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carbonfiction · 7 months ago

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Dark Desires

older, best friends dad!Logan x reader

summary: a week ago you found yourself drunk texting your best friends dad; something that should've been a mistake, but you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would know everything you'd kept from him all those years. You'd been thinking about it for longer than you'd care to admit; adding to the fantasy. so what happens when logan finally indulges you..

warnings: Swearing, dirty talk, F!Receiving oral, PIV smut, prone bone and missionary, Somnophilla (technically??), daddy kink, roleplay?? pussy sniffing?? Kind of voyeurism? But the person is very much asleep. Also tagging this for dubcon but it’s more pre established consent/free use and slight CNC vibes depending on how you view it? Tagged this the best i believe i can but ultimately you are responsible for your media consumption.

A/N: i don't know where this came from, other than i had a glass of wine and a naughty thought. i tried real hard on this and its a little darker than i usually write- not to mention longer- but i hope yall enjoy a filth filled piece of my intoxicated brain anyway. Et voilà.

Masterlist Words: little over 4k (oop- longest thing ive ever written.. i got carried away..)

Your heart is hammering away inside of your chest so insistently that it feels like your ribs are bruised and your breasts are trying to punch their way out of your dress.

You're still wearing the stupid thing and Laura is drinking another mimosa. Part of you is grateful for that. Yet while you want her drunk and snoring tonight, part of you can't help trying to stop her.

You make eye contact, give her the look. Tell her to slow down because you two have been down this road before. She gets wild, has fun for half an hour, and then spends the rest of the night dizzy in a bathroom asking deep philosophical questions like why do my eyes hurt? And why do guys suck? And do i still have puke in my hair?

But if she's drunk tonight, just enough to sleep like the dead, then what?

You set your own drink aside to check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time this hour and lift a shaky thumb to your texts.

You've read the thread again and again and again, and still you don't quite believe it. The party swirls around you. A hurricane of sound and the smell of cocktails is sour in your nose. You feel the heat of your friends, your fellow graduates. one day lawyers, doctors, professors, professionals in their field; and yet here you are reading over the texts again.

You feel like a little girl and yet simultaneously the most grown of women because you have a secret, a dirty little secret.

You were nearly as drunk as Laura is now when you sent the first text a week ago. You were celebrating the end of finals and you were curled up in bed after a long night out.

One of your other friends had flirted with the bartender. You'd told the girl to stop and Laura had reached from her stool and pinched your leg. Asking if you'd ever needed something so badly that you actually made a bad decision.

Everyone had laughed, all except you.

You know she was teasing and complimenting in the same breath. You're a good girl and everybody knows it. Reliable, honest and never involved with the wrong kind of guys.. Always a reason to why you were too busy to bother. You were studying, too busy hanging out with Laura. Too busy prepping for school, internships and the next two decades of your life.

You're no angel, although of course, no one was. You've had your share of regrettable hookups and disappointing boyfriends, but nothing that set your world alight. Nothing worth risking anything for.

But maybe what Laura had said thread under your skin more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you were just drunk enough to ignore the obvious risk.. Or was it that you'd been thinking about him for an indecently long amount of time?

So with finals over, diploma practically in hand. There was nothing preventing years of pent up lust from sending a jolt down between your legs, setting a crackling fire in your heart and making you sweat. Dripping down your neck, stomach, that spot on your lower back, they all tingled as you crouched on the corner of your bed and wrote a single text.

You: I need something.

You sent it. Had forced yourself to before you chickened out and immediately regretted it. You thought you'd worded it in such a way that you could play it off, pretend it didn't happen.

But you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would read those three words and know everything you'd kept from him all those years. Every dirty thought, every horny fantasy, everything.

It was all right there in the text. 2am on a Thursday night and truly it could only mean one thing. You put the phone down, tried to make yourself go to sleep.

Logan was an older man with a life. A job, house and a child- your best friend- and you were sure he wouldn't even see the stupid thing until the morning when you could say you meant to message Laura. Not him, not her father. But then you picked up the phone again, half panicked and ready to change your mind, when you'd saw those little dots.

That meant he was writing something back, at 2am on a Thursday night, either in bed or his limo.

Logan: You need to go to sleep

Of course.. Responsible. That was the responsible thing to do. And you would do just that. But first you'd just write a quick text to apologize. Say it was the wrong number and sleep this off; pretend it didn't happen for the rest of your lives.

But.. what if, for once in your life, it could be easy? What if Logan did know everything? What if.. There was something else? Because that was how this all started, hadn't it?

You'd always felt something more, saw something different in his worn eyes, his gruff demeanor. Heard something he was saying when he really wasn't saying anything at all.

Or.. Was it all in your head? Was this only ever a one way infatuation? A young woman's crush, a dark fantasy that only grew darker with each new kink you discovered in yourself? Losing all confidence, you texted back.

You: sorry. Wrong number.

And that was that- or it should've been that- If it was only ever a one way street. You put the phone down, tried desperately to keep your eyes closed, but the moment you heard the phone buzz again you peek.

Logan: Is that true sweetheart?

Oh no, no. it wasn't true at all. You knew he knew exactly who'd texted and why; what you wanted him to do. You'd been thinking about it for years. Adding to the fantasy. Soaking your sheets in the middle of the night when you couldn't sleep, all that brought a temporary relief. If only for a little while; So, you text back.

You: No

Just that. A simple No.

Logan: You telling a lie?

You: Not exactly

Logan: So you wanted my attention then?

You: Wanted? No Logan.. Need.

And yes, you know need is a very strong word.

Logan: You feel very strongly about that huh? Strong feelings can be dangerous sweetheart.

You: what if i want something dangerous.

You answered back with the most honest thing you could say. And then there was a pause, a very long pause, in which you could see no dots, and even started to wonder if he'd abandoned you. Left you on read.

A thousand images erupted in your mind, different versions of him sitting and staring at your number- your words. Those cheap reading glasses perched on his nose as he wondered if this was some kind of game.

But if it was a game.. Logan was ready to play and after a few minutes your phone dings again.

Logan: you're being a real bad girl tonight, aren't you?

And then it wasn't your best friend's father you were texting. Well, it very much was- that was the crux of it, wasn't it? But now it was also the man. The man on the other side of the phone who was paying close attention.

You: Yes, daddy. very, very bad.

Now, In the darkness of his daughter's room, You imagine colors swirling on her ceiling. Your heart restless like a caged animal and there is a knot in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter by the second.

You don't know how long you've been lying here. 5 minutes or 5 hours. But you know you can't possibly wait another moment... But then you do, because you have to.

You haven't heard from Logan all day and that makes you afraid. Really genuinely afraid that He's forgotten or changed his mind.

Because, well, it's just you and Laura in here, isn't it? You're lying on the floor, a lumpy pillow under your head, and a spare, slightly musty blanket folded under your breasts.

Laura is snoring away in her bed, her limbs tangled with a stuffed animal almost the size of her- one you'd won her from a carnival. It was like old times, she slurred drunkenly. The three of you huddled together in her bed, giggling and watching some crappy reality show.

She'd tried to get you to join her and the animal in the bed, but you'd said no. Insisted that it was too hot tonight. That you'd rather be able to spread out on the floor. Fortunately, by the time you made it up to Laura's room, she was too far gone to argue.

Unfortunately, now though, there's a very drunk girl in her bed beside you, a possible witness to your depravity. And so you lie there, staring at the ceiling and forcing yourself not to text. Not to call. To just ignore the nagging doubt in your gut.

And yet again, you still find yourself opening the text thread. Reading through the things you told him, the things he'd told you. A formed plan and line after line of you promising things. All of the 'Yes, daddy I want this' the 'Please do that to me' The repetitive 'ill be a good girl, Promise' And then, at the very bottom, a safe word. It was when you'd agreed on the safe word that you knew this was for real. Not a fiction in a book or a fantasy playing out in a movie.

The word. Kitty. An inside joke from years ago. The word proof that all the little confidences and conversations held an attraction you were both willing to hide for the sake of decency

But.. you don't want to be decent anymore. You'd confided your fantasy, one that you had dreamt so many nights. Wished for it in the hot, comfortable haven of Laura's bed every time you'd stayed over. The thought of her older, attractively gruff father coming to you in the night and making you submit to his secret lust.

Of him pulling your panties to the side while Laura slept untroubled. Logan ravishing you while you whispered and mewled 'please, daddy, make me your filthy slut'

You've always been his filthy slut, haven't you? Deep In your heart. The thought is turning the wet spot between your legs into a soggen menace. You've been horny before, You've been needy before, but never like this- because you've never tried something like this.

Never wanted something badly enough to ask for it; or even beg for it. This was a dream, a dirty desire, a secret yearning never to be true.

Then you'd drunk texted. You told him and he'd responded, not with shock or disgust, but enthusiasm, cautious enthusiasm. But it was still only text messages. You haven't spoken to him yet, not properly at least. Even when you saw him walk in at the party, or in the limo on the way back to Laura's. You couldn't bring yourself to say a word. Your mouth was so dry, cheeks so hot. Laura had laughed and said you were flushed in the backseat- a lightweight to end all lightweights- when in fact you haven't had a drop to drink tonight.

You're going to throw your phone at the wall, you swear it. But No, that would probably wake her up. Instead, you conclude that you're going to find your pants, and you're going to leave this house and never come back. You love Laura but you can't bear it, can't believe you trusted him with this. You can't lie here and torment yourself about your decisions a minute longer about your need.

Then, your heart leaps into your throat. phone dropping onto your chest with a soft thud. Quickly you brush it off and turn onto your stomach. Your head hitting the pillow, eyes squeezed shut and pulse racing like you've run a marathon.

Through your closed eyelids, you see the glow of the hall light from the open door, only for it to vanish moments later. Either the door has closed or the light's been turned off, but you're not sure which because blood is racing so loudly in your ears. Breath escaping in overwhelming gasps.

Do you hear calculated heavy footsteps or is that your imagination? You struggle to listen for Laura. Is she awake or still sleeping? The tension so tight in your chest that you begin to feel dizzy, almost nauseous. Then comes the creak of the floor at the foot of your makeshift bed, the unmistakable presence of another person in the room, their eyes on you.

You can't stop your body from trembling slightly as the sheet is softly yanked away. Adrenaline courses through your veins, making your body buzz with anticipation.

Your legs are bare the cool air of Laura's bedroom. You're laying on your stomach. Face pushed into the pillow, eyes clenched shut as if you're locked into a deep, drunken sleep- like you should be.

Your legs are splayed out, dark lacey panties riding up the crevice of your ass. One of your ass cheek's indecently exposed... then a rough touch caresses over the swell of that exposed cheek, two big exploring hands, gliding over you.

You hear the grunt of a man, and you know it can only be Logan. He's the only other person home.

Your heart is beating so hard you're afraid you're going to pass out. Laura is on the bed, sleeping mere feet away, and her father is groping you in your supposed sleep.

So the question becomes: are you dreaming now? or are you praying this is as far as he'll go?

when Logan pull's the fabric of your panties to the side, you know he's willing to go much further. He's quiet in the darkness around you, but he's big and the house is old; the floor creaking and groaning as he readjust's his heavy weight.

Your panties are roughly hiked over one cheek of your ass, the sound of ripping lace filling your ears. Logan's hot breath roll's over your ass and the tremble in your limbs becomes a full shiver.

You can feel his scruffy face so close to your body, Feel his nose against the crevice of your ass as he roves lower. Dipping further until his mouth- his nose - is pressed into the folds of your bared cunt.

You hear how he inhales deeply, toes curling in response. Your fingers lay over Laura's spare pillow, the case tight in your grip. He's smelling you, nuzzling against your dampening skin not once, but many times. Lewdly breathing in your scent like a dog that's found something it likes.

His calloused hands spread you open so he can breathe deeper still and when hes as deep into your cunt as his face will allow, his wet tongue slides out to lick at you. You cannot stifle your moan at the feeling, immediately biting your lip to keep from growing any louder.

But with this the culmination of so many fevered late night fantasies, you dont know if you are dreaming.

His wide tongue laps at your swollen clit, swiping open the seam of your pussy and to the point just shy of your tighter hole. You hear logan growl into your wet slit like a monster unleashed from beneath the bed. Feeling how how his licks grow stronger, longer and twice as ravenous as he steadily turn your pussy into a drooling, dripping mess.

He laps at you in the quiet darkness of Laura's room, calculated and experienced as you fight to not to cry out. The pressure of an impending orgasm building so tight in your body that it feels time you woke up.

And so you take a deep breath, a rough gasped sound falling out too. Your fingers claw at the pillow as you flex your lower half.

"Hmm?"You grumble, pretending to bat away the cobwebs of sleep. "Wha-whats happening, What are you doing?" You ask, voice thick with mock confusion.

Within moments you feel Logan's tongue retreat from your pussy, a weight so much heavier than your own crawl over your half naked body. You feel him pressed tight against you, still clothed if the scratchy fabric tells you anything, but an unmistakable bulge is hidden inside. Hard and large against your ass you feel Logan's arm rub against your shoulder. A big hand sliding over your mouth.

"Quiet, sweetheart" he growls in your ear. "Daddy's had enough of your teasing"

Another large hand slides beneath your sleep shirt to cup your tender tits, The nipples diamond hard against Logan's palm. You cant help but moan into his hand as you plead.

"Please. Didn't mean to tease" its a wine, petulant in tone.

"Course you didnt.. Shame S' Too late now" he whispers against your ear, teeth biting into your earlobe. The hand on your breast trails down. Right the way down to his slacks.

"B-but Laura" You warn him in a whispered panic, hearing the sound of a zipper sliding down. you struggle teasingly, hips bucking back against him. Its not enough to cause a scene or enough to wake your sleeping friend- his sleeping daughter- but just enough to make him pin your body down. Enough for you to feel a fraction of his real strength.

Logan's muscles bulge from the effort of caging you against the floor and spreading your legs.

"Nuh uh, Stay still. Stay right where ive got you" he murmurs darkly in your ear, voice a low rumble. the words fire through you like liquid lightning as you bite into his palm, not to fight but to restrain a high pitched moan that you fear could wake the neighbors- not just Laura.

"nothing you can do now sweetheart, just gotta take it" Logan says and you hear the mocking smile in the words, feel the throb of his thick cock as it emerges from the confines of his pants. "Kept telling me you were a good girl, so show me"

With your stomach flat against the ground, legs spread wide beneath him, you can do nothing but tremble as his cock slips between your legs. The cock belonging to your best friend's father sliding deliciously across that little bundle of nerves that sparks a whimper of pleasure.

Your eyes roll back as Logans hips buck, cock brushing your clit again, running up and down your slit torturously slow. "fuuuck, you feel that? How hard you've got my cock?"

You're kicking your legs now, moving your hips. It could be viewed as a struggle but its not, not really, you're just so desperately excited you can't keep still.

"Don't need to fight me baby. Just let daddy in hm? let it happen sweetheart."

And then he's pushing inside your body in one heavy thrust; slow and impossibly deep. The weight of him inside your cunt making you mewl against his palm. All the years of secret yearning, wet fantasies and subtle flirtations have all led to this moment.

It doesn't take many thrusts before your tongue is rolling out of your mouth, licking wetly against his palm like a grateful dog- a bitch in heat. You try to use it to muffle the moan that follows, a pitiful sound mixed with pleasure, like you're ashamed to be in the situation.

Used and humiliated around logans cock.

Its push followed by retreat, a half thrust and then withdrawal over and over. "So fucking tight" Logan growls as you wiggle your ass, not certain if your trying to squirm further in to his grip or out.

He's stretching your walls apart, the burn of his size delicious with each heavy he offers. Each bringing a pulsing throb on your clit. "Yeaaaa, that's it, take it like a good girl.." he groans. "S' what you wanted isn't it."

Logans right, this is exactly what you wanted and more. His body trembles atop yours from the exertion, balls squeezed against your ass, his hand on and off clenching around your breast. His thrusts picking up in pace as you struggle and squirm to keep quiet even under his palm

"L-logan" you whimper as he pushes particularly deep, pussy squelching lewdly from your arousal, his hand barley muffling the word. He knows your close before you do, can feel your cunt clenching desperately.

"Getting fucked so good your gonna cum sweetheart?" he rasps in your ear, panting into it. "C'mon, tell daddy how good his cock feels."

"S-so good.. F-fuck yes daddy, please"

You whine and It is a struggle to pry his strong hand off your mouth to get the words out.

"Go on sweetheart. Cum, coat my fuckin cock. Show me this cute little pussy is mine"

and then his big hand clamps back over your lips as he begins to fuck you into the floor. Your orgasm crashes over you in burning waves. Every stroke becoming an ecstatic agony, overstimulation starting to buzz over your bones. Its a constant struggle to hold your moans and neither of you can move properly for the risk of waking Laura .

But Logans hips remain unrelenting, Fucking you prone on your friends floor. His balls swinging, swatting unbearably at your clit with every entry. The heat of him and being trapped against the floor is almost unbearable, but so is having to keep your whimpers quiet. sweat beads hot on your brow

you can hear his own desperate attempts at staying quiet. Broken only by muffled groans, grunts of exertion, and primal chesty growls as your cunt clenches wetly around him.

Yet the discomfort of overstimulation is no match for the absolute bliss of your submission. Your toes curling so hard you're on the verge of a cramp.

The friction between your clit, Logan's cock and the floor builds to an intolerable pressure. Something must give way. The temptation to lose all control and scream his name too great. Now that possibility of you blacking out is too dangerous to ignore. So you say it the word.

"Kitty!"

Not because you want to, but because in this moment you have to. Almost as soon as the word leaves your lips and sinks into the pillow, wet from saliva and tears, you feel his body shudder. muscles seizing while a heavy groan sounding out into the skin of your neck.

"you okay?" he pants softly worry creasing his brow. "Was it too much?"

