. He didn’t have to turn to see it.

He knew it. Every screw. Every sound.

He could feel the current buzzing in the wires before it even touched him.

His jaw tensed. Shoulders squared.

Don’t show it. Don’t move. Don’t give them anything.

Then the door creaked open.

Three of them stepped in—uniformed, smug, smiling like they were about to unwrap a weapon, not a man.

“Back where you belong,” one sneered. “Didn’t take much, huh?”

The second laughed. “Too easy. Poor thing really thought he was human.”

The third passed by, tapping a syringe. “Relax. We’re not wasting the asset. Just giving him a little… reminder.”

Bucky stayed silent.

They didn’t expect a response. Not yet.

“We already dosed the girl,” one of them said, voice curling with amusement. “Desire-enhancer. She’ll be begging for him before the hour’s out.”

“And yours?” the last one smirked, fingers hovering over a switch. “We upgraded it. Stronger. With a twist.”

He flipped it.

The current hit like fire.

Bucky’s spine arched against the restraints. A choked sound tore from his throat as electricity ripped through him—nerve to nerve, bone to bone. Sparks blurred his vision. Static roared in his skull.

His name vanished.

His mind split.

But somewhere, buried in the white-hot haze—you.

Your laugh. Your voice. The softness of your hand in his. The way your eyes never flinched when they met his.

Hold onto that. Don’t lose her.

He tried. God, he tried.

But the machine clawed deeper. Pulling him apart from the inside. Ripping softness from his bones, kindness from his memory. Replacing it with silence. Precision. Directives etched where memory used to be.

When it finally stopped, his body sagged forward, gasping. Muscles trembling. Jaw clenched so tight he tasted blood.

But something was off.

He wasn’t gone.

Not all the way.

Not the Soldier. Not Bucky.

Something in between. Something worse.

The serum already pulsed in his blood, coiling around every raw edge. Every flicker of need. It sank claws into the parts of him that still felt.

And what he felt now—

Was you.

But not with love.

With hunger.

Every memory of your skin, your voice, your scent—it all shifted. No longer comfort.

Triggers.

He needed to hear your breath catch. Feel your body tense under his. Mark you until you knew he was there, even after he was gone.

To take.

To claim.

To never stop.

[END OF POV]

—

The door to your cell groaned open, flooding your ears with the shriek of rusted hinges.

You blinked against the sudden light, but it barely helped. Everything around you was still dark—your vision tunneled, your limbs heavy, your skin burning.

You barely registered the two guards entering.

Thick fingers undid the straps around your wrists and ankles. Cold hands hauled you up before you could find your own footing.

Your legs buckled once.

“Move,” one of them growled, dragging you out into the hall.

You stumbled forward, caught between their grips. The corridor was dim and narrow, stone underfoot, cold air brushing your fevered skin. You could hardly see—just outlines and flickers of shadows along the walls.

But none of it mattered.

Because you felt him.

Somewhere ahead. Close.

Your whole body throbbed with it. Like your nerves were no longer your own. All you could think—feel—was the need for him. Not the gentle kind. Not the kind with whispered touches and stolen glances.

You wanted him inside you.

You wanted him to tear you apart and put you back together with his hands, his mouth, his body.

It was a hunger that crawled under your skin and made you feel like you’d melt if you didn’t touch him soon.

The guards reached a door at the end of the hallway—wider, steel-reinforced. One of them punched in a code. The other turned the handle.

You shivered, your skin hypersensitive under the thin fabric of the knee-length dress you still wore—soft and light, now clinging slightly with sweat. It felt out of place here. Too exposed. Too easy to pull up. A whisper of softness in a place built to break you.

And then they shoved you in.

You stumbled again, caught your balance on instinct, heart hammering.

The room was bright.

Too bright. Walls blinding white. Sanitized. Cold and clean in a way that made your skin crawl.

There was a bed, bolted to the floor. A single chair in the corner. No windows. No shadows.

Cameras. You knew there were cameras. Probably hidden in the corners, blinking silently as they watched you unravel.

Your eyes adjusted—and then you saw him.

Bucky.

Only—he wasn’t quite Bucky anymore.

He stood near the back of the room, facing the opposite wall. Shoulders tense, spine straight, chest heaving beneath the thin black shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle. His metal arm gleamed under the overhead lights—exposed now, the red star dark against the metal.

