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ruinix · 2 months ago

Note

recent walk in..sugar daddy quinn mad when he realizes you haven’t been using the black credit card he gave you for expenses

Hello, lovely. Of course, hehe.😏 You did not catch me writing this. I am just a ghost taking over the keyboard. I need to put this out before a new walkin comes out.... (edit not really fully sugar daddy!quinn. But he totally would pay for everything type of boyfriend)

Broken Promise, Broken Cards

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Spanking (pussy slapping??), Edging, Unprotected sex (protections, lovelies, they’re important), Squirting, Just Quinn being so angry that he became calm and he edges you coz he can.

Count: 3356 -> 3734 words (Edited) | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re sending him pictures of your shopping. One picture after another. One choice after another. Quinn helps you pick when you ask for his opinion. He has no problem answering your texts while he watches a replay of a game. The only problem is that Quinn has yet to receive a notification from any of your purchases.

With that, he can no longer focus on the game. It’s just white noise now while he refreshes his inbox.

Swipe down. Wait. Close the app. Open it. Swipe down.

Over and over again, whenever you send him a new photo of your successful purchase.

None. Not a single fucking one.

He is getting too agitated when he receives a photo of a paper bag of a particular brand of lingerie with your delicate hand holding it. You have your nails done earlier this morning. It’s so pretty with your favorite shade of pink and favorite flower designs. Just like how you described it before you went out. He can’t wait for your hands around him tonight.

‘Focus,’ he reprimands himself.

Shaking his head, focusing on the paper bag instead, locking in the brand, he gives the purchase a few minutes to process—or whatever the fuck—but again, nothing. He stares and stares into the screen, his eyebrows meeting. He remembers having every transaction on that card to be sent over his email too. He set that up long before. So, where the fuck are they?

Are you actually buying things or are you stealing them?

Did you bring cash?

Quinn didn’t give you cash for anything else other than your nails and the tip for its service today. His frustrations build up. He’s so close to calling the bank and making sure that the card is activated. When he receives another message, he takes a moment to calm down—he has to—before opening it.

He immediately gets distracted by how bright you look. You are grinning so much that the corners of your eyes crinkle, a blush flushing your face. Your nails are on full show once more as you hold up the bag next to your face. So beautiful.

After a solid five minutes, he remembers to refresh his inbox. Only then does it dawn at him.

Are you even using the card he gave you? No, that can’t be. You promised him to use that card today. You are definitely using it.

Aren’t you?

One last swipe down to refresh his email. Still nothing.

What the fuck.

You’re definitely not using the card.

Quinn paces. He’s getting angry for you breaking your promise, getting worried because you’re buying a lot of stuff today. More than you usually do. Didn’t you just complain about your depleting savings last night? It’s one of the reasons why he secretly transferred a few hundreds of dollars—exactly three thousand—into your account. He knows that you didn’t notice it, because you would’ve transferred it back to him after you lecture him about it. If it’s not that, did you suddenly replenish it in your own way? He quickly checks the date and confirms that it’s nowhere near payday, so that’s not it.

Where the fuck are you getting your spending money?

He refuses to acknowledge that you might be using your old credit card. The one with a fucking limit.

It can’t be.

There is no fucking way.

Something snaps in his head, pushing him to act. He rushes to your office, powers up your computer, and signs in without a hitch, because you’ve never put a password on it. If you do, he knows about your little notebook of passwords under your desk plant next to your monitor.

He never really goes through your stuff. He is content and trusts you with everything. Everything. He knows exactly how deeply you feel about him as much as he does with you. Although sometimes you hide your phone from him, that’s when you’re texting your friends about him. It’s obvious because you keep snickering while throwing glances at him. He doesn’t mind that. Not at all. You can talk to your other friends about other stuff. The fact still remains. He trusts you.

But, right now, he is losing it. He needs to see. He needs to look into your email. Just this one time. He’ll apologize for it later.

His eyes are locked on the notifications, the receipts, the confirmations. The account number on every single one of them is not the one on the black credit card he has given you. He had it memorized, and it doesn’t fucking match. You are not fucking using it. What the fuck.

An ache forms in his chest. It’s like a horrible backhand that could shake up his teeth, so horrible that he had to run his tongue over them, making a clicking sound to ensure his teeth are still rooted. He crosses his arms. His legs are spread wide as he slouches against the backrest, one leg bobbing up and down. He glares at the screen, trying to will the emails to disappear while he burns them one by one in his mind. He tries a different route to imagine the account number to change, but of course, nothing works.

He rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds at the start of a headache. His phone pings from another message. It sounds like a blaring siren, making his ears ring. After a few moments, a new mail pops up.

This is so much worse than you realizing the deposit in your debit. Because one, you broke your promise. Two, he feels useless. If you were not going to use the card, you could’ve let Quinn accompany you during this shopping spree that would at least appease his soul. But then, he can force his card into the hands of the cashiers. Realization hits him.