Your wordless and it worries him. Making him pull back, cock slipping free with a hushed hiss as he helps you shift onto your back, so he can look at you properly.

Your hands rise, fingers caressing his scruffy cheeks. "M'okay" you pant, eyes on him. "wasn't too much. Promise."

No, in fact, It was just right- before it all overwhelmed you that is. Now? now you just want to hold him, make love to him. Hold onto something- someone that isn't really yours. Eye to eye, your mouth slides back over his, legs spread back open, ready to welcome his length back inside. Without a word you buck your hips down, beckoning him to fuck you again.

Things are much quieter this time. Pace slowed to deep grinds rather than shallow thrusts, pleasure once again coiling in your gut as you lean up to watch his cock disappear inside.

"Feel so good sweetheart, my good girl" he coos, lips against yours as his hand slips back to cup your breast. "My good girl with a fuckin perfect body"

You keep your eyes on logan, blissful smile across your face, and for this moment he's not your best friends father. Not with the way he's gazing down at you with a mixture of lust and long held affection. "always wanted you" he whispers, hand moving back from your breast to cup your cheek. "But I would have kept that secret forever.."

You squeeze him to your chest, heart stuttering at the admission as you lock your arms behind his neck, legs tight around logans waist. You whimper back his name, a plea on your tongue.

"Want you to cum logan.. Please, need to feel it"

You want it more than anything, to feel his cum pushed inside you; for it to drip out later as a downright filthy reminder. You kiss his neck, then cheek, and finally his lips. You want Logan to claim you right here on the floor, right under her nose and you know it makes you a bad friend. Your eyes roll back, hands clawing down his chest as you feel yourself giving up all thought to the rush that flows down the center of your body. The one that begins and ends in the wet, sticky place between your legs, Where the sensitive bud of your clit pulses like a dying star.

it's then he growls much too loud, and you respond back in a whimper, lips pressing tight as you cum together in panted kisses. Him pumping hot heady ropes of cum inside your cunt without reservation or regret as you clench in a vice grip around him.

Tomorrow you will be sore, you know it for a fact. But Tonight.. Tonight You can revel in a fantasy made flesh, your flesh and Logans wrapped around each tight. You drag weak fingers down through his damp hair, then his back, feeling the way his shirt is soaked through with sweat.

Logans panting has subsided by now, breaths no longer crackling besides your ear. He plants mouthy kisses at the juncture of your neck, ever so gently, like a sated wolf nuzzling at the muzzle of his mate. You giggle quietly as those kisses grow fiercer, teeth nipping at your neck.

"my good, great, naughty girl" he murmurs against your skin, voice soft. "you feeling okay sweetheart? sure it wasn't too much?"

You nod and he can feel the enthusiasm seep from the move as you grasp his face again. "Mhm, better than okay. Was perfect" you hum sleeplily, content in his hold, in the scent of him. Your eyes flutter, lashes tickling his cheeks as you kiss him long and deep, until the rub of his beard hurts your face and sleep begins to take you under.

You both know tonight was the culmination of so many fevered dreams. The breaking point of lust and its power that can't be fully expressed in words. So he holds you close- just as you do him in your rest- for a little while longer, until light begins to filter soft through the curtains and the reality of what you'd both done really begins to set in.

thats it!! lemme know what you thought anddddd yea! asks are always open to shoot the shit, drabbles and more! <333

#carbonsfics #old man logan #logan howlett x reader smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett #wolverine #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #dark logan howlett #dark wolverine #oldman logan howlett #logan 2017 #logan x reader

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pixiefelixie · 2 months ago

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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ THINKING 'BOUT YOU, THINKING 'BOUT YOU

: ̗̀➛ pairing — nonidol!felix x fem!reader : ̗̀➛ word count — 2.8k : ̗̀➛ content — fluff, mutual pining, first kiss, drinking, did i say fluff

hi guys!! its been a while since ive posted so in honour of spring finally being here, here's a little something ♡

listen while you read 🎧

you didn’t really know what to call it—this thing with felix.

you weren't dating—at least, not officially. but there had been late-night calls that bled into 3 a.m. giggles, inside jokes only the two of you understood, lingering looks, and “thinkin bout you” texts. there were shared secrets beneath shared clothes, hands that sometimes brushed against yours like it meant something, and a thousand almost-kisses.

you step back out into the yard, cold drink in hand, and the whole place practically buzzes with life. fairy lights are strung overhead like stars trying to compete with the real ones, glowing warm against the inky sky. there’s a group crowded around the lawn chairs, someone’s half-passed out on a beanbag, and rocky is thumping through the speakers like the heartbeat of the night. the bass pulses through the grass, the kind you can feel in your chest.

your red cup is already slick with condensation, and you wipe your hand on your jeans shorts as you weave back through the party. you bring the cup to your lips and take a sip—immediate regret. you grimace, jaw clenching slightly at the mess you dared to call a drink. who told you beer and liquor was a fun mix? oh right, you did, thirty minutes ago when you thought you were some sort of backyard bartender.

you’re shaking your head to yourself, when a voice cuts through the music.

“there you are,” it says, and you already know who it is before you even look up.

felix.

your heart does that stupid little flutter like it always does, even though you try to play it cool. he’s got that knowing smirk, the kind that’s equal parts trouble and charm, and he's dressed in all black like the night wrapped itself around him and called it fashion. his pants hang just right on his frame, and his blonde hair’s all messy in that on-purpose kind of way. there's a glint of something mischievous in his eyes, soft but sharp, like he’s been watching you this whole time and finally decided to make his move.

“hey, stranger,” you say, with that smile he always put on your face.

“hey, hotshot,” he shoots back, his own grin spreading. before you can blink, he plucks the red cup right out of your hand, holding it up between you two like he’s inspecting it for poison. “what's this?”

“you're gonna hate it” you say, biting your lip, already bracing for his reaction.

but of course he drinks it. because he’s felix. one hand holding his own drink, the other bringing yours to his lips like it's nothing.

you giggle as you watch him tilt it back, just a small sip, and then bam. instant regret written all over his face.

his eyes squeeze shut, and he kind of recoils, dramatically pressing the back of his hand to his chest. “oh my goodness,” he says, voice half-hoarse, half-laughing. “that’s horrible. what did you do?”

you’re already cracking up. “i told you!”

he’s still looking at the cup like it just insulted his family. you reach for it, but he holds it away from you. “i am not letting you go back to this. here, take mine.” he offers you his own cup, and his tone softens, eyes a little gentler now.

you pause for a second, the switch in his voice catching you off guard. he’s watching you carefully, like he’s been paying attention, like he already knows what you’d like. and not just the drink.

“you sure?” you ask, voice a little smaller now.

“positive,” he says, pressing it gently into your hand.

you smile, soft and a little shy despite everything, and then—without thinking too hard about it—you lean in and press a light kiss to his cheek.

it’s quick. barely there. but it leaves behind something electric.

felix’s smile freezes for half a second, like his brain short-circuited, and then it stretches wider, softer. his eyes crinkle a bit, and those dimples—those stupid dimples—make an appearance as he looks at you like you just handed him the stars.

he tilts his head just a little, eyes still locked on you like nothing else at this party exists—not the music, not the lights, not the dozens of people laughing and dancing around you. just you. his thumb brushes the edge of his own cup absentmindedly, but his focus is all yours.

“if you keep doing stuff like that, i’m gonna start thinking you like me or something.” he says, voice low and velvety,

“maybe i do,” you say, your voice playful, but your heart is thudding hard enough you wonder if he can hear it over the music.

he grins, eyes flickering to your lips just for a split second before he looks back up. “good. ‘cause i’ve been thinking about kissing you for, like… a really long time.”

you blink at him, momentarily stunned, because he says it so casually, so sincerely, like he’s telling you the sky’s blue or the stars are pretty tonight. and yet it lands right in your chest.

his fingers brush against your elbow, featherlight. “can i?”

your breath hitches.

it’s like the world slows down for a second—the music fades into the background, the laughter becomes a distant hum, and all you can hear is your own pulse thudding in your ears. your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your heart has pushed up into your throat and your body’s forgotten how to be normal.

he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile and precious, like he doesn’t want to spook you—but also like he knows. knows how much you want this. knows how long you’ve been dancing around it. knows you’re nervous, and he’s not in any rush to push past that.

you nod. barely. just enough.

and he moves in slow.

one hand comes up to brush a piece of hair away from your face, his fingers so gentle you almost shiver. then, finally, his lips meet yours—soft and warm and careful, like he’s pouring every unspoken feeling into something that barely even needs words.

it’s not rushed. it’s not messy. it’s just perfect.

his lips part just slightly, inviting but not demanding, and you follow instinct more than thought, leaning in a little bit closer. you taste the faint tang of beer on his tongue, cold and bitter and so distinctly him. it lingers for a second before it’s swallowed by the heat curling between you, the way his mouth fits against yours like it was always meant to.

you both pull away, slowly, reluctantly—like neither of you really want to, but you need a second to breathe, to process what just happened. your eyes meet his, and it’s like something clicks. like some invisible tension that had been stretched tight for so long finally snaps in the gentlest way.

his lips are still curved in the softest smile, his cheeks a little pink, and you can tell he's feeling just as dazed as you are. but then—you both lose it.

you burst into laughter at the exact same time, this messy, giddy kind of laughter that bubbles up out of nowhere and shakes your shoulders. the kind that makes your heart feel so full it almost aches.

out of sheer embarrassment, you lean forward and press your forehead to his chest. he smells like cologne and spring and something a little smoky, like the fire pit still burning a few feet away. his arms come around you instinctively, wrapping you up like he’s been waiting to do it for ages.

you stay like that for a moment—pressed into his chest, tucked into the safety of his arms, giggling softly like the two of you are in on some secret the rest of the world hasn’t figured out yet. his fingers rub slow circles into your back, and his chin dips to rest lightly on the top of your head. neither of you say anything, and you don’t need to.

it just feels right.

around you, the party continues, but it’s gone a little hazy now—like someone turned the dial down just enough to let the moment breathe. the fairy lights overhead glow in a soft gold haze, muted like candlelight behind frosted glass. smoke drifts lazily from the fire pit, curling through the air like it’s dancing to the beat of the music.

shadows flicker across the lawn. people are lounging around now, sprawled in chairs or slow dancing in the grass, voices hushed and blurred together like a watercolor painting. everything feels dreamlike, like you’ve slipped into a different world just slightly off from this one—a little quieter, a little warmer, a little softer.

felix’s fingers tighten gently around your waist, and he leans down, voice brushing your ear like velvet. “wanna sneak off?” he says. then, with a mischievous curl to his lips,

you don’t even hesitate.

you look up at him, eyes wide and nod.

he grins—giddy and boyish—and immediately reaches for your hand. you lace your fingers with his, and together you start weaving your way back through the crowd, ducking past conversations and the trailing edge of someone’s scarf, stepping over a half-empty bottle on the grass.

inside the house, there’s a group crowded around the kitchen island shouting over each other, someone sitting on the counter peeling an orange like it’s the most important thing in the world. someone else is singing way too dramatically into a tv remote. the lights inside are warmer, buzzing, a little dizzying.

you quickly tilt back the drink felix gave you, finishing it in a few smooth gulps. you toss the empty cup into the flooded garbage by the hallway door, turning just in time to see felix standing behind you, holding your old red cup—the one with the infamous death mix.

without a word, he raises an eyebrow at it dramatically, like it personally wronged him. then he throws it straight into the garbage can without giving it a last sip.

you and felix exchange a look—wide-eyed and stifling laughter—and quicken your pace, dodging between people and whispered excuse me’s and the occasional sticky beer puddle on the tile floor.

the second you step out the front door and onto the road, the night wraps around you like a breath of fresh air.

cool, quiet, and soft with the kind of calm that only shows up when everything else has faded. the street is dim and empty, lit only by the faint glow of porch lights and the hazy orange halo of a streetlamp down the block.

you and felix cross the road, sneakers scuffing quietly against the pavement, hands still intertwined like muscle memory. the houses across the street are asleep—lights off, windows shut, the occasional curtain fluttering with the breeze. it's the kind of silence that feels sacred, like the world paused just for you.

a little farther down, you spot it—a small building tucked between two tall hedges, maybe a community hall or some long-closed shop. it’s plain and quiet, its brick wall catching the dim glow from the streetlamp above. you tug felix’s hand, moving toward it without saying a word, drawn to the way it just feels still.

you reach it first, and as soon as your back touches the cool wall, you slide down with a soft sigh, knees folding up to your chest. the grass is damp and smells like spring. you pat the spot next to you, eyes flicking up at him.

felix doesn’t hesitate.

he drops down beside you with a soft thud, stretching his legs out and leaning just close enough that your shoulders brush. the second you rest your head on his shoulder, he exhales—like maybe he’s been holding that breath since the kiss.

you sigh again, softer this time, letting yourself melt into the moment.

his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles, slow and absent like it’s second nature. you watch his hand in yours for a beat before turning your eyes to the quiet road, the stars barely peeking through the haze above.

no words. just warmth. just stillness.

and the slow realization that maybe, just maybe, this night has only just started.

then, his voice breaks the silence, soft and low, like he’s afraid of disturbing the calm.

“you know…” he starts, eyes still trained on the road in front of you. “i don’t think i’ve ever really said this. not like this.”

you glance up at him, but he doesn’t meet your gaze just yet. his fingers squeeze yours just slightly before he goes on.

“you mean a lot to me,” he says. “like… a lot. and not just in the ‘i think you’re cool’ kind of way. it’s more than that. you make things feel lighter when they’re heavy. you make me feel like i don’t have to try so hard to be anything other than… me.”

your heart stumbles over itself, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. you smile, small and unsure, warmth flickering in your chest—but there’s something else too. something tugging at the edges of your comfort.

you don’t know why he’s being so sappy. it’s not that you don’t like hearing it—it’s sweet, it’s felix—but something about the weight in his voice, the way he’s looking at you now, finally meeting your eyes like he’s bracing for something.

and that realization settles in your stomach like a drop of cold water.

you try to keep the smile, to hold onto the sweetness of the moment, but your fingers tense in his just slightly. “why are you saying this now?” you ask, your voice quiet, cautious.

he hesitates.

felix goes quiet for a beat, eyes flicking back down to your intertwined hands. his thumb is still tracing slow circles against your skin, but now it feels more deliberate—like he’s trying to steady himself.

you feel the breath he pulls in before he speaks again.

“and i keep thinking… what even are we?” he says, voice low, like he’s afraid of saying it too loud might make it feel less real. “we’re not nothing. we never were. but we’re also not—” he cuts himself off with a breath, shaking his head again, softer this time.

“i don’t want to keep pretending like i’m okay with the in-between. because i’m not.” he glances down, then back up at you, his expression gentler now—like he’s not just saying it, but feeling every word. “and tonight… i don’t know. being with you like this—it makes everything else feel so far away. and it hit me.”

he looks at you then, full-on, no flicker of nerves this time. just him. honest and open and so felix.

“i want to be yours,” he says, steady. “and i want you to be mine. for real.”

your breath catches again, and you’re too stunned to look away.

he leans in just a little closer, like he needs you to hear it perfectly, no confusion, no room for misreading.

“will you be my girlfriend?” he says, voice soft but certain,

and just like that, all the air in your lungs evaporates. your heart feels like it’s trying to climb its way into your throat. you weren’t wrong—he was building to something big.

just not in the way you feared.

you blink, a slow smile spreading across your face despite the shock. “you absolute dork,” you whisper, eyes stinging a little with the pressure of how full you suddenly feel.

felix grins, sheepish. “that a yes?”

you squeeze his hand, lean in, and kiss him again—soft and sure, the kind that says yes a hundred different ways. you feel him smile into the kiss—just the smallest curve of his lips against yours, and somehow, it makes everything feel even more real.

you pull away slowly, your noses still brushing, breath mingling in the soft space between. his eyes flutter open, hazy and full of something gentle and glowing.

you stay close, forehead resting lightly against his, both of you quiet for a second. just listening to the soft rustle of the grass and the low thrum of the music still floating from the house in the distance.

“no take backs, lix.” you say, playful but breathless, like you just made the best kind of deal with the universe.

his eyes sparkle. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

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norrissm · 3 months ago

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⌗ under the city lights — ln4

stranger!lando x reader. fluff. accidental meeting. meeting a handsome stranger one night wasn’t what you expected after a rough day but the universe got your back. ★ LIBRARY

the thing about strangers is that they remain strangers. unknown, masked and blurred faces walking in masses from places unknown to destinations unremarkable to us. a brief moment of eyes contract, muffled excuse mes, thank yous and maybe even a smile, if you meet a particularly nice one, otherwise they remain unnamed. just another face in a myriad group of faces.

they pass you by on dimly lit streets, their hands buried in coat pockets, their minds preoccupied with places they need to be, people they need to see. most of the time, you don’t stop. you don’t turn around. you don’t wonder about the way their mouth curls slightly at the corners, like they know a secret the rest of the world hasn’t figured out yet.

its unremarkable really.

except tonight you do. particularly— you walk into him.

a hurried pace destined to the station, neck peeping out the thick sweater, mind preoccupied by a thousand thoughts. maybe he was the same. eyes looking forward but not really. eyes hiding the roar of thoughts and feelings, walking on default, legs moving with a determination of their own— knowing exactly where to stop. albeit failing to see you. a body coming from the opposite.

“shit—sorry,” you say, stumbling back a step.

“no, that was—yeah, my bad,” he replies at the exact same time.

out of habit or maybe manners or maybe both, we bend down to retrieve what had fallen with a dull thud — the keys or your book, something unmemorable really — when our fingers grazed. suddenly it was remarkable.

i looked up to find him looking at me already.

strangers don’t do that. there’s no emotion behind the accidental eye contacts while walking or sitting in the train. it’s just a brush of eyes with no real motive. this was different. he looked at me with a motive.

his hair is a little messy, like he’s run his hands through it too many times today. there’s a faint crease between his brows, the kind that suggests he overthinks things, and his lips part slightly like he has something to say but isn’t sure if he should say it.

he was the first one to ask. “are you okay?” no one’s moved to leave yet. why?