He turned toward you.

And your breath caught in your throat.

His eyes.

Not soft. Not tired. Not like before.

They were darker. Sharper. Focused.

Predatory.

He looked at you like he already knew what you were feeling—because he felt it, too. Because he wanted it. Wanted you.

But not gently.

Not sweetly.

There was no careful Bucky here.

This was the Winter Soldier.

And he wanted to ruin you.

—

Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse thundering in your ears as you took one slow, trembling step forward.

“James…”

The name slipped out—quiet. Barely above a whisper.

His head tilted slightly at the sound of it. His eyes flicked toward you, nostrils flaring like a wild animal scenting prey. His shoulders rose with a slow inhale.

But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

You swallowed hard, body tense, skin prickling as the serum’s grip twisted deeper in your belly. The heat was unbearable. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to stop the ache, but it only pulsed harder. Your cunt throbbed, needy and swollen, aching for him—only him.

Still, you tried to stay in control.

“I want you,” you rasped, your voice hoarse with restraint. “God, I want you so bad it hurts—inside, everywhere—but I know it’s the serum. I know Hydra did this.”

He didn’t move. His jaw flexed.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” you continued, your voice cracking. “I never wanted this to happen like this. Not with you like this. I wanted—I wanted you—but not like this.”

He was still silent.

But something flickered in his eyes.

A shadow of the man you’d held before. The man who’d brushed his fingertips across your palm like it meant something. Who smiled when you talked about your cat. Who let you into his world one inch at a time.

That man was still there.

Barely.

And he was fighting.

But the desire was eating you alive.

“I’m trying to fight it,” you whispered, stepping back until your shoulders hit the wall. Your hands flattened behind you, bracing against cold white. “But I—fuck—I can’t. I’m so wet it hurts. I’ve been clenching around nothing thinking about you, and I hate it. I hate how badly I want you right now. I want you inside me. Filling me. Stretching me. Ruining me.”

His eyes darkened.

A crack formed in his stillness.

Then he growled something low under his breath—in Russian.

“Хватит говорить.”

Stop talking.

The words barely left his lips before he moved.

He lunged.

In less than a breath, his body crashed into yours, pinning you against the wall. The impact stole the air from your lungs. You gasped, but he was already on you—his metal hand seizing your wrist and slamming it above your head, hard and cold and unrelenting.

The other hand gripped your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground as his mouth crushed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a claim.

Teeth. Heat. Pressure. Desperation.

You tried to push him away—tried to gather what little control you had left—but it was useless. Your hands, your mouth, your body all betrayed you. Your hips rolled up against him like they had a mind of their own, your thighs shaking.

You moaned into his mouth, unable to stop yourself.

There was no softness in the way he kissed you.

It was all teeth and heat and panting breaths, mouths crashing over and over, no rhythm—just hunger. Every movement from him was brutal, precise, urgent. Like he was trying to rip the need out of himself and shove it into you.

Your body burned.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, soaking through your underwear.

The sound of your whimper made his grip tighten.

His metal arm held you like steel, unrelenting, fingertips bruising where they curled around your skin. You were pinned in place, completely at his mercy—and yet, all you could think about was how badly you wanted more.

Your free hand curled in his shirt, yanking him closer. Your legs lifted, wrapping around his hips as he held you pinned.

Your back hit the wall again with a thud as he ground against you—rough, hard, hot. His cock was already stiff beneath his pants, pressing against the curve of your cunt, and it made you cry out—the contact was too much, not enough, everything and nothing at once.

His mouth tore away from yours, lips red and wet, breath ragged.

You barely heard the static click of the camera in the corner behind you.

Hydra was watching.

And they were delighted.

The serum wasn’t meant to end in one round.

It was designed to feed itself.

To keep you both burning.

To keep you needing until you were hollowed out.

Even if it killed you.

And right now, with Bucky’s mouth on your throat, his hand tearing at your clothes, and your body already grinding down against him—

You weren’t sure you’d live through it.

But God—you wanted to.

—

His mouth dragged lower, tongue hot against your collarbone, and then suddenly—

RIP.

Your dress split down the middle with one brutal yank—his metal arm tearing through the fabric like paper. The sound cracked through the room, echoing against the white walls.

You gasped, trembling, suddenly half-naked—left only in your soaked underwear and a thin, non-padded bra. The cold air met your feverish skin, and your nipples peaked instantly, painfully hard under the sudden exposure.

He saw them.

And groaned.

A low, guttural sound. Not desperate. Not hungry in the way a man would be. But programmed. Like a predator recognizing its target.

His mouth closed over your left nipple through the thin fabric—biting, sucking, dragging his teeth over it like he wanted to bruise you there. The stimulation made your knees buckle, but he didn’t let you fall.

His arm still held your wrist tight above your head, unrelenting, while his free hand gripped your waist to keep you still.

He was in control. Utterly. Entirely.

You squirmed, hips rolling forward, grinding against the solid length of his cock through his pants, your wet panties dragging along the ridge of it with every movement.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. “James.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t pant.

Didn’t tremble.

Not like you.

He was still—his eyes sharp, his mouth ruthless, his body composed like he wasn’t even breathing hard.

Because he wasn’t.

He was in Winter Soldier mode now.

And Winter Soldiers didn’t pant.

With a quick shift, his flesh hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra with a practiced jerk. The clasp snapped open, and he yanked it down your arms, tossing it to the floor without ever loosening his grip.

Then his hands—both of them—were on your breasts.

He squeezed hard.

Too hard.

You cried out at the pressure, but your cunt clenched in response. Slick coated the inside of your thighs, your underwear already soaked through, sticking to you like a second skin.

“James—James, please,” you gasped. “I need—I need you inside me, I need it, I can’t—”

Still no response.

Just that single flash of his eyes before his metal hand dropped down, hooking into the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t pull it down.

He tore it off.

The fabric snapped apart in his grip, and your gasp turned into a full moan.

Your thighs parted without thinking. Your hips bucked.

You were so fucking wet.

The air hit your pussy and made it worse—the heat, the slick, the hollow ache deep inside. You were clenching around nothing, sobbing through your teeth, begging like it was the only language left in your body.

“Please, please, please—James—fuck me—”

You barely had time to breathe.

You felt the heat of him between your legs—thick, hot, pulsing. Then came the sound of a zipper—fabric shifting just enough for him to free himself.

He didn’t undress. Just shoved his pants low enough to free his cock.

Thick. Veined. Angry-red and leaking.

You gasped. “Wait—”

But he wasn’t built to wait.

His metal hand gripped your hip, cold and unrelenting. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, hoisting your leg up and pinning it to his side.

Just one leg.

Just enough to open you.

And then—he drove forward.

No warning. No teasing. No care.

Just a brutal thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs and slammed your back into the wall.

You screamed.

The stretch lit your nerves on fire, forced your body to open around him—thick and hard and so deep it hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the ache that came before it.

Now that he was inside you, your body clenched like it never wanted him to leave.

He pulled back, barely.

Then thrust in again.

Harder.

Faster.

He fucked you like he was trying to purge something from his bloodstream—his hips snapping forward with unrelenting force, again and again, every motion slamming you into the cold wall behind.

You weren’t just holding on—you were unraveling.

Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, fingers digging in wherever they could find purchase. One leg hooked up high on his waist, the other shaking, barely able to hold you upright, but he didn’t falter.

The wet slap of skin echoed in the sterile white cell. Your moans cracked open and feral, your body shaking with every punishing stroke—and he?

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t groan. Didn’t pant.

He just fucked.

Mechanical. Precise. Feral.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t built to feel.

He was built to finish.

And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

—

He didn’t stop.

Not even when your spine slammed against the wall again, the shock rattling through your ribs.

Not when your lifted leg started to tremble, slipping a little against his side.

Not when your moans broke into gasps—ragged, breathless, barely hanging on.

He only growled—low and wordless—and wrapped his arms around you, metal and flesh, lifting you clean off the ground with a brutal grip.

You cried out as your back arched involuntarily, still so full of him.

He carried you—still inside you—across the room in a few fast, purposeful strides. His cock didn’t slip once. The stretch remained deep, unforgiving, dragging across every nerve inside you like it belonged there.

Then you hit the mattress.

Hard.

The springs squealed beneath your weight as he slammed into you again. No rhythm now—just sheer force. He was fucking like a machine with one directive: use. release. repeat.

Your eyes rolled back. You couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t even want to.

You were burning alive from the inside out and still you needed more.

But then—he stopped.

Pulled out.