“yeah i’m alright, you?” i ask too. he nods, his hands in his pocket again. his eyes stayed on mine. no that’s not right, right?

“do you, uh…” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “do you always bump into strangers like this, or am i just lucky?”

you want to tell him that this is ridiculous, that strangers don’t linger on sidewalks and exchange unnecessary words about nothing in particular—but you don’t. instead, you look at him, and for the first time tonight, you don’t feel like you need to be anywhere else.

“depends,” i say instead. shocked at myself. “do you make small talk with people you knocked down?” he’s a stranger.

“depends, are you worth knowing?”

my smile deepens, slow and knowing, and suddenly, the night doesn’t seem so quiet anymore.

its remarkable really.

a/n :: i think this is my favourite one ive written so far

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guyspleasehesmyfriend · 9 days ago

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landoscar fic recs

the goats of landoscar fics to Me

impasse of biting - @wanderingblindly

12.5k | 2/2 | vampire au | barista!lando/vampire!oscar | M

"Maybe it would be good for you, something like this." Lando looks away from the espresso machine, over at Charles. "Like what?" "A vampire." "Charles," Lando breathes out, leaning against the back of his workstation and crossing his arms. "I've told you, it's not..." it's a me problem. He's the one that can't seem to connect to people, he's the one that's not noteworthy enough to want.

one of the first landoscar fics i ever read and it did change the trajectory of my life forever, liquid ur a genius btw. u could say im a real SUCKER for vampires…….

sgraffito - @ocontraire

19k | 1/1 | non-driver au | art teacher!lando/f1 driver!oscar | T

Maybe it could have been him, instead. It could have been him driving alongside Oscar, his hands lifting trophies, his dreams soaked in champagne. But Lando taught art while his brother raced, and he didn't regret it. Not when Oli seemed so happy.

hurt my feelings in the best way possible, pretty sure i cried, very beautiful overall

learned behavior - @passengerprincipessa

59.2k | 1/1 | 2024 season fwb / driver!lando/driver!oscar | E

Lando tries to win a championship and learns how to want.

THEEEEE landoscar fic, made me really weird about lando forever.

death and other lies - @finifugue

42.7k | 3/3 | spies but also so much more | assassin!lando/serial killer!oscar | M

Oscar kills people. Lando is legally dead. Someone wants to restart the war.

one of the most entertaining and well written fics i have ever read, incredibly devastating and heartwarming at the same time.

catechism - debrief

9.4k | 2/2 | theyre cats. | cat!lando/cat!oscar | T

“My faves are Temptation MixUps, but they only come in tubs,” Lando remarks. “I know how to open tubs,” Oscar says offhandedly. He knows how to what. “Will you marry me?” Lando asks without much thought.

prison break but cats, it is so silly and perfect

take it offline - @lellabellas

20k | 3/3 | office au doesnt even begin to describe it | ceo!lando/cto!oscar | M

"Why don't you put that mouth to better use, mate?" Lando's stomach turns even as he spreads his legs farther apart into a suggestive position. He's so fucked. Forget crossing a line; he's just pole-vaulted the line, done six backflips, and launched himself into the stratosphere. Half promises to hangers on in a bar is one thing—a little 'you take care of me, I'll take care of you,' and then never call them back. Coming onto a work colleague is something else entirely. But Oscar doesn't crack. He slowly closes his mouth that's fallen open in shock, licks his lips, and stares Lando down just as hard. "Alright."

blatantly unhinged and evil oscar is my favorite, and he is so well written in this fic, was on the edge of my seat the whole time and audibly gasped at least twice while reading it. Rancid in the best of ways.

run, rabbit, run (ive got you in my sights) - @saccharinenectarine123

8.5k | 1/1 | canon divergence | driver!lando/driver!oscar | E

Oscar's been obsessed with Lando since he was 14. Now they’re teammates at McLaren, and he's struggling to keep it together. Lando's not a better man.

LOVE when oscar is a loser who is obsessed with lando and lando is kind of evil about it, very beautiful outcome

sun kissed - @passengerprincipessa

45.5k | 6/6 | backpacking au | yachtie!lando/engineer!oscar | E

Oscar gets broken up with and impulsively books a four-week backpacking trip through Europe. He doesn't expect to fall in love along the way.

the most rom com fic ever + some of the most incredible character development everrrrrr incredibly heartwarming and feel good fic

in the firing line - @sincerelylancelot

5.3k | 1/1 | restaurant au | server!lando/chef!oscar | E

On Monday morning, Oscar finds a coffee next to his chopping board and a note.

i dont know why this fic itches my brain the way it does but i have read it 5 times and its perfect, simple idea + beautiful execution

certain uncertainty - @celellken

21.5k | 1/1 | ranch au | ranch hand!lando/ranch hand!oscar | NR

Oscar and Lando work on a ranch. Oscar is used to keeping his head down and his emotions in check. But when Lando arrives, all easy smiles and restless energy, Oscar finds himself thrown off balance.

slice of life found family ranch au...need i say more. deserves her flowers

the road not taken - @zelebrini

49.4k | 7/7 | slowburn exes to lovers | photographer!lando/vet!oscar | E

A long time ago, Oscar lost something he’s not sure he’s ever getting back.

WHAT IF UR OLD SITUATIONSHIP CAME BACK TO HAUNT U. AND HE WAS A BEAUTIFUL VET. AND U SAVED A CAT TOGETHER. so tragic...so amazing...i killed myself 17 times every chapter and loved every second of it

forget the protocol - astronautaficionado

68.7k | 10/10 | hockey au | goalie!lando/defenseman!oscar | E

By the time Oscar's first NHL contract ends, he's spent most of it in the minors. When he receives a controversial offer to join another team, it changes everything about his life, especially the hockey.

oscar psychologically tortures himself over a crush when literally nobody asked him to do that

so what are you waiting for? (its your serve) - @serve-cunt

76.4k | 11/11 | tennis au | tennis player!lando/tennis player!oscar | M

“Good evening and welcome to the press conference for Oscar Piastri,” said the organiser, in an officious, bored voice. “A reminder to keep your questions brief.” She pointed to a blonde woman in the first row. “Catherine, go ahead.” Catherine leaned forward. "First of all, Oscar, congratulations," she said. "With the points from this win you’ll be in the top twenty ranked male tennis players. That's a huge deal, especially this young. Did you expect that when you woke up this morning?"

just impeccable. oscar learning he can have sport and cute boy at the same time will get me every single time, and also now im fighting tennis demons

leading lines - @volantium

16.5k | 1/1 | fake dating au | photographer!lando/driver!oscar | T

Oscar blinks at him, slowly, mind gone horrifically blank. Lando keeps on talking but Oscar doesn’t hear any sound come out of his mouth. “What do you mean,” Oscar speaks over Lando, and can hear the audible click of Lando’s jaw snapping shut, “that you told your parents we’re dating?”

they r so stupid and i love them terribly

afterburn - @passengerprincipessa

75.1k | 5/5 | canon divergence | ferrari driver!lando/mclaren driver!oscar | E

At the end of 2027, Lando leaves for Ferrari. Oscar doesn't know why.

might just be The oscar character study, oscar learning he can have sport and cute boy at the same time once again

half-lives - anon

16.9k | 1/1 | gang au | gang member!lando/get away driver!oscar | E

Oscar is the crew's new getaway driver. Lando doesn't trust him. Doesn't like how calm he stays when things go to hell. But then things do go to hell, a job gone sideways, crew lost. Now it's just the two of them on the run. Bleeding. Breathing too close. Oscar starts seeing the cracks in Lando's armor. The way he folds when someone handles him right. The way he begs but never says it out loud. The hatred is always easy. What comes after isn’t.

i wish i knew who this anon was so i could kiss their brain for this utter masterpiece, running from the cops is my favorite brand of forced proximity

already home - @nyoomfruits

32.5k | 1/1 | non drivers + fake relationship au | producer(kinda)!lando/lawyer!oscar | T

Lando takes a deep steadying breath. “I think I might be in love with Oscar.” He says, and hates how immediately when he says the words, he knows it’s true. “Right,” Max says, nodding. “And?” “What do you mean, ‘and?’” Lando says, a little outraged. “I can’t be in love with him! We’re married! This is like, a disaster waiting to happen!”

rom com, friends to lovers, and fake relationship.....the holy trinity of fics i think

a single great error - @sincerelylancelot

12.4 k | 1/1 | magic + dark academia | everyone has magic powers | M

Lando reminds him of a black hole. Not just all-consuming and endless, but a bridge to infinite possibilities. Oscar’s hands can rip the universe apart, knit it back together, and feel the air shimmer where reality was—but to him, Lando is what’s left in that space: infinite and always.

heart! breaking! stuff! the sequel is also incredible.

off the record - anon

19.2k | 2/2 | pwp | secret camboy!lando/driver!oscar | E

Oscar stumbles upon a camboy account that looks a lot like Lando. It ruins his focus, rewires his brain, and makes him want things he shouldn't.

HOT. SO HOT. SO GOOD. ONCE AGAIN I WISH I KNEW WHO THIS ANON WAS SO I COULD KISS THEIR BRAIN. love when landoscar match each others freaks

negative splits - @ocontraire

10k | 1/1 | pro runners au | runner!lando/runner!oscar | T

So officially, Oscar Piastri, pretty good steepler and pretty bad pacer, was now a professional runner. They wanted him to steeple, mostly, though he’d be doing cross country in the fall, and Lando had pinky promised him, mid-distance guy to mid-distance guy, that if he wanted to get into the 3k flat indoor then he would get him in. Oscar didn’t really want to ask how he planned on doing that. Felt safer not to ask.

every single one of leaf's sport aus is a masterpiece, and this is no exception. top tier landoscar dynamics

#has been a long time coming also i have a bajillion more recs #my spreadsheet has over 200 fics #but these r my top tier read again and again fics #and to all the authors on this list u guys r so awesome.#please enjoy #f1 #formula 1 #ln4 #lando norris #mclaren #op81 #oscar piastri #landoscar #landoscar fic #fic rec #landoscar fic rec

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arottenlust · 1 month ago

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cuz im pretty when i cry (the inspiration)

everything started with that edit. i don’t know what it was, but something about it was hard to look away from. ive rewatched it like a hundred times at this point. the song and the smile on his face inspired the first iteration of this story.

spoilers for the series below (kind of? It kinda fucks w the immersion i think. Idk its spoilerish to me)

one where youre desperate for any crumb of his affection, desperate to have your affections returned, and sukuna is willing and happy to enable your sickness. it grew from there to it instead being a misunderstanding of sorts- sukuna is showing his love and dedication the only way he knows how, with action instead of words. you, used to the very hot and cold and emotionally abusive environment you grew up in, don’t know how to pick up on this. it leads to you slowly falling apart more and more, miserably obsessed with keeping your place beside him, lashing out at any perceived obstacles, despite the fact that sukuna never planned to leave, would never want to. And, blinded by your seemingly easygoing nature and the fact that he quite enjoys your increasingly psychotic behavior, knowing that it stems from your love for him, sukuna doesn’t notice anything is amiss until the cracks begin to splinter and break you apart.

I didn’t plan to make you yandere esque, but it seems that the more twisted parts of me leaked into the story. Oops?

im not sure about including smut. I think i might but im still on the fence about that one…. I probably will tho

it has a happy ending. I didn’t want to give it one, I wanted it to just be a sad, horrifically desperate, story, but this route seemed a little more interesting to write. I think I’ll probably write a different version in the future, one where sukuna really doesn’t care.

the relationship is unhealthy in the sense that a well adjusted person wouldn’t frame their entire life around another person the way you do in this story. i.e youre a yandere. in your head, sukuna could keep you locked up and treat you like his dog-servant-thing, and you’d be happy because you’d be the sole object of his attention. (While u may be unaware) He feels the same in reverse, and he wouldn’t do that anyways, because he’s obsessed and he values you more than you value yourself. That’s why it’s unhealthy. And also because you tweak out if he talks to other people at all with anything on his face other than complete and utter indifference…. but hey! You’re working on it. Basically, It’s written um, romantically? Yes I’m romanticizing the codependent yandereisms sue me. But ya not super heart breaking and depressing. just putting that out there because I get really like unreasonably hurt when i read unhealthy -> very sad fics instead of unhealthy -> very in love and reciprocated fics

dykwim?

ugh. I’ll need to write a prequel or something. I want you all to see the way you go from normal and unattached to fighting the urge to stick cameras in his room and huff his underwear. You’re so weird. Stop fantasizing about killing the people he talks to, they dont even exist!

i originally planned to make it as gender neutral as i could but a lot of the scenarios don’t make sense if youre not fem, so that’s that. if that changes throughout the course of writing out the series, i shall let you all know.

also. should i make a playlist?

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prideprejudce · 10 months ago

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I think alot more people would enjoy the show if they learned to see Rhaenyra and Alicent as Unreliable Narrators, and characters who are supposed to have glaring flaws and weaknesses.

Mandatory preface- There are Issues™️ with season 2 that are its own other ask- but the complaints ive seen about character assassination on both women kind of tells me ppl just wanted to see the two just GirlBossing around, not being tragic characters trapped in their own circumstances.

For Alicent specifically- she just isn't written to be Cersei 2.0, and while it was really interesting to see motherhood from cersei's point of view, its already been done!! I actually prefer seeing Alicent's mercurial clinging to and abandoning motherhood- its interesting!! She was made a mother at what- 15? An age where you truly arent mentally developed enough to raise 3 kids, AND be a child bride, AND be a queen, (AND be a lesbian).

Alicent is interesting to me because she's stunted at 15 years old, she's an adult woman who talks to and sometimes bullies her kids as if they are her peers, and is obsessed with her childhood crush(es). She hasn't built any new relationships* past the ones she was entangled with as a teenager, she's obsessed with both acting out to make SOMEONE see that shes suffering, (she's honestly pretty blatant for someone who prides themselves on being the Temperate Voice of Reason) but also to erase herself and reset to before she had to marry the king, before aemma died.

I think most of her 'bad out of character' decisions are just these two impulses winning out, her trying to force a reset, go back to a time where none of this had happened yet, when things were simpler and she had love and every day wasn't the worst day of her life™️.

She sleeps with cole, the man she thought was pretty at 15 (her last uncomplicated attraction just before it all went wrong and aemma died) -she doesnt seem to like it that much, but she does seem compelled to seek him out, esp when upset- shes obsessed with, and desperate to reconnect with Rhaenyra, her childhood best friend (and first love) and get back to where they were as kids, AND she still treats and asks her father for absolution as if he's still the only authority that matters to her just like she did at 15. Alot of her 'victim complex/bewildered they took it so far' behaviour in the plotting of rhaenyra's usurption reads to me like a teenager in over her head, she talked big game and now its real and shes panicking!! She's tragic BECAUSE she's still a teenager- so stunted shes unable to meaningfully grow up and learn to make healthier choices for herself, or move on and stop trying to grasp at the 'if i could just go back' urge.

As a mother, I think this creates an interesting dynamic as well, and I do like that in the casting even, she seems closer in age to her kids than rhaenyra does to hers. I think the contrast ppl are drawing with Alicent Protecting Her Kids in season1 compared to her giving them up in season two isn't bad writing to me, just massive differences in context. Sure she protected Aemond in driftmark, but we cant ignore that she probably felt humiliated by her husband choosing rhaenyra's side over hers in front of everyone, did it seem like a grown woman fighting for her son?? or a teenager furious with her ex winning one over her again? or both!! both sides twisted together is still interesting! When she protected Aegon from Rhaenys, is stepping in front of her son the king to protect him from the enemies dragon fire not the most romantic daydream of a deserving death a child bride could come up with?? Was it the impulse to protect the son she couldnt decide if she loved or hated, or was it to have the most heroic death possible to escape the reality that she sees coming. And if Rhaenyra hears about how Brave she was in the face of a dragons maw, and cries about it forever and feels sooo bad and regrets it til the day she dies, thats an added bonus. I think Alicent loves her kids, but is teenager selfish about HOW she loves and protects her kids, and is unable to be a mature, consistant, protective mother to them when she also sees them as having ruined her life. I think in season 2 when she 'gives them up' shes relieved, and once again following the compulsion of 'if i reset to when Rhaenyra was heir, i had no sons, and i wasn't married or queen, everything will be better'. I think theres complexity to it, i think she does love her sons and feels insane about it, but I think Alicent has been trying to Go Back in more and more Intense ways ever since she got married, and we might be giving her sanity more credit than it deserves when it comes to the need to wipe the board clean and go back to being 15.

hey anon are you trying to get married to me or what

#answered #anonymous #house of the dragon #hotd #rhaenicent #alicent hightower #EXCELLENT EXCELLENT EXCELLENT #every time we remember that alicent is a stunted teenager who married a man twice her age another angel gets its wings #even rhaenyra is nowhere NEAR as stunted as alicent who was popping babies at 15 #her relationship switches from protecting mother to a sneering older sister to HER OWN KIDS #because shes emotionally stuck at the age her life went to complete hell #thanks again otto for the lifelong trauma

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whisperedmeg · 19 days ago

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SYNODIC CURVE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part iv

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: under the stars, spencer lets her in. what follows is not a leap, but a quiet circling toward something steady.

genre: fluff, smut, a bit of hurt/comfort I guess?

w/c: 5.7k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, talk of prison and intimacy issues, brief maeve mention, discussion of past relationship trauma, spencer being an adorable nerd, lots of astronomy talk, just two cuties on their first official date, glasses reid YUM, fingering, handjob, oral (both f/m receiving), 18+ MDNI

a/n: this is my favorite part thus far 🥹. as always, I appreciate anyone who reads this little story of mine so, so much 🫶🏼. part 5 is mostly written already, so it’ll be up later this week, and in the meantime, I might post a one shot unrelated to this series if I can find the time to finish it

series masterlist

synodic (adj.) — describing the period between successive conjunctions of celestial bodies; the cycle of return, when two objects moving through space appear to realign.