You gasped from the loss, legs trembling, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“Flip,” he barked. The only word he’d said since entering you.

Your dazed mind barely registered the command, but your body obeyed—rolling over, knees digging into the mattress, arms braced, still shaking from the first onslaught.

You didn’t even get the chance to settle before he grabbed your hips—his metal hand gripping tight enough to bruise—and slammed into you again.

No warning. No patience.

You screamed into the mattress, forehead dropping forward, hands clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto.

He pounded into you from behind with no rhythm, just relentless depth—every thrust jarring your body forward, dragging a fresh moan from your throat.

It hurt.

It burned.

But God, you were so close.

So close you were choking on it, dizzy with it. Your body betrayed you completely, clenching, spiraling, seconds away—

But he didn’t let you come like that.

Not from behind.

Because the Winter Soldier wasn’t done with you yet.

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you over like a ragdoll—no tenderness, just force—and shoved himself back in with a violent thrust that made your hips lift off the bed.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as he slammed into you, now facing him.

His face was blank. Eyes wild. Breath controlled.

You, on the other hand—were falling apart.

He fucked you violently, brutally, each thrust harder than the last, hips crashing into yours like you were built to take it.

And you did.

You came hard.

So hard your body spasmed, your nails digging into his shoulders, your voice breaking apart on his name—“James—oh fuck—James—”—as you shattered beneath him.

You shook.

Convulsed.

Almost blacked out.

But he didn’t stop.

You tried to breathe, to beg for a pause, but your lungs wouldn’t cooperate and neither would he.

His thrusts grew even rougher—inhuman—and then with a sharp, guttural exhale, he came too.

You felt it.

Hot and thick, pumping inside you in waves.

But he didn’t stop moving.

He kept going.

His cock still hard, still twitching inside you, still thrusting, like his brain didn’t register release as a signal to stop.

You gasped, overwhelmed. Your hands scrambled for his chest—“wait, wait—”

But he didn’t hear you.

Didn’t want to hear you.

Your body convulsed again, overstimulated, throat hoarse from moaning and screaming and gasping for air like you were drowning beneath him.

It almost felt like you could die from it.

And only then—finally—he pulled out.

Leaving you empty, ruined, soaking in your own slick and his cum, your legs still spread, your chest heaving like you’d run for miles and your heart might never slow down again.

—

He wasn’t done.

Even after spilling inside you—after wringing you dry and watching you break—he still wasn’t done.

The Winter Soldier moved with a single, controlled motion, shifting downward along the bed, his metal hand still gripping your thigh, prying it open wider. You tried to close your legs, weak and trembling, but it was useless. He forced them apart like it was protocol. Like this was routine.

He dove between your legs without a word.

Not hungry.

Not greedy.

But driven.

Programmed.

His tongue dragged along your folds—slow, deliberate. Gathering everything. Your slick. His cum. All of it. He wanted it. Wanted to taste it. To keep stimulating you until you broke again. Until your body couldn’t take it anymore.

He licked deeper.

Sucked on your swollen clit until your legs kicked out on reflex, your throat catching on a sound you couldn’t even shape into a word.

Your hips bucked weakly. You tried to push at his shoulders, but he didn’t move.

He was a machine.

And you were his task.

He kept going—precise licks, tight suction, his tongue fucking into you like he had been ordered to memorize your body and extract your climax as efficiently as possible.

You were already so sensitive. So raw. You couldn’t even process the pleasure anymore—it felt like pain. Like lightning.

You sobbed out his name again. “James—please—”

Still nothing.

No reaction.

And then—

You came again.

Your body convulsed violently, back arching off the mattress, vision tunneling. Your voice cracked open around the moan, and this time, it wasn’t lust.

It was a cry for help.

“B-Bucky—!”

His name tore from your throat like a sob—like a plea from somewhere deeper than instinct.

And it stopped him cold.

His mouth froze. His grip loosened. The relentless pace, the way his tongue had been driving you toward the edge—all of it stopped in an instant.

You couldn’t breathe right. Your chest was heaving, every sob catching sharp under your ribs. One arm had gone slack beside you on the sheets. Your thighs trembled where they draped over his shoulders—still open, still shaking. Your back arched off the bed in aftershock, your cheek damp with tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His head tilted slightly, like something wasn’t computing—like your voice had hit a frequency he couldn’t filter out. His eyes, still dark and storming, moved over you slowly. The marks on your hips. The red prints around your wrists. Your swollen lips. The way your body shook in his arms.

His gaze landed on your face last.

The tears.

The way you whispered his name again, softer this time.

“Bucky…”

A breath caught in his throat—different from the harsh, mechanical rhythm he’d been running on. This one was shallow. Fragile. Human.

And then—

Something cracked.

You saw it.

Like a wire snapped behind his eyes. His brows drew in sharply, lips parting, shoulders falling—not with discipline but with shock. The kind of shock that came with recognition.

The Soldier had no use for guilt.

But Bucky Barnes did.

He stepped back.

Stumbled.

Like his legs suddenly remembered how to give out.

“No—” he rasped, voice frayed and hoarse and unmistakably his. “No, no, shit—fuck—I didn’t—”

He looked down at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. One metal, one trembling. Covered in sweat, in your slick, in proof of everything he’d just done.

His breath hitched. “I’m sorry,” he whispered—raw and cracked open.

And when he reached for you this time—

It wasn’t to hold you down.

It was to hold you up.

—

He eased you up—gentle now. Hands soft under your arms, cradling your head as he slowly pulled you into a seated position. You gasped for air, your body shaking like a leaf, lungs still catching up to the storm he’d left in you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice shredded. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I lost control. I didn’t know how to stop.”

Your head dropped into his chest. You were still trembling. Still clenching around nothing. Still throbbing for him.

But now… it was different.

Now it was safe.

Now it was him.

You felt his heartbeat under your cheek—fast, uneven, not cold or programmed, but human. Real.

“Bucky,” you rasped, barely a breath.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his fingers trembling as they tucked your hair behind your ear. “I’ve got you. I’m so fucking sorry—I’d never hurt you. I swear I’d never—” His voice broke. His mouth pressed into your temple, like he was trying to will the shame out of his body. “I’d rather die than touch you like that by choice.”

You exhaled shakily. Your palms pressed to his chest—warm, solid, familiar.

You nodded.

You believed him.

Because you were just… you.

Just a civilian.

And even with that serum still curling in your veins, you were never built to keep up with the machine he’d been forced to become. Not with the brutal rhythm. Not with the stamina. Not with the feral need he had been hijacked by.

You were still aching—still wrecked, still wanting—but now, what you needed more than anything…

Was a breath.

A pause.

A moment to live.

And for the first time in hours…

You had one.

—

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed—his dark shirt clinging to him, damp with sweat. His breath had evened out, but his shoulders stayed tense, like something inside him still hadn’t fully unclenched. He hadn’t stopped watching you—not since you said his name. Not since the Winter Soldier slipped back into the dark, and something human took its place.

He reached out, slow and unsure, brushing a knuckle along your jaw.

“Do you… need to stop?” he asked, voice low. Careful. Not cold. Not commanding.

Just a man trying to make sense of what was left.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your body was still shaking, legs drawn in now, curled close to your chest. You’d pulled the sheet around your hips at some point, but the sweat, the slick, the after of everything still clung to your skin.

And the ache between your legs hadn’t faded.

If anything—it pulsed deeper. Slower. But steady.

“Hydra’s watching,” he said, quieter now. “They’ll see I broke protocol. They’ll know I’m not… him.”

He swallowed hard. Shame flickered behind his eyes like a faultline.

“I shouldn’t have let it go that far. I shouldn’t have touched you like that—not with them watching. Not like I was still—” He cut himself off.

He reached for the shredded fabric of your dress, trying to drape it over you again.

“I’ll get us out,” he muttered, jaw tight. “I’ll rip through every one of them if I have to. I’ll make them pay for using you. For using me.”

But before he could stand, your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist.

Not to stop him.

Just… to hold him there.

“No,” you whispered, voice raw and dry. “I still need you.”

His brow furrowed, uncertain.

Your hand slid down—hesitant at first—then wrapped around him directly, where his cock rested heavy between his thighs.

He was half-hard. Already twitching back to life.

You stroked once.

Then again.

“I’m still aching,” you murmured. “Still burning from that serum. It hurts, Bucky.”

He flinched at the sound of his name.

“I know it’s wrong,” you continued, your palm moving slow and steady. “But it’s still inside me. It hasn’t worn off. You can help. You can stop the burn.”