—

Spencer’s door was already unlocked when I arrived, as if he’d been checking the hallway every five minutes. His hair was slightly damp from a recent shower, and he’d changed into a t-shirt I hadn’t seen before — navy with a faded print of Saturn and a little ring of stars around it. I couldn’t tell if it was old or just designed to look that way, but either way, it suited him.

“Hope you’re in the mood for popcorn and 1950s melodrama,” he said by way of greeting, holding up the DVD case like it was a peace offering. I grinned and set my things down, padding over to him and greeting him with a quick kiss.

The night started easy. Comfortable. A rhythm we’d already half-settled into. He let me rummage through his kitchen for the popcorn while he dug around for the remote, and soon the apartment was filled with the scent of butter as black-and-white images flickered across the screen. We sat on the couch with the bowl between us, our shoulders brushing, knees nudging.

Halfway through the movie — somewhere between a dramatic monologue and a string-heavy score — I turned to him, catching him already watching me instead of the screen.

“We should probably talk,” I said softly.

He didn’t flinch, just nodded once. “About yesterday.”

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

We didn’t pause the movie. Just let it play in the background as we navigated the parts we hadn’t gotten to over the phone — the strange, lingering discomfort tied to my job, the way it felt like Millburn would always be a third presence in the room. He was honest about how he didn’t like thinking about that place, about the way it’s wired into him now like a faulty line in a circuit he can’t replace. I told him I understood — really understood — and that I never wanted to be one more thing he had to brace himself around. “But I don’t want to avoid it either,” I admitted. “Or you.”

“I know,” he said. “I know you being there probably made it survivable for me. But sometimes, it’s hard to hold that truth next to the version of you I’m still trying to believe I get to have outside of all that.”

That quieted me. I nodded and turned back to the movie, feeling his eyes still lingering on me.

The second half of the movie passed in fragments, but I don’t think either of us really followed it. His hand stayed on my knee most of the time, fingers idly tracing circles, the popcorn bucket long since moved to the coffee table so more of us could touch. When the credits rolled, we didn’t get up.

Eventually, I turned toward him, leaned in a little. He met me halfway.

The kiss started slow, familiar, but deepened fast — the kind of shift that felt like dropping into a current I hadn’t realized I was swimming alongside. His hands found my waist, then under the hem of my shirt, palms warm and steady. Mine were already tugging at the back of his neck, threading into his hair, pulling him closer, pulling him over me.

I felt him start to ease me down onto the couch, his body pressing into mine, and I didn’t stop him. His hips rolled against mine, his mouth on my neck. God, I didn’t want him to stop.

But then — he did.

Abruptly.

It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t bolt upright or say anything cutting. He just stilled, every muscle in him going tense beneath my hands. I opened my eyes and found him already up, running both hands through his hair as he stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, pacing once toward the window and back again. “I’m— I thought I could.”

I sat up slowly, pulling my shirt back into place. The air between us had gone from warm to thin, and I hated how much of that change I immediately blamed on myself. Like I’d misread something. Like I’d offered too much.

“It’s totally fine,” I said, and the words came out more insecure-sounding than I meant them to.

He paused, analyzing my expression. “No, it’s not,” he said, sitting back down beside me, but this time with a little space between us. “I want to. It’s not you. Not at all. I want you, I— God, I want you so much sometimes it scares me.”

That didn’t help as much as he probably thought it would.

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his mouth like the words might line up better if he kept pushing.

“It’s just… that place rewired everything. I used to know how to be in my body. How to feel desire without it twisting. But now…” His voice trailed off, and he looked away, jaw tight. “Now I get close to you like that, and something inside me just short-circuits.” He looked at me like he was half expecting me to up and leave.

My chest ached — not from rejection, not even really from disappointment, but from how much I suddenly wanted to stay.

Because there was something about the way he spoke to me that stripped everything bare — no performance, no pretense. Just this raw, unfiltered honesty that somehow made me feel steadier, not smaller. I felt the weight of what it meant to be trusted with the part of him that still didn’t feel safe in its own skin.

And maybe that’s what shifted — realizing that whatever this was, it wasn’t about chasing a moment. It was about showing up. Again and again, even when it was messy. Especially when it was messy.

So, I didn’t leave. I just reached over and took his hand. He looked down at our intertwined fingers, then back at me like he couldn’t believe I was still here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, knowing he needed to hear it. “And I’m not going to push you. I’m completely okay with us taking our time with the physical stuff, going as slow as we need. But… I can’t keep guessing where the line is.” I paused, sighing softly. “I’m not asking you to be okay right now. I’m not asking you to give me more than you can,” I added. “But if you pull back and shut me out… I’ll start wondering if I did something wrong. Or if I made you feel cornered or coerced. I just need a little clarity. I need to know it’s not always going to feel like I’m walking a tightrope.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said after a beat, voice low. “None of this is your fault. I think part of me thought that when I got out, I’d just… snap back into who I was before. That everything I shut down to survive in there would just flip back on like a switch.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “But it doesn’t work like that. So until I can get my body and mind to realign on that stuff, I’ll tell you when it’s too much. I don’t want you to be second-guessing yourself.”

I nodded, squeezing his hand. That was enough for me right now — just the promise that he’d try.

We didn’t talk much more after that. The rest of the night was quiet, just two people still learning how to navigate each other’s gravity. Eventually, he stood and reached a hand out to me without a word, guiding me into his bedroom like it was muscle memory now. He pulled out a fresh t-shirt from his drawer and handed it over without comment, just a small, almost sheepish smile. I took it, changed in the bathroom, and when I came back, he was already under the blanket, waiting.

He didn’t make a move toward me when I slipped in beside him, just let me come to him. I turned into his chest, and he curled his arm around my waist, breath warm against my forehead.

And even though the ache inside me didn’t leave entirely, it settled. Enough to let me sleep. Enough to stay.

—

The next week and a half blurred in that strange, elastic way time does when you’re learning someone new — stretching and snapping back, full of moments that didn’t feel like milestones until they’d already passed. I worked five shifts at Millburn and left sore and exhausted each time, but never alone. Spencer was waiting for me after every one — sometimes in person, sometimes just a text saying, Door’s open if you want it to be.

He kept busy, too. Chipping away at the mountain of paperwork it would take to get his badge back, fielding calls from the Bureau and his union rep, scheduling psych evals and meetings that sounded endless and exhausting. But he never made me feel like I was intruding on all that. Somehow, without either of us trying, we’d fallen into a rhythm.

We slept in the same bed almost every night now, though sleep wasn’t always the first thing on the agenda. There was more touching — more learning the boundaries, more of him reaching for me. His hands began to linger longer at my waist, his mouth began to pause just a beat more against my collarbone, sucking and licking and tasting. Some nights we talked until the room went dark around us. Others we barely said a word, content to just exist in the same quiet air, our legs tangled under the sheets.

Before I knew it and without even trying, I had memorized the way he made coffee and he had started keeping my brand of toothpaste in his bathroom drawer.

—

“I booked it,” he said one morning, voice soft but unmistakably pleased as he leaned against the kitchen counter in his flannel pajama pants and NASA tee. “The planetarium show. Thursday.”

I smiled, padding up to him and looping my arms around his waist. “Really?”

He grinned. “Seven o’clock. Stars and music. Pie afterward, if you’re still up for it.”

Something about the smile he gave me then made my heart pull in my chest — not the sharp kind, but the warm, stretching kind that always took a few extra seconds to settle.

Later that night, we lay facing each other, his fingers brushing absently over the inside of my wrist. He’d been quiet for a while, lost in thought, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same cadence he used when telling me facts I didn’t ask for but always wanted to hear.

“I haven’t dated much,” he said. “Not before the BAU, and only sporadically since I joined. Maeve was…different.”

I nodded gently, giving him space. I knew bits and pieces about Maeve already, little fragments of his past he’d laid bare inside the infirmary.

“She made me feel like I wasn’t too much. Even when I talked too fast or spiraled out with a thousand thoughts at once, she stayed on the phone with me. Answered every one of my letters. And then she was just…gone. And I couldn’t save her.”

His hand moved from my wrist to my jaw, brushing lightly as if grounding himself.

“Since then, I think some part of me has never fully let go of the idea that loving someone automatically means losing them. Or hurting them. Or both.”

My chest ached for him — not with pity, but with understanding. “I know that feeling,” I said. “I mean, not exactly. I can never relate to the pain you were in after what happened to her, but I know how it feels to conflate love with loss. My last relationship… It wasn't good for me. He constantly told me I was too much. Too emotional, too reactive, too needy. Everything about me was just a little too inconvenient.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, sharper now.

“I spent a long time trying to turn it off. Trying to be easier. Softer. Less. And when I couldn’t be what he wanted emotionally, I just…tried to be what he wanted physically.” I didn’t look away. “Sex became the only way I could feel close to him. Or useful.”

He exhaled, slow and low. “He sounds like an idiot.”

That made me laugh a little. “He was. But he was also just… human. And so was I. And I stayed too long. Started feeling like love always came at a cost, both to me and to them. But I’ve done a lot of work since then to be full again. To let go of that feeling, and to get back to myself.”

“You are,” Spencer said, fingers sliding carefully beneath the hem of my shirt. “You’re so full of life, I don’t know how I ever functioned before I met you.”

His kiss came gently, but it deepened quickly — hands finding each other, breath catching in the dark. For a while we didn’t speak, just moved together under the covers, slow and attentive. His mouth trailed along my throat like a map he wanted to memorize, and I let my hands explore the slope of his back, the curve of his waist, the sharp lines softened by sleep and stillness.

When his hand slipped beneath the waistband of my underwear, I held still — not in fear, but in awe of the quiet question he asked with just the brush of his fingertips. He traced the edge of me like he was waiting for my breath to steady, like he was listening for the yes in the way my hips tilted toward him.

When I gasped, soft, and involuntary, he didn’t freeze like he had in the times before. He stayed with me. Kept moving gently, slowly, two fingers slipping through slick heat as his eyes searched mine. Steady and careful. His pupils were blown wide, mouth parted like he’d forgotten to breathe, chest rising and falling as if trying to keep pace with something invisible between us. His thumb brushed over my clit deliberately, once, then again, and the sound I made curled his lips into the tiniest smile, like he was learning something sacred.

I was unraveling. I could feel it in every nerve ending, the coiled tension winding tighter, the heat in my belly flaring under his touch. He watched me fall apart with that same patient awe, like each flick of his fingers was another word in a language he was still studying but somehow already fluent in. He wasn’t just memorizing what made me shake — he was trying to understand why. Watching the way I arched, the way I bit my lip to keep quiet, the way I clung to his shoulder like I was trying not to drown. I tried to keep from being too much too fast, but it didn’t matter. He saw all of it.

And when I came, trembling around his hand, his eyes never left mine. He leaned his forehead against mine, breathing hard, and kissed me — my cheek, my temple, my brow, my lips. He looked at me as if witnessing me let go was as much a gift for him as it was for me.

When I rolled towards him after, still catching my breath, I reached for the hem of his shirt and felt him stiffen — not from discomfort, but something more fragile. Vulnerability, maybe. Or hesitation edged with want. I moved slowly, pressing a hand to his chest, and he let me, nodding.

My fingers drifted lower, across the trail of soft hair down his stomach, past the waistband of his boxers. He sucked in a breath, loud in the hush of the room, and buried his face in my neck when I wrapped my hand around him.

It wasn’t the way he groaned that undid me — it was the way he tried not to, like even now he was afraid to take up too much space in the room. I cupped his face with my free hand and whispered, “You can let go,” and he did — with a broken, quiet sound that made my chest tighten. He came with his forehead pressed to mine, whispering my name like it was the only tether he had to the present. Like he needed me more than air.

After, he collapsed into me, breath still ragged, hands trembling just slightly as they found my waist. I pressed my face into his neck and let my fingers trace over the long scar on his palm — the one I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask about yet. He let me touch it, didn’t flinch, and let out a breath that felt like surrender.

He changed into clean boxers and then came back to bed, wrapping me up in his arms with a kiss to my forehead. We stayed tangled up like that for a long time, neither of us talking, just sharing warmth, skin, silence. A kind of quiet I hadn’t known I needed until I had it. The kind that said, this is safe. This is yours.

And when we finally stilled beneath the covers, his arms tightened around me as he let his eyes close. It felt like he was holding onto more than just my body — we were carving out space for each other between fear and trust, between what he’d survived and what we were building now. And maybe he hadn’t remembered how to feel this kind of intimacy before — but here, in the hush of the dark, it felt like he was trying.

—

He picked me up at 6:30pm sharp on Thursday in a dusty old Volvo that looked like it had survived multiple timelines and maybe a few natural disasters. I loved it instantly.

I was locking my apartment door when I saw it idle at the curb through the window, a boxy relic with dull blue paint and mismatched hubcaps. Of course this was his car. Of course it smelled faintly like books and peppermint and had a crumpled copy of Scientific American wedged between the passenger seat and the center console.

“You ready?” he asked through the open window, smiling. I sucked in a sharp breath when I noticed he was wearing glasses I hadn’t seen him in before. God, did that man look good in glasses.

I nodded and climbed in. “This thing still runs?”

He scoffed, mock-offended. “Runs brilliantly. It’s a classic.”

“It’s a heap, Spence.” Spence. I’d never called him that before. It just slipped out, and it tasted good when it did.

“It’s a heap with soul,” he countered, pulling into traffic. He didn’t seem to acknowledge the nickname, but I noticed his cheeks blush a little bit. He settled his right palm against the warm skin of my thigh, filling the space above my knee but below the hem of my skirt.

The Smithsonian Planetarium was quiet by the time we got there — just a handful of couples and tourists milling around the lobby, murmuring over ticket stubs and constellation maps. Spencer whispered trivia in my ear while we waited for the doors to open, soft things like, “The light we’re seeing tonight left those stars before Shakespeare was born,” and “That one’s called the Winter Hexagon — six stars, all tied together.”

He was giddy in that understated, Spencer way — rambling facts under his breath and pushing his glasses up his nose with two fingers every time they slipped. I couldn’t stop smiling.

Once the doors opened and we settled in our seats inside, a comfortable silence fell between us. The lights dimmed so slowly I barely noticed it happening — first the dome above us went navy, then charcoal, then a black so deep it made me feel like I was floating. And then the stars came.

Thousands of them, blooming across the ceiling like a slow explosion — faint pinpricks at first, then constellations, galaxies, supernovas flaring to life as the narrator began to speak.

Soft music hummed in the background — a playlist full of Max Richter, Ólafur Arnalds, one movement of Spiegel im Spiegel sliding into a mournful cello piece that made the back of my eyes sting.

He leaned over, his breath warm against my ear. “That one,” he whispered, pointing up as a spiral galaxy rotated above us, “is Messier 51 — the Whirlpool Galaxy. It’s interacting with a smaller galaxy, which is slowly being absorbed. It’s been happening for millions of years.”

“So they’re crashing into each other?”

“Kind of. More like merging. It’s violent, but also… inevitable. They’ll become one galaxy eventually.”

“You’re making this sound romantic.”

He glanced at me, his crooked smile just barely visible in the dark. “A little destruction is romantic, sometimes.”

I swallowed hard and looked back up at the dome. The narrator was talking about stardust now — about how every element in our bodies was forged in the cores of long-dead stars, scattered by ancient explosions. “The calcium in your teeth,” she said, “the iron in your blood — all of it began in the heart of a dying star.”

“That always gets me,” Spencer whispered. “Stardust. It sounds cheesy, but it’s real. Every single atom in your body came from something ancient and violent.”

“Explains a lot about me,” I murmured.

He laughed softly. “You’re made of much better star stuff than you give yourself credit for.”

The stars kept moving. We drifted past Orion, past the Pleiades. Spencer leaned close again. “You know the story behind Andromeda?”

I shook my head.

“She was chained to a rock as a sacrifice, because her mother bragged she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs. So the gods demanded a punishment. But Perseus shows up, slays the sea monster, and saves her.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “And also… kind of hot.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Slaying a monster to save someone?”

“No,” I smirked. “The part where she’s chained to a rock,” I deadpanned, joking.

He choked on his own muted laughter and quickly looked around, half-convinced someone had overheard.

“I’m kidding,” I whispered, nudging his thigh with mine.

His hand found mine again in the dark, fingers interlacing gently but with that same thread of electricity running through it. Something sparking between us that no supernova could outshine.

Afterward, we walked slowly back to his car, and he didn’t let go. Not even when we passed a group of teenagers huddled around the fountain, or when I made a joke about him being the only man alive who would get teary-eyed over a projected simulation of Saturn’s rings.

“It’s the Cassini Division,” he said, feigning indignance. “It’s iconic.”

“Your brain is iconic,” I teased, bumping his shoulder.

He blushed down to his collar.

We ended up at the diner he’d mentioned in the infirmary — the one with chipped mugs and a neon clock on the wall, the kind of place that smelled like coffee creamer and buttered toast and hadn’t changed its menu since 1977. We each ordered pie: I got cherry; he got apple.

“You’ve got some whipped cream on your lip,” I giggled after a few bites.

He licked the wrong side.

“No, other side—” I leaned forward across the table and wiped it with my thumb. “You’re a disaster.”

“A disaster with excellent taste in desserts,” he corrected.

“Debatable.”

“Please. I did research. I picked this place based on data.”

“Oh my god, you ran an analysis on pie, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said, completely serious. “And this one scored highest in texture, balance of sweetness, and mouthfeel.”

I cringed. “You just said mouthfeel in public. I hope you know I can never un-hear that.”

He laughed, full and genuine, and I thought to myself: god, I’m so screwed. Because somewhere between the stars and the whipped cream and the hand-holding in the dark, I realized I was falling. Not crashing. Not spiraling. Not in the violent way two galaxies merge. Just… falling. Falling for every part of him, every side he’d given me the privilege of seeing.

His palm found my thigh again on the drive home. Something about the energy in his car felt charged, and at one point, I caught him staring at me when he hadn’t realized the traffic light had turned green and a BMW behind us honked.

Once we got back to his apartment, the air shifted the second the door closed behind us. I’m not sure if his hands were on me first or the other way around, but however it happened, I was grateful.

We barely made it to the couch without stumbling into something. His hands found my hips and I pulled him in by the collar of his shirt, kissing him with a low, smoldering urgency I’d been sitting on since his lips brushed my ear in the planetarium. He responded just as hungrily — no hesitation, no nerves, just Spencer, warm and wanting, mouth on mine like he was starving for it. It felt like I could see his walls crumbling before my eyes.

I straddled him, settling into his lap on the couch like I belonged there, and he moaned low in his throat like he agreed. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me down harder against him, and I could feel him already through his pants — hard, insistent, twitching under me every time I rolled my hips.

“Fuck—”

“Do you want me to stop?” I asked, pausing my movements.

“No” he breathed. “God, no, I don’t want you to stop.”

We kissed deeper, rougher. I untucked his crisp buttoned shirt and let my hands slide up his skin underneath it, mapping his ribs, the slope of his chest. He gasped when I pinched his nipple playfully. “Sensitive, huh?”

“Apparently,” he chuckled.

His hands weren’t idle either — one sliding up my spine under my shirt and over my bra, the other gripping my ass with real purpose. I let him touch me like that — unselfconsciously, eagerly — because I wanted to be wanted like this. By him.

I rocked against him again, slower this time, and his head fell back against the cushions. “You’re going to kill me,” he said, eyes fluttering closed.

I kissed the side of his neck. “Not yet.”

He opened his eyes again, dazed but focused, as his fingers drifted under the lace covering my breasts. “Can I?” he whispered, already thumbing lightly at the fabric.

I nodded an immediate yes, and he tugged my shirt up over my head and then the bra down just enough to bare me to the room. He looked at me for a moment — really looked, like I was the most beautiful, bewildering thing he’d ever seen. I felt that look low in my belly and behind my ribs for hours after the fact.

His hands on my breasts were warm, gentle, reverent. Then his mouth followed.

He licked, kissed, sucked — slow and focused — like he was solving a riddle, unlocking pieces of a puzzle one by one. I was panting by the time he switched sides, tugging his hair, grinding down on him because I couldn’t help it.

When I reached between us and undid his belt, unzipping him, he didn’t stop me. Just let his head fall back again and hissed through his teeth when I palmed him through his briefs.

“You’re so hard,” I whispered. “Is this all from the stars, or me?”

He looked at me with a half-smile, eyes blown wide. “You.”

“Good answer,” I giggled.

I tugged at the waistband just enough to slip my hand inside. He was warm, heavy, and twitching under my palm as I started to stroke him properly. He bucked up against my palm, one hand clutching my hip now, the other digging into the couch cushion like he was trying desperately to hold onto something real.

When he slipped a hand down the front of my panties under my skirt, I gasped — not from surprise, but from how confident he was about it. It felt like he’d been imagining this for weeks. Practicing it in his mind, going over it in his head frame by frame.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, fingers sliding between my folds.

He lifted me off his lap and laid me down on the couch, settling between my thighs as he pressed soft kisses down my body. The second his tongue touched me over my panties, I arched. He locked his fingers around the waistband and pulled the fabric down, kissing my inner thighs as he did, and once they were off, he looked up at me. I tangled a hand in his hair and took a steadying breath, offering silent permission for him to continue.

His mouth met my center without hesitation, and he licked with the kind of precision I should’ve expected from him — methodical, slow strokes that built pressure, then faster ones that made my thighs tremble. His hands gripped my hips hard, keeping me right where he wanted me.

“Fuck, Spencer,” I whined, tugging on his hair, breath catching, thighs tightening around his shoulders.

He moaned into me like he liked the way I sounded, like he wanted me loud. It only made it better — vibration deep and indulgent as he worked me harder, faster, then slowed again just to tease me. The kind of rhythm that bordered on cruelty. By the third time he worked me up, I was writhing.

“I’m close,” I warned, voice tight.

“Come for me,” he murmured against me, voice ruined. “Please.”

He wrapped is lips around my clit and I came with a cry that I couldn’t stifle, hips jerking, thighs clamped tight around his face as he worked me through it — greedy and gentle, like he didn’t want to stop, like he was still starved for my taste. One of his hands left my hip to tangle his fingers with mine as if to say I’m here, I’ve got you.

I was still catching my breath when I pulled him up to kiss me. He hesitated for a second, maybe out of courtesy, but I didn’t care. I wanted to taste myself on his lips. I needed tangible evidence that I hadn’t just imagined that entire experience.

“You’re perfect,” I murmured against his mouth. I didn’t give him a chance to answer — just shoved his boxers down the rest of the way and dropped to my knees on the carpet in front of him.

I looked up at him, asking with my eyes if I could keep going, and he took a shaky breath, nodding. He made a strangled sound the second I wrapped my hand around him, and a louder one when my mouth followed. His hands immediately gathered my hair out of my face and held it against the back of my head.

“Oh, fuck, baby—”

Baby. He’d never used any nickname or pet name for me before, let alone something as intimate as baby. I hummed around him in response.

I took him in slow at first, then deeper — flattening my tongue, hollowing my cheeks, working my hand where my mouth couldn’t reach. He was already so hard, leaking, twitching against my tongue. I moaned around him just to feel him pulse in response, and continued my ministrations with enthusiasm.

“You’re gonna make me—” One of his hands left my hair and hit the back of the couch, grasping blindly. “Jesus, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Good,” I whispered, pulling off just enough to meet his eyes, stroking him with my fingers. “I want to feel you.”

He grabbed my hair again, not rough — just holding on like he needed something to ground him — and I took him back into my mouth, fast and focused. I let his cock hit the back of my throat, eliciting a soft gag, and he groaned, deep and rumbly.

He came with a shudder and a broken gasp of my name, hips stuttering, fingers tightening in my hair as he spilled down my throat. I didn’t release him until he was gasping for breath, the sharp edge of his orgasm dissolving into something loose and messy and soft.

When I crawled back up to sit beside him, we didn’t talk right away. He pulled me close, kissed the side of my face, my shoulder, my temple. Eventually, I tucked my head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, still dazed.

I smiled into his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His hand slid slowly up my spine, fingertips trailing along my neck like he never wanted to stop touching me.

We just stayed like that for a while — tangled, flushed, quiet — the air thick with everything we weren’t saying, and everything we already knew:

That this was becoming something. That the flirtation that started in the prison infirmary wasn’t just flirtation. That we fit together, both in the way my body curled into his and in the way our lives had started to intersect and weave into one.

He looked at me like I was already his, and it scared the hell out of me — not because I didn’t want to be, but because I really, really did. I just hadn’t actually voiced that desire yet, and neither had he. It felt too big, too important, too fragile. He was still trying to re-enter society without breaking, and I was still finding my footing beside him.

Eventually, we made it to his bed, and he helped me dress in yet another one of his soft, worn t-shirts. We brushed our teeth side by side, and when he pulled me into him under the covers, I could’ve sworn my heart literally skipped a beat.

I was halfway asleep when I felt his lips brush my shoulder.

“I’m really glad you came with me tonight,” he said softly.

I turned my head back to look at him and smiled. “I’m really glad you asked. Best first date I’ve ever had,” I murmured back. His hand found mine beneath the blanket.

And as we drifted off together, the stars we’d watched earlier — the ones that had burned for centuries before humans ever noticed them — somehow felt a little less far away.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part v

181 notes · View notes

darlingsblackbook · 17 days ago

Text

Professor!Nanami x Student!Reader

College AU

Jujustu Kaisen Masterlist

I | Nanami is the calm, well-dressed, no-nonsense literature professor who commands attention the moment he walks into the lecture hall. His voice is steady and rich, and his tailored suits are always perfect—never a hair out of place. You sit near the middle row, always quietly attentive, notebook full of meticulous notes.

II | Nanami notices you early in the semester—not because you speak up (you rarely do), but because of how intent your eyes are when you listen. While others drift off, your gaze never wavers, and it unsettles him in a way he doesn't quite understand.

III | You avoid eye contact when Nanami looks in your direction. Your cheeks heat up whenever he addresses the class near your side. The moment he asks, “Any thoughts?” your pen suddenly becomes the most interesting object in the world.

IV | Nanami calls on you once, gently, hoping to encourage participation. You stammer through your thoughts, face burning, but your insight is sharp and quietly brilliant. He nods with a small smile. “Excellent observation.” You don’t hear a word of the next ten minutes because your heart won’t stop pounding.

V | Nanami starts leaving encouraging comments on your papers. They’re brief but thoughtful—“Insightful interpretation.” “Strong analysis here.” It’s enough to make you carry the papers home like they’re delicate relics.

VI | You sometimes linger after class to ask questions, nervously fidgeting with your sleeves. Nanami answers with patience and clarity, his eyes never leaving yours. One day, he asks, “Have you considered pursuing writing?” You nod shyly. “I think you’d be very good at it.”

VII | Nanami is hyperaware of boundaries. He never crosses a line, never favors, never flirts. But he does start noticing little things—how you hold your coffee with both hands when you're nervous, how you blink quickly when overwhelmed. He doesn’t mean to notice. He just does.

VIII | You catch yourself doodling Nanami Kento in the margins of your notebook once. You immediately scribble over it like a crime scene. You can’t help it—he’s intelligent, composed, deeply kind. And devastatingly attractive. It’s unfair, really.

IX | One rainy day, you forget your umbrella. You’re standing at the building entrance, unsure, when a dark shadow falls beside you. Nanami holds his umbrella out. “You’ll get sick,” he says simply, offering to walk you to the bus stop. You walk in silence, barely breathing the whole way.

X | Your classmates start teasing you. “He always looks at your row first.” “I swear he only compliments your essays.” You deny it fervently, but inside, your heart dances.

XI | Nanami assigns a project with optional office hours. You build up the courage to schedule a time. His office smells like cedar and coffee. Books line the shelves, orderly and warm. You talk about your paper for ten minutes, but stay an extra twenty just… discussing poetry. You’ve never felt more seen.

XII | Nanami gives you a book at the end of the semester. It’s a vintage copy, worn but cared for. Inside the front cover, he’s written a note: For someone who sees what others miss. Keep writing. You hold it like it’s sacred.

XIII | At graduation, Nanami finds you in the crowd. His smile is rare and soft. “You’ve done well.” You whisper your thanks, unsure if you’ll ever see him again. That thought stings more than you expect.

XIV | Months later, you bump into Kento in a quiet bookstore. You’re both surprised. You laugh awkwardly. He offers to buy you coffee, “as two adults, no longer bound by rules.” You agree, heart thudding, and this time you’re able to look him in the eye.

XV | Over coffee, the conversation flows. Kento tells you he always looked forward to your essays. You tell him he made you believe you had a voice. There’s silence for a beat… then he says softly, “If I were to ask to see you again, would you find that inappropriate?”

English is not my first language, I apologize for any errors. Feel free to point them out! Also, I did not go to college in America- the schooling system where I live is very different and people here barely understand it, so nvm from other countries 💀 I tried to base it off the American system but I used series as a guide lmao. So beware of inaccuracies lol.

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emeraldincandescent · 22 days ago

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Post on my dash about medical debt reminded me of the time tumblr saved me two grand. I don't think I told y'all about it because I am out of the habit of posting everything I do on tumblr lol

So. Last December, I had a bad cavity filled, and about a week later, I woke up with half of my face paralyzed. Which, as I'm sure you can imagine, freaked me the fuck out. Fortunately I had some level-headed Discord friends who a) told me what Bell's palsy was so I could look it up and b) reminded me to call my dentist for an emergency appointment. Dentist was also pretty sure it was Bell's palsy, but urged me to go to the emergency room to get checked out, because one-sided facial paralysis is also a possible indicator of a stroke. And you don't fuck around with strokes.

Bell's palsy, if you, like me of 6 months ago, don't know, is a harmless paralysis/muscle weakness on one side of the face that can be caused by a variety of things. It usually goes away on its own after a few weeks but also you can speed up the process with steroids.

I was pretty sure I was not having a stroke, because I'm Red Cross first aid certified and I know the symptoms of a stroke, and while one-sided facial paralysis is one of them, I didn't have any of the others. Also, I had quit my shitty job in October, which meant I had a shiny new marketplace health insurance plan and hadn't even touched my deductible. But I called my parents from the car and they urged me to get checked out and promised to help me pay off the emergency room bill if I needed it, because they're good people and they love me even if they drive me crazy sometimes. So off I went to the nearest emergency room.

Emergency room staff also didn't think I was having a stroke, because I waited ALL AFTERNOON, periodically having a new person come up to me and ask me to smile, hold both arms out to the side, press down on their hands, and tell them what month and year it was. (They don't ask who the president is anymore. Hmm, I wonder why.) One guy had me drink a cup of water while he watched. I cannot stress enough that I did not have any medical tests other than a physical examination: no CT scans or MRIs, no IV drugs or blood draws, nothing.

I get diagnosed with Bell's palsy and given a prescription for Prednisone. And then they give me a phone number and tell me to talk to this person about administrative stuff. So I call, and the dude on the phone verifies my name and date of birth and insurance information, and then he says, "It looks like your copay today is going to be $2400. How would you like to pay?"

I am, to this day, kind of impressed that he didn't even stutter over that number, but I assume working in a medical call center drains your entire soul. At this point, it's about 7pm, and I've been in the hospital since 2pm, and I'm stressed because half my face doesn't work, and I know that I can't afford $2400 because I quit my shitty job with nothing lined up back in October. But, I still remember every tumblr post I've ever read about health insurance and the medical system and how you can negotiate down a bill. I am not looking forward to this process, it sounds like a pain in the ass, but the alternative is paying $2400, so I say the magic words: "Send me an itemized bill."

I kinda expected the guy to try and get me to pay up front, but he just says "Ok" and finishes up the process. I get discharged, go to the only open pharmacy at that time of night to get my Prednisone, have the pharmacist tell me the prescription isn't written right and he can't fill it, go home, and have a screaming sobbing meltdown because I have used up every single milligram of cope in my entire body. (I got my steroids eventually, and the Bell's palsy cleared up in a couple weeks.)

A few weeks later, I get the bill in the mail. I brace myself and open it...

$300.

Turns out, after going through insurance and processing and everything, they couldn't actually find $2400 worth of stuff to charge me for. Shocking! Who could have predicted!

I might have been able to argue it down even more, but I was fed up with entire thing, so I paid the $300 just to be fucking done with it. Sometimes the cheapest way to pay is with money.

What if I had paid that $2400 up front? Do I think they would have been like, "Oh, oops!" and refunded me $2k? Well, possibly, but I am not optimistic.

So, thank you to everyone who has ever posted about navigating the US healthcare system on tumblr. Because of you, I knew how to handle this situation even when I was tired and stressed.

Don't forget to ask for an itemized bill, folks.

#health insurance #us healthcare

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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part six)

warnings ; he’s on his knees for her <3, oral (f recieving)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; two things. 1) this is the LONGEST part of tpod i think (might also be longest piece ive written in a fic so far.) and 2) if you don’t listen to guilty as sin on repeat while reading you are depriving yourself of an amazing reader experience. i don’t even know how we got here. one second she was yelling at him in a hallway, and the next she’s sleeping on his chest. godspeed to these idiots. they’re not surviving this. (also!!! there are a ton of nods to korean culture in this part, and i consulted some of my korean friends for this but please excuse any inaccuracies, i am just a wee little hispanic girl)

playlist here

series masterlist here

You feel sick.

Not like, “Oh no, I need electrolytes and sleep” sick. This is existential sick. Your organs are staging a coup and your soul is clenching in protest. Sure, your body aches, your temples are pounding, your limbs feel like wet cement, and your eyes burn from lack of sleep but that’s the surface-level stuff. That’s the kind of sickness you can fix with ibuprofen and a nap.

This ailment seeps into your bones. It hits you every time you close your eyes and see him again: his mouth, his hands, the way you let it happen not once but twice, like you had no self-respect or higher brain function whatsoever.

It’s that part that makes you want to unzip your skin and crawl out of it.

The first time was a fluke. A stress-induced catastrophe you swore you’d bury six feet under.

But then you did it again with full awareness and zero hesitation, like a woman possessed.

Now it’s as if your inner compass has spun a few degrees off course. You’ve crossed some invisible, irreversible line, and no amount of denial can rewind the tape.

You haven’t slept or eaten. Every time you try to focus on an email, a pitch deck, even something as simple as drinking coffee, your brain decides, “Hey, remember that time you moaned his name in a trailer?”

You actually haven’t seen him since that day. You’ve been dodging him like a coward, like some freshly heartbroken intern who can’t handle a one-night stand.

If you were smart like your two higher education degrees said you were, you would strut into that next meeting like nothing happened, as if he were just another brand ambassador. Like your panties didn’t hit the floor faster than your standards.

But every time you try to channel that version of yourself, the one who takes no shit and always wins, something inside you flinches.

You try and go back to your default setting. You sit through meetings with a frozen smile and fraying nerves, pretending like you’re not unraveling at the seams. You even let your team drag you out for drinks, which frankly, should’ve won you an Oscar for pretending to be fun.

Recently, being around people makes your skin itch. The laughter is too loud, lights too bright. All you can think about is how to not think about him.