His hand came down to catch yours—trying to still it, but not really pulling away. Just… pausing.

“Not like before,” you added, your voice quieter. More certain. “I don’t want the Winter Soldier.”

You shifted your knees apart, just enough to make the invitation unmistakable.

“I want you.”

His jaw locked.

He was still for a long second—then his hand eased around yours, guiding the stroke. His shoulders dropped, tension melting like ice under sunlight.

You were still looking up at him when he bent forward and pressed his lips to your forehead.

It was brief.

But it was him.

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there beside you—silent, tense. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he wouldn’t touch you unless you asked.

You reached out first.

Fingers curling gently around his wrist. Not to drag him close.

Just to let him know you hadn’t pulled away.

That you still wanted this.

Bucky looked at you—longer this time. Eyes searching. Then he gave a small nod, like he understood. Like he’d follow your pace, whatever it was.

He leaned in slowly, like every inch forward was a question.

Then his mouth met yours.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just heat. Just lips. Just a man trying to ground himself in something real.

The kiss was soft, tentative. Testing the shape of trust between you. His tongue brushed yours carefully, tasting—not claiming. His hand slid to your side, fingertips brushing sweat-damp skin. He paused at your hip, his touch feather-light, almost unsure.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your lips, voice strained. “I need to know.”

You nodded, breath shaky.

“I will.”

He drew back just enough to look down at you—then shifted, lowering one hand from your side. His flesh palm found your breast, cupping it gently. You gasped as his thumb circled your nipple—slow, delicate, like he was memorizing the way your breath hitched for him.

Then he moved, steady and deliberate—propping himself up slightly on his metal arm while his other hand slipped between your bodies.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock—still slick, still heavy—and stroked it once, twice. Just enough to guide himself to your entrance.

You parted your legs.

Not in surrender.

In choice.

He hovered there, the head of his cock barely pressing into your folds. The heat between your bodies simmered. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and tight. “Do you still want this?”

You met his eyes.

“Yes.”

That was all he needed.

He pressed in—carefully, inch by inch. Your breath hitched at the stretch, your body still tender and sore, but it wasn’t pain that bloomed in your chest now.

It was fullness.

Connection.

He exhaled through his nose, brow furrowing as your body clenched around him.

You whimpered when he hit too deep, too fast.

He stopped instantly. Eyes wide.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you whispered. “Just… slow.”

So he did.

He eased in fully, hips flush to yours, both of you stilling—your foreheads brushing, your breaths shaky. Letting the moment settle.

Letting it be real.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I didn’t want it to be like before.”

You shook your head, touching his shoulder.

“Just… stay with me.”

He rocked his hips—slow and deliberate. Nothing like before. Nothing like a weapon. Just heat and care. The rhythm built gently, each thrust a quiet apology, each movement asking instead of taking.

Your legs drew around his hips, locking him deeper.

The stretch no longer burned. It warmed. It ached in a way that felt right.

He adjusted his grip, bracing his legs before slowly sitting up—keeping you wrapped around him, keeping himself buried deep. You moved with him, your thighs tightening around his waist until you were straddling his lap, chest pressed to his. His hands slid up your back, steadying you as the new position settled in.

The new position made you gasp.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice barely holding steady.

You nodded, hips beginning to move on your own.

He let you take control.

You rode him slowly, finding a rhythm that made both your mouths fall open. Your hands flattened to his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as your body pulsed around him.

And when you came—it was soft, drawn out. A slow unraveling that started low in your spine and rippled outward, your breath catching, your voice shaking as you gasped his name.

“Bucky—Bucky—”

That was what broke him.

He came with a guttural sound, arms locking around your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning through clenched teeth as he emptied into you.

Then silence.

Just the sound of breath and heartbeat and the sharp edge of being alive.

Not owned.

Not broken.

Just alive.

—

Hydra didn’t miss it.

The climax. The soft moan of his name. The tenderness.

The serum was meant to create hunger that burned until it destroyed you.

Not… this.

Not love.

Not care.

Not healing.

Alarms didn’t blare, but you felt the tension in the air shift.

Somewhere behind those walls, someone flipped a switch. Surveillance feeds caught tenderness where violence was expected. And Hydra? They didn’t like malfunctions.

You barely had time to breathe before Bucky’s body tensed beneath you.

“They’re coming,” he said, voice low. Calm. Steady.

Different.

No longer cold. No longer detached.

Just… Bucky.

He adjusted his hold, lifting you gently off his lap. His hands moved with purpose now—grounded, clear. He peeled off his shirt and pulled it over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves. It wasn’t oversized, but it covered what needed to be hidden. Then he grabbed the torn remains of your dress from the floor, wrapping it like a makeshift skirt around your waist.

“You okay to move?” he asked, gaze locked to yours.

You nodded, heart pounding.

He stood, turned to the metal door—and with a single kick, it crashed open with a screech.

You flinched at the sound. He didn’t.

Hydra guards rushed in, shouting orders in Russian. Too late.

Bucky was faster than them all. Brutal, efficient. He didn’t kill them—but he made sure none of them would walk straight for a while. Every strike was calculated. No wasted motion. All precision.

And then he grabbed your hand.

“Stay close to me,” he said, glancing back. “Don’t stop running.”

You nodded again, breath shallow, legs unsteady but moving.

Together, you sprinted through the narrow corridors of the Hydra base. Red lights pulsed on the walls. Somewhere behind you, someone shouted his name—the wrong one.

“Soldat!”

But Bucky didn’t turn.

He didn’t flinch.

He ran.

You ran after him.

The metal halls gave way to concrete. Concrete to dirt. Dirt to pine needles and open sky.

When you both finally burst into the night, the forest swallowed you whole. The air was cold. Clean. Real.

You stumbled, and Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground. Without a word, he swept you into his arms and ran deeper into the woods—his chest steady, breath even, grip unshakable.

And you?

You weren’t aching anymore.

You weren’t burning.

You were… full.

Filled with him. With air. With a strange new peace.

He wasn’t just a weapon.

Not anymore.

He was a man. A human being. One that had been taken apart and rebuilt—but still capable of love, tenderness, control.

He just needed someone to help him remember.

And maybe—just maybe—that someone was you.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x fem reader #bucky x fem reader #જ⁀➴ by elle #queuedtie pie #mcu!bucky smut #mcu!bucky

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xoxojisu · 9 days ago

Text

FUCK, I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU.

synopsis: katsuki doesn't know how to fix. he doesn't know how to heal, or how to love. but for you, he wants to try.

notes: part one here!

he doesn’t see you the next day.

not in class. not at lunch. not even in the places you always pop up, like a constant thread woven through his life. it’s the first time in he-doesn't-even-know-how-long that you’re not just.. there.

sitting on his bed. laying on his chest. places he never asked for you to be, but liked it more than he was willing to admit. places he'd gotten really used to you just being there.

where were you? where did you go?

oh, that's right.

he pushed you away.

and boy, he feels it.

feels the empty. feels the loss.

he doesn’t eat much. doesn’t talk to anyone, which is sort of scarier than him snapping at everyone. his hands shake all day with this restless, helpless sort of guilt.

because he remembers.

remembers your smile, how it faltered.

remembers your laugh, hollow and too small.

remembers how you hugged yourself as you walked away.

remembers how heartbroken you looked, and how it looked like you were trying to shield yourself from him as you left.

and he hates himself for it.

by the time the sun dips low and the sky starts to turn orange, he’s pacing outside your dorm room, hands in his pockets, head down.

he hesitates.

not because he doesn’t want to see you, but because he’s terrified you won’t want to see him.

but he knocks anyway.

soft. three times.

no answer.

he knocks again.

“it’s me,” he says, voice low. “can you.. can we talk?”

still nothing.

then, after a long pause:

the door clicks open just a crack.

you don’t meet his eyes. don’t say anything.

just stand there in the sliver of space you’ve allowed him, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, expression unreadable.

he feels like shit all over again.

“can i come in?” he asks, like he’s not sure he deserves it.

you hesitate, then wordlessly step back and let him in.

his heart clenches. he takes slow, careful steps inside like he’s afraid of breaking more than he already has.

the silence sits thick between you.

he doesn't know what to say or what to do. katsuki's destroyed things all his life. pots and vases, people's feelings, people's dreams. he's never had to try to fix them before.

but now he does. because you're precious. because losing this, you, would be way too much to bear.

his head spins with different thoughts. he should've rehearsed what he was gonna say before he came.

he's scared. really, truly, scared. it's a rare feeling for him, and he hates it. hates how much he's shaking. hates how nauseous he feels. hates that he even put himself in this position.