Late at night, the guilt creeps in. Mostly because deep down, you know this isn’t just about you. For all the ways Jungkook is reckless and infuriating, you know he doesn’t deserve to be treated like some regrettable error code in your system.

Yet, that’s what you did when you left that trailer with no explanation. You ghosted him like he was the mistake, as if it wasn’t you who wanted him just as badly.

Somehow, that realization stings more than the memory itself.

It’s fine. You’ll figure it out. You have to. Otherwise, if it goes on a second longer, you’re not sure there’ll be anything left of you to come back to.

All this to say — you should’ve known this day was coming. Should’ve seen it cresting on the horizon like a storm you pretended wouldn’t reach you.

The second you step into the sleek, glass-walled conference room, Calvin Klein execs already seated, you go still.

Jungkook is seated in one of the chairs in a black T-shirt, silver rings, the glint of his bracelets catching in the fluorescent light.

You swear when your heels click across the floor, his fingers pause on the rim of his water bottle.

You don’t dare look at him. For one long, silent, bone-melting second, no one says a word. Then, as if summoned by the gods, Daniel drops into the seat beside you. His expression: the human equivalent of a side-eye emoji.

You ignore him, letting out an exhale and flipping open your laptop like this is just another Tuesday (It actually is.)

The meeting starts, the campaign rundown begins… and your body is here physically. But your mind is trying not to flinch every time Jungkook shifts in his chair and failing not to notice how quiet he’s being.

“Jungkook,” one of the execs says, flipping through mock-ups, “we wanted to confirm, you’re still comfortable with the shirtless set for this shoot?”

It’s a standard question. Practically in the brand guidelines at this point.

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns his head and looks at you.

You don’t meet his gaze, you really don’t have to. It feels like heat crawling up your neck, threading beneath your skin, sparking every nerve that has spent the last few days pretending he doesn’t exist.

“Yeah,” he finally says,“I don’t mind.”

You hate yourself for the way your heart reacts like it’s just been told a secret. Daniel shifts beside you as if he just got confirmation of a theory he’s been waiting to prove. Like he’s watching a house of cards start to tremble.

You grit your teeth, returning your attention to the presentation. Focus on the words, the charts, the goddamn revenue projections.

“I do have one concern,” Jungkook says.

Of course he does.

“I’m not sure the creative direction for the final set is the right call. It feels kinda stiff.”

One of the execs frowns. “Stiff?”

Jungkook’s tongue presses to the inside of his cheek, and you genuinely consider stabbing your pen through your own laptop just to escape.

“I think we could push it further,” he claims. “Make it feel more natural. Less staged.” He glances toward the campaign boards, then right back to you. “More real.”

You know exactly what he’s doing. Seeing if you’ll crack.

You press your fingers against the cool surface of the table, and speak without even blinking. “If it were any more real, Jungkook, we’d be selling porn, not denim.”

A snort comes from where Daniel sits.

Jungkook blinks and there’s a gleam in his eyes like you just gave him exactly what he wanted.

The conversation shifts, and the meeting rolls forward and suddenly, every damn thing out of his mouth sounds like it belongs in an 18+ warning.

“We just need the right amount of tension in the shot,” he muses, “So it doesn’t feel forced.”

“It should build naturally,” he adds. “Slow. Like… foreplay.”

Okay, he didn’t technically say that last part, but your body hears it anyway.

“We want the final shots to feel… intimate,” the creative director chimes in, flipping through references. “Jungkook, how comfortable are you with that?”

You hold your breath and beg every god to spare you. Jungkook hums thoughtfully, as if he’s considering it.

“Oh, I don’t mind getting up close,” he says. “In fact, I think it works better when there’s a little resistance first.“

You keep your face blank, posture perfect. You will not give him the satisfaction. Then, deadpan as ever, you say, “Yes, Jungkook, we all know how much you like resistance.”

The creative director chokes on his water so violently you’re certain he is thisclose to calling HR. Daniel claps a hand over his mouth and one of the managers goes wide-eyed.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Jungkook retorts,”I’m just a professional. I take direction very well.”

Your grip tightens around your pen, not enough to snap it in half but the threat is present.

This exact scenario is what you didn’t want. The not-so-subtle slide from professional sparring to something laced with all the things you refuse to untangle mentally. Once upon a time, you could bicker with Jungkook without consequence. Once upon a time, it was just sharp words with no bite.

“Oh?” you inhale slowly. “Is that so? Because I was under the impression you didn’t take direction at all.”

One of the executives mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Jesus Christ.

He shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes, and when he looks at you again, it’s with a quiet intensity that makes your skin feel too tight. “I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

You hate him with the force of a thousand campaign deadlines and every broken rule you swore you wouldn’t cross. You hate that it’s starting to feel easy for you, too. He’s not just a threat. In a way, you almost like the way he matches you and pushes back.

You force yourself and your colleagues to turn back to the agenda, but Jungkook’s still watching you out of the corner of his eyes, a small smirk on his plump lips.

After all, he’s the one who set the trap.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You tell yourself you’re counting down the days. The days until the final shoot wraps, the campaign boards come down, and Jungkook is no longer orbiting your every waking hour like some satellite with boundary issues.

You should be relieved, thrilled even. Practically dancing in designer heels down the halls of your career triumph.

There’s something off about it though. Kind of like you’re hurtling toward the finish line of a race you no longer remember signing up for, only to realize you might not like what’s waiting on the other side.

This campaign is a career-defining achievement, an international spectacle you crafted. It is a global masterpiece. You are exhausted over it, and not just jet-lagged. You are cosmically, soul-deep spent. Every fiber of you is stretched too thin like a rubber band pulled tight and desperate not to snap.

You know exactly what the problem is, if you put your finger on it. It’s Jungkook, with his stupid eyes and stupid mouth. He is a glitch in your meticulously controlled system, a variable you didn’t plan for. And no matter how many spreadsheets you bury yourself in, how many mockups you sign off on, how many creative calls you reroute just to avoid being alone in a room with him, he refuses to stay in the box you need him to fit inside.

So yes. You need this to be over. You need to get him out of your sight, out of your schedule, out of your brain where he’s taken up residence like an overconfident squatter who refuses to pay rent.

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour. A soft hum of jazz leaks from the overhead speakers, and there’s a faint murmur of laughter spilling from the hotel bar, but it all blurs into the background.

Meanwhile you’re drowning in deliverables and deck revisions and approval threads that have turned your inbox into a graveyard. Your laptop screen glows against the dim, gold-toned lighting. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, mechanical and joyless. You haven’t looked up in at least an hour, probably longer. Your hair is a mess, twisted into a knot that started off intentional and devolved into chaos.

This is the version of you that never stops; the one who doesn’t get the luxury of rest and who runs on cortisol and cold coffee.

Your team had gone out earlier, and they begged you to come for one drink. One hour.

“You need to breathe,” they had said, like it was that simple. You told them you didn’t have time (you really didn’t.) Not when your brain is a warzone and the enemy wears silver rings and makes your knees feel like glass.

So there you are, hunched in a stool at the bartop, your spine begging for mercy, your wine glass sweating beside you, half-finished and entirely forgotten.

Your phone buzzes beside your laptop, the screen lighting up with a name you haven’t said out loud in weeks. Eomma. You glance at it once, jaw tightening, and then flip it over without answering. It’s muscle memory at this point, hitting decline or letting it go to voicemail. The call fades to silence, but the tension lingers, settling beneath your skin with something you don’t have the time or emotional bandwidth to unpack.

Your fingers return to the keyboard, determined. You don’t look up when voices murmur near the bar. Don’t flinch when the elevator dings in the distance. You don’t even care when some kid starts running around the hotel lobby being chased by overwhelmed parents.

Clearly, you have a knack for calling your own fate.

A shadow slices across your screen and your fingers stop mid-sentence, stomach dropping like it’s suddenly remembered how to feel.

When you look up, despite already knowing exactly who it could be, you see Jungkook, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, eyes half-lidded, dark hair disheveled.

You’re a little shell-shocked, because he’s supposed to be somewhere else. Specifically, at the bar, with the team you said ‘no’ to.

Your eyes flick to the wine glass, then back to him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs like he didn’t just appear in the one place you swore he wouldn’t. “What are you doing here?” he counters.

You gesture vaguely toward your laptop, fingers sweeping across the chaos of open tabs, spreadsheets, and campaign briefs like it’s all self-explanatory. Because it is (or it should be.) “Working,” you say flatly.

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, gaze flicking from your screen to the half-drained glass of wine beside it, then back to your face. “So this is what you do for fun?” he questions, “Sit alone in hotel lounges at midnight, buried in spreadsheets, slowly becoming one of your Google Docs?”

You exhale sharply, shoulders aching from hours hunched over this chair. “I don’t really have time for fun.”

He watches you, expression unreadable, trying to parse the subtext between your sentences. He then shifts his weight lazily from one foot to the other, eyes still locked on you.

“Why aren’t you with everyone else?” you ask, frowning like he’s broken some unspoken rule by appearing in your safe zone.

He shrugs again, “Didn’t feel like going.”

Your frown deepens. “You? Skipping drinks?”

“I know. Shocking,” he says, lips curling slightly. There’s humor there, but it’s quiet.

You glance back at your screen and try to refocus. Try to pretend his presence doesn’t shift the entire room two degrees warmer.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits down. “Have you eaten?”

Goddamnit.

Your fingers stop mid-sentence. You blink once, eyes still on your screen. “What?”

“Food,” he repeats. “When was the last time you ate?”

You shift in your seat and glance at the time on your laptop: 11:43 p.m. That tells you nothing, because time stopped meaning anything after 8pm. Maybe 7pm.

You think back and try to remember, but then your stomach growls, as if it remembers. You refuse to give him the satisfaction, so you shrug, fingers already hovering back over your keyboard. “I’ve been busy.”

Jungkook lets out a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “That’s not an answer.”

Your fingers move again, faster now, as if typing at warp speed might drown out the sound of his voice.

He lifts his hand. Flags the bartender down with two fingers and an easy nod.

Your head jerks up. “What are you doing?”

He turns to the bartender, all calm and goes, “Can we get a plate of whatever’s still warm back there? And another glass of wine.”

“Jungkook,” you snap like a warning, like if the idea of ordering food is so preposterous he needs to be scolded like a child.

He ignores it. “Thanks,” he smiles, nodding toward the bartender before turning back to you with that maddening, infuriatingly smug expression.

You glare at him. “I don’t need you to order for me.”

Jungkook leans back in his chair, arms crossing lazily over his chest. He looks like he’s settling in for the night. “Clearly, you do. Since you seem completely incapable of basic survival.”

You resist the very real, very violent urge to slam your laptop shut just to make a point. “This isn’t necessary,” you mutter, reaching for your wine. You don’t know what unnerves you more: the fact that he ordered you food without asking or the fact that he’s probably right.

“Neither is skipping meals,” Jungkook retorts, shrugging like he’s merely stating a fact and not casually inserting himself into your personal life. “But here we are.”

You sit there, blinking at him. What the actual fuck is this? Jungkook has spent time out of his days making your life hell. Willingly and gleefully. It’s practically his part-time job.

And yet now he’s sitting next to you, body plopped in a stool like it’s something he does often. Not because he cares, obviously not. Right?

You stare blankly at your screen, face bathed in the cold blue glow of your laptop, brows pulled in like they’re shielding you from the audacity radiating off the man to your left.

Jungkook drums his fingers against the table, light and absentminded, but you can feel the rhythm of it anyway. You haven’t really looked at him since he sat down. Not even when he forced you to acknowledge that the last thing you put in your body was probably a coffee you forgot to finish six hours ago and some white wine.

Normally, your stubbornness would amuse him. Your compulsive need to be in control. Your single-minded obsession with perfection. The way you pretend you’re made of steel, even when your body’s clearly crying out for rest.

Still, he tries. “What are you even working on this late?”

You exhale through your nose like he’s an annoying notification popping up mid-presentation. “Contracts. Final reports. Things you don’t need to worry about.”

He hums. “You ever stop working?”

“No.” Your shoulders slump even more.

He lets out a snort, “That’s depressing.”

You keep typing like the fate of the free world hinges on your ability to update a pivot table. Jungkook eyes you for a beat, then shifts forward, forearms resting against the marble bartop.

“What’s left on the campaign?” he asks, “Last shoot is this week, right?”

You make a noise, something between a hum and a sigh, and click through to another document. “Yeah.”

“And after that?” he presses.

You pretend to be oddly interested in adjusting a cell in a spreadsheet. “You know the deal. Press tours, magazine exclusives, and then launch.”

“And after launch?”

That makes you pause. He should know how this works like the back of his hand. You glance up, brow raised, annoyed. “What is this, an interrogation?”

He grins, unbothered. “Just trying to figure out when you’ll finally relax.”

You scoff. “I don’t relax.”

“Yeah,” he says, lips twitching, “no shit.”

You roll your eyes and go back to work, but he’s still watching you, fingers tapping idly against the wine glass the bartender brought out for him, gaze thoughtful.

For the first time since this campaign began, for the first time since your constant sparring became something else, seeing you like this doesn’t give him that same satisfaction. You look like you’re one poorly worded email away from full collapse, and that… doesn’t feel like a win.

The bartender returns quietly, placing a plate in front of you. A burger, fries, and a glass of water with more wine. The scent alone breaks your focus; crispy potatoes, buttery toasted bun, something grilled and undeniably American.

Your fingers hover mid-keystroke. You blink at the plate and let out a laugh. “Really? A burger? In Korea?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Hey, I asked for anything warm. Plus, you needed something quick and easy. Not too complicated.”

He pauses for a second, “Kind of like you.”

You shoot him a look, utterly unimpressed. “Ha. Ha.”

Jungkook grabs a fry off your plate like it’s his, gesturing for you to follow. “Eat.”

You cross your arms, “I don’t have time.”

“Yeah, you do,” he says, motioning at your food. “Besides, I’m not leaving until you do.”

You make a face, a full-body grimace of indignation and something dangerously close to a pout. You roll your eyes so hard it nearly counts as exercise and mutter something under your breath, but just as you’re about to double down on your disdain, your stomach growls. Your own body has betrayed you completely.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow with quiet delight, and barks out a laugh, entirely too pleased with himself.

You glare at him like you’re deciding whether prison time is worth it. Painfully and dramatically, you grab a fry. It’s an exaggerated, defiant motion. You nibble at the end of it like it’s a hostage negotiation.

Jungkook hums, “There we go. Not so hard, was it?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just take another bite with the same energy as someone doing squats at gunpoint, while your other hand keeps typing, eyes locked on the glowing blur of your spreadsheet. If you don’t look at him, it doesn’t count.

And then because he’s a menace and a flirt and apparently clinically incapable of shutting up, he leans forward. “You know, pouty looks good on you.”

Very slowly, very deliberately, you lift your gaze. To him, it finally feels like you’re not truly ignoring him.

From there, the conversation doesn’t happen all at once. It unfolds gradually, kind of like rain soaking slowly into the sidewalk. You’re still typing, still pretending to work, your attention split between whatever meaningless data is on your screen and the man next to you who won’t stop peeling back your armor with casual little flicks of conversation.

Somehow, between reluctant bites of fries and the low hum of hotel jazz, you start talking. Just… regular conversation that isn’t heavy.

“So,” he begins, fingers tapping the side of his glass. “Calvin Klein. How’d you end up here?”

You click through some Excel sheets. “Hard work, a few miracles, a lot of people underestimating me.”

He tips his head. “Didn’t you say you started in New York?”

“I did. But I had internships in Seoul during university. They were smaller houses. Luxury branding though. I moved to the U.S. after I got the global marketing position.” It’s all now rolling off your tongue so easily.

“And now you run the whole thing.”

You acknowledge him, arching a brow. “Surprised?”

Jungkook smirks, snatching another fry. “Not really. But you’re younger than most people in your position, right?”

You sigh through your nose. “Yes, and most of them don’t let me forget it.”

Jungkook nods slowly. He gets it; the pressure, the eyes, the constant need to prove you belong in a room they never built for you in the first place.

“People underestimate you a lot, huh?” he asks.

“Always.”

“And you love proving them wrong.”

That makes you take a pause. You don’t rush to fill the silence, mostly because you don’t have to. It hangs there, soft and strange and long enough to feel like the truth.

“What about you?” you ask, shifting the conversation, not because you’re particularly curious, but because he’s looking at you too closely and you need a second to breathe.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, “What about me?”

“You became an idol when you were, what…12? 13? That couldn’t have been easy.”

His expression flickers briefly. A shift too subtle for most to notice, but you do.

“No,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t.”

You study him now, less like a challenge or a puzzle. But more so… as a person.

“Do you ever regret it?” You take a sip from your wine.

Jungkook tilts his head, gaze drifting somewhere else. “No. But…” He pauses. “I wonder, sometimes what it would’ve been like to be normal.”

You weren’t expecting the honesty. The way he says it with curiosity, like he’s asked himself the same question in the quiet of his own head a thousand times and never said it out loud until now.

“To be normal?” you echo, placing your glass down.

He nods. “To be anonymous. To go to school like everyone else. To have weekends. To do dumb shit without it ending up on some gossip site three hours later.”

You sit with that. You need a moment to let it rearrange the version of him you’ve built in your head. This is someone lonelier, someone who has been living in a fishbowl since he was a kid and still managed to become this.

“I get that,” you say, and it surprises you how much you mean it.

Jungkook turns back to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “You do?”

“I’ve spent my whole life working. I was always the youngest in every room, and every board I’ve ever had to sit on. I had to prove I belonged there. And sometimes I wonder… what if I didn’t? What if I’d taken my time and let myself be young?”

He leans forward again, resting his arms on the table, “Would you change anything?”

Your mind flickers to the sleepless nights, the overexerted ambition, the girls you once knew in Busan who married young and stayed put, your childhood apartment with the leaky sink and cheap wallpaper. To the version of you that never left.