“i didn’t mean it,” he blurts, voice hoarse. “any of it. not a single fuckin’ word.”

you sit on the edge of your bed, arms crossed tight around you. you don't say anything. it scares him.

he nods. “i know i was a huge dick, and i’m.. fuck, i’m sorry.”

he drops into a crouch in front of you, gaze upturned, hands twitching like he wants to reach for yours but doesn’t dare quite yet.

“i got scared,” he says. “you’re so.. you. you're always so.. bright. and i’m just.. i'm me. i didn’t know how to deal with how much i.. fuckin’ need you.”

your eyes flicker.

“so i panicked. pushed you away. said the worst thing i could think of, because maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad if i did it like this. or maybe i just couldn't handle my own fuckin' feelings. maybe i don't know how to be.. loved, or whatever. i don't really know.”

you finally speak, voice wobbling. “it hurt.”

his heart breaks.

“i know,” he says, hand reaching up slowly and hesitantly to cup your face. you let him. “i know. and i’d take it back if i could. i’d never say anything like that again. not to you. not ever.”

you’re quiet for a long moment.

"i don't want you to have to pretend," you mutter. "if it was really how you felt, i wanna respect your wishes."

"it's not," he says immediately. no hesitation. "fuck, i need you. don't.. fuck, don't go anywhere."

you still look doubtful. there's clearly something else on your mind. he can read you like a book. he nudges you gently, silently urging you to speak your mind.

you look away.

“do you even like me?”

he pauses. then laughs. short, pained. not at you, but at himself.

“fuck, i’m in love with you.”

you blink, eyes wide.

he grips your hand. “and it scares the hell outta me, but that’s not your fault. it’s mine. and if you give me another chance, i’ll spend every damn day makin’ sure you know how much you mean to me.”

silence again. his heart is racing. he's never been this scared before.

then, quietly:

“…okay.”

his head snaps up.

you smile at him. still cracked, still cautious, but at least it's there.

he doesn't care. you smiled at him. he lets a smile slip, too. because yes, you smiled at him.

“okay,” you say again, softer this time.

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

and when you reach for him, when you bury your face in his chest and let him hold you like he never wants to let go, he finally feels like he can breathe again.

“i love you too, you asshole,” you mumble against his hoodie. "by the way."

he squeezes you tighter. presses a kiss into your hair, like a promise.

“i know. ’m gonna earn that back. gonna make it up to you. i swear.”

and this time, he means every word.

masterlist likes, rbs, + comments appreciated!

1K notes · View notes

heesmiles · 18 days ago

Text

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape.

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut.

Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption.

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat.

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.”

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make.

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library.

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you.

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence.

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief.

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for.

Before

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose.

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon.

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one.

Present day

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner.

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.”

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest.

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged.

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession.

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty.

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room.

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel.

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door.

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit.

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.”

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.”

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot.

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice.

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away. It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?”

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away.

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.”

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.” Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.”

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.”

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered.

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to.

Present day

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve.

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again.

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care.

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.”

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones.

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.”

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too.

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone.

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone.

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger.

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now?

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.”

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire.

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection.

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail.

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat. No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move.

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.”

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass.

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.”

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help.

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you.

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between.

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise.

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now."

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.”

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.”

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly.

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured.

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips.

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close.

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something.

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life.

Present day

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away.

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her.

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly.

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame.

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.”

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul.

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding.

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.”

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe.

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere.

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be.

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe.

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it.

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go.

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?”

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate.

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint.

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly.

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered.

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted.

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you.

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark.

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy.

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow.

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him.

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent.

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud.

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave.

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear.

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified.

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.”

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?”

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in.

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this.

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed.

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it.

Before.

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?”

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.”

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?”

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped.

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.”

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.”

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.”

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?”

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?”

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him.

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?”

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.”

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.”

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?”

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.”

“We’ve given you space—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long.

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.”

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls.

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready.

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch.

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance.

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.”

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?”

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.”

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—”

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.”

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts.

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—”

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?”

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away.

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey.

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked.

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?”

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain.

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his.

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another.

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late.

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.”

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.”

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.”

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more.

Present day

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.”

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.”

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

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