You shake your head, “No. But I think about it sometimes.”

Jungkook nods like he understands. The conversation doesn’t end. It just… shifts. The sharpness between you remains, but it’s dulled, like a knife put back in its sheath. You talk about Busan, about the beaches, the old seafood stalls, the sleepy summers that felt longer when you were kids.

Jungkook grins when you mention the accent, eyes lighting up like he’s been waiting for this part. “Ah, so that’s why I heard you mutter ssibal under your breath the other day,” he teases. “Sounded like it came straight out of 2012.”

You roll your eyes, feigning offense. “It only comes out when I’m stressed.”

“So… constantly?”

You throw a fry at him. He dodges it, laughing.

For a moment, it feels simple. Like you’re not two people who should absolutely not be sitting here at midnight, eating fries and sharing childhood wounds.

“Be honest,” he muses, “When’s the last time you actually went back to Busan?”

And just like that, the easy feeling catches in your throat. The question lands soft but inside, it cracks something. Busan isn’t just a city to you. It’s a memory you’ve kept sealed shut, a version of yourself you’ve outgrown but never quite buried. For all the years you’ve spent running away from it, there’s always been that quiet fear gnawing at your ribs: that if you go back, even for a second, you might not know who you are anymore. Or worse, you’ll remember. You’ll remember the girl who left because staying felt like failure. Some days, when you’re too tired to lie to yourself, you wonder if that’s why you haven’t been back. Not because you can’t, but because you’re terrified you don’t belong there anymore.

You hesitate. For some reason, your fingers are still hovering over your keyboard, mid-sentence, mid-excuse, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for you to remember who you are.

And then, without thinking, without looking at him, you reach up and close your laptop.

You have unconsciously waved a white flag of surrender.

“I try to go back at least once a year,” you sigh, “For Chuseok, if I can swing it.”

Jungkook hums warmly. “Big family?”

You nod. “Very.”

He smiles, already picturing it. “So you were one of those kids with fifty cousins sprinting around the yard, screaming over food and stealing snacks from the kitchen?”

You can’t help it; the memory makes your mouth twitch a little. “Yeah. My mom used to cook like she was feeding the entire peninsula. And every surface in the house would be covered in something, rice cookers, trays of fried food. It was chaos.”

Jungkook grins, “Let me guess. Seafood pancake the size of a steering wheel, enough kimchi jjigae to fill a kiddie pool, and at least one auntie bringing her secret homemade makgeolli in an old Sprite bottle?”

You laugh, tipping your head back slightly. “God. You really are from Busan.”

He shrugs proudly. “Born and raised.”

“The second I walked through the door,” you say, a little more softly now, “they’d shove rice balls and hot soup at me like I’d just returned from war.”

“That’s how you know you’re truly home,” Jungkook reminisces. “You’re not allowed to be hungry.”

Your stomach flips at that word. Home. It lodges itself beneath your ribs before you can stop it.

You clear your throat and shift in your seat. “What about you?” you question, redirecting the spotlight. “Big family?”

Jungkook plays with the stem of his wine glass. “Not as big as yours, probably. But it was enough. Me, my parents, my brother. We always spent the holidays together with food, board games, my mom yelling at us for eating before the table was set.”

“Did you ever get to do the normal Busan teenager thing?” You giggle lightly at the thought of it.

He raises a brow. “What, like sneaking out to Haeundae with your friends to watch the sunrise?”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “So you did?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugs again,. “You?”

You scoff, waving a hand in the air. “Please. I had it down to a science. Out the back door at 11:30. Home by 5:00, bed made, face washed, phone off. My mother never knew.”

Jungkook chuckles amusedly. “You were the responsible one, huh? The one dragging everyone else out of trouble?”

“Somebody had to be,” you say, lifting your glass for a slow sip.

“So serious,” he teases. “Even back then.”

You set the glass down, mouth curling. “You don’t get to where I am without a little discipline.”

His gaze drifts over your face, thoughtful. “I bet you still were rebellious though”

You raise a brow. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, lips curling. “I think you like breaking the rules more than you let on.”

You know he’s not talking about Busan or teenage rebellion or barefoot sprints down side streets with your shoes in your hands and curfews already blown to hell.

He’s talking about you and him. About how you keep drawing the line and then stepping over it. About the trailer, the conference room. About the fact that every time you say it’s the last time, whether it’s to yourself or to him, you never really mean it.You refuse to give him the satisfaction. There won’t even be a hint of agreement that shows. You roll your eyes and reach for another fry like it’s a mic you’re about to drop. You bite into it with the kind of pointed defiance usually reserved for toddlers.

“You think you know me, Jungkook?” you ask flatly.

He grins. “I think I’m getting there.”

The smart move, the safe move, the version of you that has this conversation under control would be to disagree with him.

Instead, you stare at him. Fingers still pressed against the slick condensation of your wine glass, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and indignation.

He says it so casually like he’s peeled back the first few layers and now he’s just waiting for you to stop pretending there’s nothing left underneath.

You need to remind him exactly who you are and exactly why you never let people get close. There’s this unfamiliar discomfort curling at the edge of your confidence.

What the hell is this? This slow, winding conversation that isn’t bait or bravado?

You pull your walls back up tightly. “Getting there?” you echo, “That’s optimistic.”

“I like my chances.”

You roll your eyes again. “You would.”

“I mean,” he says, mouth quirking, “you did close your laptop.”

Oh god. You hadn’t even noticed.

Jungkook watches it register and the way your posture stiffens. You shake your head quickly, a breath sharp through your nose, and reach for your laptop again with renewed purpose. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter. “I was just—”

“—taking a break?” he finishes for you,“Talking to me?”

“Admit it,” he keeps going, “I’m growing on you.”

You scoff instinctively. Shake your head like the idea is laughable. “You’re insufferable,” you say.

You really don’t know when it happened but you feel like you might be losing ground.

You tip your wine glass back, draining the last sip like it’s going to grant you strength, or clarity or at the very least the illusion of control. The warmth settles low in your chest, dull and steady, a quiet reminder that you’ve let this go on longer than you meant to. You exhale and push your chair back with a soft scrape against the floor.

“I need to go to bed,” you say, clipped with finality. “And so do you. Big shoot tomorrow.”

It should land like a period. A closing line.

Jungkook just sits there, no surprise and no protest.

Running is your specialty, isn’t it? Especially when things start feeling real.

You stand, smoothing your wrinkled hoodie tucking your phone into your pocket, gathering your laptop like it’s a shield.

Just as you turn, his hand finds your waist. It’s not demanding or aggressive. It’s simply there.

God, you hate how your breath stutters. Hate how, for one traitorous second, you almost lean into it. It’s not even the touch itself — it’s what it implies. The fact that he knows exactly how close he can get before you break.

You glance down at his hand, then up. He’s already looking at you, eyes dark, lips parted.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, “Don’t.”

His thumb drags across the hem of your hoodie but you step back before you can fully indulge in it.

He lets go, hand falling back to his side. “You’re no fun,” he says matter-of-factly.

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “Go to bed, Jungkook.”

You turn on your heels, fingers tight around your laptop. You’re ready to walk away, to build distance, to pretend none of this ever happened—

“Wait. Hold on.”

You freeze. Clearly this is what he does. He gets you to stop.

Slowly, you turn back. Jungkook is still in his chair, spread-out limbs. “You’re wound up so tight, I’m surprised you can still breathe,” he notes.

You go stiff instantly. He just reached under your skin and found the part of you that you keep duct-taped shut. “Jungkook—”

“You’re stressed about tomorrow. The shoot. The campaign. Your never-ending checklist of things to fix, control, and solve.” He tilts his head, gaze locked on yours. “I can help you relieve some of that stress.”

Your feet are already pivoting away from him. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m being helpful. Offering a solution,” Jungkook’s shit-eating grin is a mockery of you.

You spin around so fast your hoodie sways with you. “A solution?” you snap. “You are the fucking problem.”

“Am I?” He stands up, shoulders relaxed. “Because from where I’m standing…”

He steps forward.

“…you look like you need me.”

Your stomach flips violently.

No. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.

You straighten your spine, square your shoulders, roll every ounce of professional restraint back into place. “You’re delusional.”

“You push yourself too hard.” His voice is low, careful, almost maddeningly calm. “You skip meals. You forget how to sit still. You act like rest is something you have to earn.”

He’s not accusing you. Which somehow makes it worse. He’s just stating facts.

His gaze skims over your face like he’s cataloging every reaction, checking for any signs of a flicker of resistance.

Finally, after a minute, he says,”Let me take care of you.”

It doesn’t sound like seduction. It doesn’t sound like pity.

Maybe it’s the wine still buzzing low in your veins. Maybe it’s the exhaustion clawing at your spine. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve spent weeks holding yourself together, and he’s the first person to see it.

You don’t care or know.

Because when he extends his hand, rings glinting under the amber hotel lights, palm open like he’s not asking, but offering, you take it.

No quips. No eye rolls. No fight left to give.

You let him lead you through the quiet, cavernous lobby, past the sleeping concierge, into the elevator. The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click. Jungkook stands beside you, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw set. His reflection in the mirrored elevator wall watches you, even when he doesn’t turn his head.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Somewhere between floor two and three, your mind flickers briefly to the last time you let someone in like this. The only man who ever got you to close your laptop without a fight. The only one who made you believe, for a second, that you didn’t have to choose between ambition and affection. You never really recovered from that, never fully trusted anyone not to resent the parts of you that needed to keep working. But now here’s Jungkook, pulling you away from your work without asking you to apologize for it.

Your skin is still humming from his touch, heart unable to stop tripping over itself.

The trailer was supposed to be the end. The final lapse. A mistake you could file under temporary insanity and bury beneath a mountain of brand deadlines and executive reports.

Now you’re here again. The numbers above the elevator door tick upward like a countdown to disaster.

Your grip tightens around your laptop, fingertips aching. In between the hotel bar and the lobby and this elevator, your resolve went quiet.

The elevator dings and you two shuffle out. All you can hear is the hush of carpet under your shoes, his steps right beside yours.

Jungkook stops in front of his door, pulls out the key card with one hand, swipes it through the reader, and the lock clicks open.

He doesn’t say anything. He steps aside, holding the door with one arm like he’s letting you decide.

You do.

You walk past him, cool air rushing out to meet your flushed skin, goosebumps blooming across your arms like your body already knows what’s coming.

When you turn around, he’s already looking at you. It’s not the usual look he wears. It’s not the push-your-buttons-and-watch-you-crack gaze he’s mastered. This one is quieter like he’s waiting for something to fall apart and praying it’s not him.

Before you can reason with yourself, before the part of you that’s still pretending to be composed can scream what are you doing, you move.

Your laptop slips from your hand, thudding softly against the carpet. Your phone tumbles after it. You don’t give a fuck.

Because your hands are already on him.

You push Jungkook back against the door, hard. He hits the wood with a quiet thud, breath knocked from his lungs in a sharp exhale, surprised, but not resisting.

And then, your mouth is crashing into his.

It’s not anything a sober, clear-headed version of you would allow. It’s reckless.

Your hands fist in his hair, dragging him closer like you’ve been aching to rip him apart. His lips part under yours, a groan caught between his teeth, his hands already on your waist, dragging you closer.

This isn’t like before. It’s not like that moment you swore you wouldn’t think about again and then did, over and over. It’s all the tension you’ve swallowed for weeks snapping like overstretched wire.

You moan into his mouth, and that’s it — he’s done pretending. His grip tightens, hands sliding down over the curve of your hips before curling under your thighs.

He lifts you up and your legs wrap around him on instinct, a breathless sound leaving your throat as Jungkook turns you, your back slamming against the door. His mouth drags down your jaw, down your neck.

“Fuck,” you whisper when his teeth scrape against the delicate skin beneath your ear.

His tongue flicks over your pulse point. His mouth sucks just hard enough to make your toes curl. His grip is bruising into your thighs, breath ragged against your skin.

“You’re been driving me insane,” he mutters. Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide.

You want to ruin whatever’s left of his self-control. You want to be the reason he snaps. If anyone’s going to unravel in this room, it’s going to be both of you.

Jungkook doesn’t even pretend to go for the bed. He sinks to his knees like worship comes naturally to him when it’s you he’s looking at. The door is still biting into your spine, but you barely notice it over the way his hands are already dragging your sweatpants down, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your waist. His breath is hot, lips swollen from the kind of kiss that could’ve shattered glass. Without hesitation, he yanks the sweatpants clean off your legs and flings them somewhere behind him. You’re ninety percent sure it lands on a lamp.

Maybe it’s the wine or the week you’ve had or the fact that you haven’t slept in days, but seeing him on his knees for you, hands splayed on your bare thighs, eyes hungry, does something catastrophic to your sanity. It really shouldn’t make your pulse skip like this.

His hands drag down your sides, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch he’s about to unveil. Fingers slipping just under the waistband of your underwear, knuckles brushing skin that’s already hot to the touch. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, sliding the fabric down inch by torturous inch, watching it fall past your thighs, over your knees, pooling at your ankles.

And suddenly, you’re standing there completely exposed in nothing but your old hoodie and the heat of his gaze that burns straight through you.

His breath is uneven, jaw tense, eyes locked on your face. You try to stand still, to play it cool, but your chest is rising too fast and your hands are twitching like they don’t know where to go.

You opt to thread them into his hair instead. Your fingers tangle at the roots, nails scraping softly against his scalp, and that’s when he moves. Leaning in, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans. His grip tightens around your thighs, anchoring you to the door, to him, to whatever this is rapidly becoming.

He mouths at your skin, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, higher, his tongue swiping gently, teasing, sending shivers up your spine so violently you nearly buckle.

When you look down, he’s already staring up. Like he could spend hours like this and still not get enough. Like you’re the answer to every sin he’s ever been tempted by.

“You look so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, hands skating up again, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your hoodie.

His teeth graze your skin enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You jolt instinctively, hips flinching forward.

“So pretty. So perfect,” he breathes, voice unsteady, like he means every damn word and hates how much he does. Before you can protest, before you can say anything about how close you are to the door, how thin the walls are, how anyone walking by could hear, Jungkook shushes you. “I want to take care of you.”

His hands spread you open. He licks up your slit as if he’s starving for it. That earns him a gasp from you, your head falling back against the door with a soft thud, fingers tightening in his hair so hard he groans into you.

Soft flicks of his tongue. Pressed kisses. A slow, slick circle around your clit that has your knees damn near giving out.

“Jungkook—” you whisper.

His hands grip tighter, holding your thighs open, making you take it. He looks up, eyes black with hunger, lips glossy with you, jaw set.

“Taste so fucking good,” he marvels, voice hoarse, lips hovering as his breath ghosts over your skin.

You can’t even answer. Can’t do anything but feel the drag of him licking into you like he’s rewriting your anatomy with his mouth alone.

He moans right into you, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you cry out. “Oh my god,” you choke, nearly sliding down the door as your thighs start to tremble.

But Jungkook doesn’t let you go. He presses in deeper, groaning into your cunt like he’s home.

Jungkook is a goddamn menace. A man on a mission. On his knees like he’s praying, only you’re the altar, the sermon, the divine intervention he’s set on worshipping until you forget your own name.

His grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging in like he’s trying to leave fingerprints behind. His palms press you wider, firmer, anchoring you against the door with nowhere to run.

His tongue is merciless, flicking over your clit, lapping you up like he’s dehydrated.

You’re past the point of composure or pride or anything that resembles logic.

“Fuck, Jungkook—” you choke out, the words punched out of your lungs in gasps.

Your head slams back against the door again as your thighs clench around his head, muscles spasming with every flick of his tongue.

He moans like he likes it when your legs shake. Like your desperation turns him on more than anything.

“That’s it,” he rasps, lips brushing against your soaked skin. “Fuck, baby. Give me more.”

He sucks on your clit, his mouth sealing tight around you like he’s trying to drink you dry.

The sound you make isn’t human. It tears from your throat, your core clenching around nothing, desperate for relief, for anything to ground you in the middle of how fucking good this feels.

You’ve never had someone so eager to fall apart between your legs. Had someone so content to stay there.

Jungkook groans again and it vibrates through your entire body like a shot to the spine. If anything, he goes harder. Two of his fingers, thick and deft, slide into you with devastating ease, like you were made to take them.

He doesn’t give you time. He just finds you already soaked and trembling and opens you up without mercy. Jungkook curls them upwards, knowing exactly where your sweet spot is, which normally would concern you that he knows your body well already, but instead you scream “Jungkook, oh my god.”

Your back arches clean off the door, fingers yanking at his hair like you’re trying to keep yourself from flying apart. His fingers pump into you at a brutal, perfect angle, dragging over that spot again and again and again.

His mouth wastes no time, already back on you, tongue flicking and sucking. “That’s it,” he pants, voice guttural, his mouth gleaming, his tongue ruthless. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

You moan out like you don’t care who hears, like you want the whole damn hallway to know. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed. You grind into his mouth like you’ve lost your mind, chasing the high he’s dragging you toward with no intention of letting up. “F-fuck, I’m gonna cum, don’t you dare stop.”

“Like I’d stop when you sound that pretty.“, he growls, “I want you to cum in my mouth.”

His fingers piston harder, his mouth sliding up and down with. You can’t take it. You can’t.

But he gives you no choice.

The orgasm hits you like whiplash. A cry tears out of your throat, your legs locking around his head, your hips jerking helplessly as you come undone on his fingers, on his mouth, on him. “Oh my, fuck, I’m cumming —“

You’re sobbing now, barely coherent. Your release gushes out of you, soaking his hand, his wrist, his lips and he moans like he’s grateful for it.

His tongue licks up every drop. His fingers move slower now, coaxing the last waves of pleasure from your twitching body. His hands never let go, one on your hip, the other buried inside you, keeping you still.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs almost to himself, lips dragging over the tremble in your leg. “So perfect like this.”

And that’s when your knees finally give out. The second his fingers slip free, the second his mouth leaves your oversensitive skin, your body surrenders. You collapse onto the carpet and he catches you, strong arms sliding under your thighs and around your back. He eases you down to the carpet with him like you’re made of glass.

There’s sweat cooling on your neck, your pulse racing in your throat. He doesn’t dare say anything cocky or ruin it with a joke.

He’s not sure if he went too far. He almost knows he did and is waiting to see if you’ll push him away.

But you don’t. You physically can’t. Right now, in this moment, you don’t want to.

His breath is shallow, lips parted, glistening with you in the dim light. His eyes are dark, blown wide, barely human. Hunger carved into every line of his face. Like he’s weighing the options between dragging you back onto his tongue or flipping you over and fucking you from a new angle.

His hands sit idle on his thighs, slick with your release, itching to touch again. To finish what he started, even if you’re already wrecked. Even if he already knows you’d let him.

Your hands find his face, palms hot against his skin, and then your lips are on his, desperately and messy.

You kiss him like he’s oxygen. Like he’s the only way back to Earth. Like you’ve never tasted anything like yourself on someone else’s tongue and didn’t know it could make you need them more.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, and his hands fly to your waist, yanking you down into his lap like he’s been waiting for this permission.

You taste yourself on his tongue, feel how his chest heaves against yours, how his body is burning beneath you. His cock is straining, pressing into you with enough pressure to make your breath catch mid-kiss.

You just keep kissing him, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth, licking into his mouth, gasping into every moan.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants. His hands grip your thighs again, “Can’t even stand after I’m done with you.”

Your nails drag down his back, scratching through the cotton of his shirt, your hips twitching against his, legs wrapping tighter around his waist like your body’s forgotten how to let go. “Shut up,” you mutter, catching his mouth again, nipping at his lip.

You could slap him. You could kiss him harder. You opt for the second thing.

Jungkook’s hands slide lower, groping your ass and his hips roll up slightly, a soft grind that leaves your mouth parting in a broken gasp. He’s still hard. Painfully so.

But he doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t move to unzip his jeans. He’s not making it transactional. He wraps his arms around you and breathes. The two of you lay on the carpet in a tangle of limbs and oversensitive skin and sweat, and this time, there’s no urgency. No rush to get dressed. No nervous backpedaling.

Your head drops to his shoulder, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He smells like you now with a hint of whatever subtle cologne still clings to his shirt.

You don’t remind him of boundaries you never actually set, don’t shove the moment back into the safe, distant box where you normally keep your feelings.

You just stay, fingers idly toying with the edge of his tattooed wrist. Breathing him in like he’s not the exact reason you’ve spent the last month losing sleep.

You’re not thinking about campaign briefs or product shots or the three urgent emails Daniel probably sent while you were pinned to a door. You’re not thinking at all.

“Feeling better?” He wonders out loud.

You dare to lift your head. “Mm. A little.”

Jungkook makes a noise of satisfaction, “So I was right.”

You scoff. “Don’t make me regret coming up here.”

His laugh is low, rumbling beneath your cheek. “Noted.”

Your fingers trace along the edge of ink on his skin like you might find answers in the lines. You tell yourself it’s still nothing. Another late-night lapse in judgment you’ll shove into the archives tomorrow.

It really doesn’t feel like nothing, though. And that scares you more than anything.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wake before the sun.

The room is silent, painted in that hazy, blue-gray light that only exists for a few short minutes before the world remembers it has things to do. Sleep still weighs heavy in your limbs, but your eyes are closed.

You don’t remember when he carried you to bed. There was a vague, dreamlike sensation of being lifted off the floor, of something warm pressed against your back, of fingers adjusting a pillow beneath your head.

Now you’re here, cheek pressed against a solid chest, arm draped around your waist, fingers curled loosely in the edge of a hotel sheet you definitely didn’t tuck in yourself.

For one suspended, silent moment, you don’t move or panic.

And… reality floods in like a dam breaking. Your eyes snap open.

Jungkook. Sleeping soundly beside you.

Breathing slow and even, one arm still heavy across your waist. His hair is tousled, his entire face relaxed. He looks younger like this. Less like the Jungkook who flirts just to get a rise out of you and more like someone you should not be this close to.

You never sleep over at a man’s house. Not after the first time. Not after the second.

You bolt upright like the bed’s caught fire. There’s a moment of untangling, sheets twisted around your legs, hoodie riding halfway up your torso, laptop halfway across the room. You scramble through it all, adrenaline laced with embarrassment, stomach clenching with the kind of shame that only hits after you’ve slept beside someone who shouldn’t make you feel safe.

Jungkook doesn’t move while you cause noise. He lies there, all golden skin and easy breath, completely unbothered, as if you didn’t just crawl into his mouth last night and fall asleep on his chest like some kind of walking red flag.

He looks… peaceful.

You hate how different he looks when he’s not awake enough to be cocky. Hate that for a second, you wonder what kind of man he is in the morning.

You shake off that thought like a wet coat, pull on yesterday’s sweatpants with practiced indifference, and snatch your phone off the nightstand.

You don’t glance back, or hesitate or wait for him to wake up and say something that might make you stay. You walk out of there with your laptop in one hand, your dignity dragging behind you, and your heart pounding a little too fast for your liking.

By the time you make it back to your own hotel room, your pulse has calmed down enough. You shower, get dressed, do all trivial human things that deserve your attention rather than jungkook . You bury yourself in your inbox like it might dig you out of the mess you made.

And when you finally walk onto set, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, a perfectly tailored blazer slung over your shoulders, you’re never been more ready to pretend last night never happened. Ready for him to smirk as per usual and say something infuriating about how you’re obsessed with him. Ready for the back-and-forth, the teasing.

Except, that’s not actually what happens and your brain turns into mush.

Jungkook says nothing when you walk past or when you call out instructions. When he catches your eye, you brace for it. The smirk. The too-obvious stare that always lingers just long enough to piss you off. You wait for him to play the game — whatever little game this is.

Instead, he just nods at you so goddamn normally it makes your skin prickle.

“You look pretty today,” he says.

Simple. And then he’s vanishing far off to his team without a wink, follow-up or a trace of the man who had you trembling under his tongue last night.

Almost as if you didn’t wake up on his chest and forget, for one stupid moment, that you’ve spent your entire life keeping people exactly where they belong; at arm’s length.

You stand there, frozen mid-step, your coffee suddenly tasting like battery acid. This is worse than the incessant flirting, than the smug comments, thsn every heated, too-close, too-loud argument you’ve ever had with him.

Somehow, you’re still calling the shots but something feels off, and you can feel it in every bone of your body.

Jungkook moves quietly across the set, present but distant, on the edges of your world like smoke.

What really fucks with your head is you keep waiting for a comment to be made, some annoying little thing about how you can’t keep your eyes off him. Because at least when he’s pushing, you know what to do. At least then, the fire feels familiar.

By the time lunch break rolls around, your jaw aches from clenching, shoulders welded to your ears. You make your way to the break station, clutching your empty coffee cup.

This is fine. You are fine. This is nothing.

You roll your shoulders back and breathe deep, try to reset.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim as you jerk around, already scowling.

Daniel.

He’s standing beside you, arms crossed, eyebrows arched like he’s just been waiting to pounce. You glare at him over your shoulder. “What the fuck do you want?”

Daniel grins, completely unphased. “You tell me. You’re the one acting like you’ve got a body buried under the set.”

You roll your eyes and force your voice flat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The words leave your mouth quickly, in a way that’s soaked in a guilt you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Daniel doesn’t buy it. He hums under his breath, gaze drifting casually across the studio until it lands on Jungkook.

Standing with the creative team, listening intently, nodding along like he’s never had his mouth on you. Like he didn’t pin you to a door and make you forget your own name. Like he didn’t let you fall asleep wrapped around him like it was easy.

And Daniel, that sharp-eyed little fucker, catches it immediately. A smile spreads across his features slowly, “You and Jungkook.”

That’s all he says.

Your hand slips. Coffee cup flies out of your palm. It falls to the floor with a crash, loud and sharp, echoing off the walls like a warning shot. Hot liquid splashes across your shoes, soaking into the hem of your pants. You stare at it, stunned, like your body forgot how to move.

Daniel blinks. “Okay…”

You’re already clenching your jaw, chest rising and falling way too fast.

Daniel tilts his head like he’s looking at a puzzle piece that just clicked into place. “I was kidding, but —”

“Shut up.”

He lifts his hands in surrender, but the smirk in his eyes is brutal.

You inhale through your nose and manage to grind out, “I need to change.”

And before Daniel can say another word, you walk away. Straight to the bathroom. Straight away from the fact that Jungkook has completely thrown you off your axis.

You have no idea how to fix it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

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ccupcakeyss · 2 months ago

Note

just wanna let u know how ur toji fics comfort me sm :(

i had a bad day but u helped and ilysm for that! i hope u get the revognition u deserve 🖤

it makes my day to hear my writing comforts you, and i want that for all of my readers more than anything. im sorry to hear youre having a tough day, and so i hope that the toji fic ive just written helps you even more. iloveyou and im so proud of you!! please enjoy!

𓍢 ଓ ׅ ⬞ EVEN ON HARD DAYS

SUMMARY: after a long, heavy day leaves you feeling quiet and worn down, Toji comes home and immediately senses something’s off. without pushing for answers, he offers the kind of steady, quiet comfort only he can — holding you close, distracting you with small talk and your favorite drama, and just being there. then when little Megumi wakes from his nap and sees you still feeling low, he joins in, offering his own quiet, childlike comfort.

WC: 1.8K including bonus scene!

NOTES: this is for all my readers going through a tough day, and could use some wholesome husband toji to cure them<3

The front door shut with a muted click, the dull sound of keys landing in the catch dish following a beat later.

Toji had just gotten back from the gym, the usual ease in his muscles from a good workout still lingering, though the second he stepped into the quiet apartment, he felt it — that shift in the air. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful. The kind that clung heavy to the walls.

His eyes flicked toward the couch, where you were lying, half curled up with your back to the room. You weren’t scrolling on your phone, not flipping through some show you barely paid attention to, not even pretending to read like you sometimes did. You were just… there. Still.

And that alone told him enough.

Toji stood in place for a second, running a hand through his still-damp hair, the last bit of gym sweat cooling on his skin. His usual sharpness faded into something quieter as he toed off his boots, stretching his neck with a soft crack before wandering over.

He didn’t say anything at first — just leaned against the back of the couch, gaze soft but unreadable. His voice finally broke the silence, low and calm.

“Bad day?”

You shrugged, the motion small, barely there, and didn’t lift your head. That was more answer than he needed. Toji exhaled quietly, moving around the couch and settling down onto the other end. His body sank into the cushions, one arm stretched along the back, not crowding you but close enough that you could feel the steady comfort of his presence.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice easy and even. “I’ve had those.”

The two of you sat in that soft stretch of quiet for a few moments, no pressure to fill it with small talk. Toji wasn’t the kind of man who forced conversation, and you’d always appreciated that. After a minute or two, you shifted slightly — enough to lean your shoulder against his thigh, head resting where the fabric of his sweatpants met skin. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen; just lowered his hand to rest against your shoulder, fingers tracing absent, lazy patterns across the fabric of your shirt.

“Long one, huh?” he murmured, not asking for details — just giving you room to breathe.

You nodded, the weight in your chest easing just a little, and Toji tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking about the right thing to say. But in the end, it wasn’t words that did it.

It was the way his hand moved, slow and steady, along your arm. The way he shifted slightly so you could tuck yourself closer without needing to ask. The way he sat there — the way he always did — like he wasn’t going anywhere.

“C’mere,” he said softly, after a while, moving just enough to make room. You slid closer, settling into the space at his side, your head resting against his chest. His arm came around you, comfortable and warm, palm resting against your hip, anchoring you there. Not tight, not clingy. Just steady.

You could hear the faint rhythm of his heart, solid and even, and for the first time all day, your shoulders lost their tension.

“Don’t gotta talk about it,” he muttered into your hair. “But if you do, I’m here.”

You stayed quiet, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t the type to fill the air with meaningless noise. After a few minutes, he shifted slightly, glancing toward the TV remote on the coffee table.

“Wanna watch somethin’? Could throw on that dumb show you like,” he offered, lips quirking just slightly, voice lighter. “The one with all the drama and the bad acting. You know the one.”

You let out a soft laugh, the first one of the day, and his arm tightened around you for a second — just enough for you to feel it.

“That’s better,” he said quietly, leaning his head back again, content to just hold you there against him while the world moved on outside your walls.

And when you finally relaxed enough to close your eyes, his hand kept that same slow, unhurried rhythm along your arm, like a silent promise that no matter how heavy the day had been, you weren’t carrying it alone.

Not while he was here.

The low murmur of the TV filled the living room, some over-the-top drama playing in the background — the kind of show Toji usually made fun of but never shut off when you wanted it on. You were tucked under his arm, your head resting against his chest, fingers loosely curled against the fabric of his shirt. The weight of the day hadn’t disappeared, not fully, but it wasn’t crushing anymore. Not with him there.

Neither of you said much, the silence broken only by the occasional snort from Toji when the acting on screen got too ridiculous.

Then, soft footsteps echoed from down the hall — small and unhurried, the kind of shuffling sound only one person in the house made. Toji’s head tilted slightly, eyes flicking toward the hallway before you both saw a sleepy little figure step into view.

Megumi.

His hair was mussed, sticking up even messier than usual from his nap, and his oversized t-shirt hung a little crooked on his small frame as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. The room was dim, but even in the soft light, the kid’s sharp little eyes caught onto something right away.

He blinked at the two of you on the couch. His gaze flicked between his father’s arm around you and the faint traces of sadness still lingering on your face, even though you’d tried to smooth it over.

Toji felt the small shift in your body as Megumi approached, and he didn’t move or let go — just gave your side the slightest squeeze, wordlessly letting you know he’d noticed too.

Megumi padded over on quiet feet, stopping right in front of the couch, looking up at you with a frown that was a little too perceptive for someone his age. His small voice came out soft and unsure.

“…Mama, you okay?”

The question was so simple, so honest, that it tugged at your chest all over again. You managed a small smile, brushing a hand through his messy hair, fingers lingering there for a moment.

“Just a rough day, sweetheart. I’m alright.”

But Megumi didn’t look convinced. He climbed up onto the couch, carefully settling himself in the open space on your other side, not saying much — just pressing his small shoulder into yours, his little hand resting gently against your arm in the same quiet, thoughtful way his father did.

Toji watched the whole thing, lips quirking slightly at the sight of his son trying to comfort you the same way he would, even without being told. His hand came to rest along your shoulder again, his other reaching across to give Megumi a light tap on the back.

“Good instincts, kid,” he muttered, a quiet smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “She needed that.”

Megumi didn’t say anything, just leaned against you a little more, his small weight warm and comforting. Toji gave your side another gentle squeeze, and the three of you sat there like that — tangled up in quiet comfort, the world outside forgotten for a little while.

The show kept playing in the background, the drama on screen ridiculous enough that Toji finally huffed out a dry chuckle.

“See? Told you it was dumb,” he muttered, glancing down at you, his voice low but steady. “But if it keeps your mind off the rest of the day, I’ll sit through the whole damn season.”

Megumi tilted his head up, wide-eyed. “Even the boring parts?”

Toji snorted. “Yeah. Even the boring parts.”

And just like that, the heaviness started to ease again. Not all at once, but enough. Between Toji’s steady presence and Megumi’s small, quiet warmth, you weren’t alone. Not now. Not ever.

BONUS SCENE!

The drama played on, the volume low, the room dim and calm. Somewhere along the way, the weight of the day finally caught up with you. Curled between Toji and Megumi, your body had relaxed more than you realized — the exhaustion slipping past the point of resistance.

Megumi had dozed off first, his small head tipped onto your shoulder, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing matching the quiet rhythm of the room. You weren’t far behind, lulled by the warmth of both of them, your hand still lightly resting on your son’s back even as sleep pulled you under.

Toji glanced down at the two of you when the room fell completely silent, save for the sound of soft, even breaths.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. No sharpness, no teasing — just that quiet, rare softness he kept locked away from the world. He reached over and muted the TV, then sat there for a moment, just looking at the two of you.

The weight on your face was gone now, replaced by the peaceful kind of exhaustion that only came from finally letting go.

He shifted carefully, standing up slow so he wouldn’t jostle either of you too much. First, he leaned down and scooped Megumi up, the kid’s small body curling instinctively into his chest, head flopping against his shoulder without waking.

“Light as ever, kid,” Toji muttered under his breath, carrying him down the hall with practiced ease. He laid Megumi in bed, pulling the blanket up around him and smoothing a hand once over his wild hair before heading back to the living room.

You hadn’t moved much, still half-asleep on the couch, your head now tilted slightly against the pillow where Megumi had been. Toji crouched down in front of you, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek, watching your face stir just slightly — not fully waking, but enough to know you were safe, settled.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Let’s get you to bed.”

With the same care he’d shown his son, Toji slipped one arm under your legs and the other around your back, lifting you up against his chest. You shifted instinctively, head resting against his shoulder as he carried you through the quiet apartment toward the bedroom.

He laid you down gently, pulling the blanket over you, tucking it around your shoulders the same way you’d done for Megumi countless times.

For a moment, he just stood there in the low light, staring down at you. The kind of woman who held the whole house together, the kind of woman who always put everyone else first. And even on a rough day like today, even when you’d barely spoken, you still made space for him and for Megumi.

Toji leaned down, pressing one soft, unhurried kiss to your temple.

“Got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

He switched off the light, slid in beside you, and settled close enough for you to shift toward him even in your sleep, the two of you breathing in sync as the weight of the day finally slipped away for good.

And for once, the world could wait.

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