That’s exactly why you didn’t let him tag along. You know he’ll talk his way to overtake your payments. Exhaling, a chuckle escapes him. A smirk forms on his face as he gazes up the ceiling. You are such a clever girl, aren’t you?

He’ll give this to you, but you are in so much trouble when you come home.

As if on cue, you text him, “I’m on my way home.”

He turns your computer off, standing up. An eerie calm envelope him. He’s still so angry, yet instead of vibrating and burning outwardly, it settles deep inside his bones until nothing comes up. It’s an odd feeling. It’s not heavy. It’s not light. It just is. A calm before the storm.

He undoes his second top button. If you really want to use your credit card, you can. You’re your own person. Still, you should have kept your promise. Such a bad girl.

He walks back to the living room and sits down on the single seater, reaching the remote to close off every curtain, making his place dimmer and dimmer and dimmer.

Then he waits.

He waits until you come in with your impressive haul. Extremely impressive, because you have your arms full already. When you put them down, you only leave to get more of them until you get a little pile in the living room. It’s amusing how your grin looks so self-satisfied, not realizing that he’s sitting in the corner of the room, until your eyes land on him. Your smile turns sheepish, taking your hands behind you, not daring to come closer.

Truly clever.

“Hi, Quinny. Didn’t see you there.” You wave.

“My Love,” he greets, beckoning you with a finger, but you refuse to come, shaking your head. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to put these away.”

He watches you start with one bag with the little nightgown that looks so fucking sexy. You’re clearly distracting him and it’s working. Slightly. He obliges you, his amusement growing the more you ramble. You’ve enjoyed your shopping trip. You speak at a quicker pace than you usually do. You have a little bounce on your step. Your happy energy radiates from you in waves while you continue taking everything out of bags which you fold right after. He knows you’re aware that he knows. That’s why you’re taking your time.

Quinn’s aware that you are genuinely delighted that you distract yourself more than him.

He’s proud and happy that you enjoyed your day.

Truly.

It doesn’t erase the fact that he has already lost it. The calm that his anger turned is what’s keeping him from pouncing on you, from taking you over his lap and slamming his hand on your bare ass until you got handprints that will bruise and ache for a couple of days. Just like how you want them.

He still can’t believe that you’ve broken him just from breaking your promise.

It’s entirely laughable.

Yet heat streaks down his spine, down his lean abdomen, down to his cock.

He’s so fucking hard.

He stands up, stalking towards you while you’re crouching next to a pile of paper bags. You’re still rambling a pottery workshop you’ve come across. You’re saying that you want to go back there so you can make mugs for each other. When you’ve already successfully built a mug collection in one of his cupboards.

So adorable. So clueless about the danger prowling towards you.

He stops, his shadow looming over you. He counts the seconds, but you still don’t notice him, do you? Then he sees how your hands start to shake. You do. Silly girl.

A chuckle escapes him as he grabs your arm. He swiftly pulls you up then lifts you over his shoulder.

“Quinn!” You squeal, hitting his back a couple of times. “Put me down! You’re making me dizzy—”

You let out a moan when Quinn slaps the tender spot under your ass.

“Quiet,” he orders, making you whimper like the dirty slut you are. “What did you say before you left?”

“Bye?” You sound so confused. “I love you?”

He spanks you on the same spot again, making you moan and whine. Even more when he slips his hand under your skirt, his fingers trail up and up, then he puts you down on the bed. Instantly, you flip over, looking at him like he has taken everything from you. He can already hear your protest that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue. He glares at you, daring you to speak them, but you don’t take the bait. You usually do. Interesting.

“You bought a lot.” Quinn crawls over you.

His hand flattens over your sternum, effortlessly pushing you down.

Your pupils are so blown out when he levels his face with yours, his nose grazing yours, your breath mixing with his. He can smell the gum you chewed on before you arrived, the perfume you’ve sprayed behind your ears. Your eyes fall down his lips and up his eyes again, perfectly seducing him, but he refuses, moving away when you try to kiss him, your tongue darting out to entice him.

Not yet.

“Quinn,” you whine.

“Why’d you do it?” He asks. He kneels up, flipping you over your stomach, pressing a hand on your lower back to keep you from whatever you’re planning which is being a brat.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say with pout, shuddering when he slips his hand into your shirt. He unclasps your bra without exerting an effort, so used to your undergarments. “What are you doing? I haven’t showered yet.”

Quinn doesn’t fucking care if you showered or not. Since when did he care? He doesn’t care even if you come from a workout. He has fucked you like that. Many times. All sweaty and dirty. He already licked your sweat as he plunged deep inside your quivering pussy. You coming from a whole day of shopping is simple play for him. You’re just trying to get out of the inevitable punishment.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he rumbles against your ear. He slides his thick fingers under you so he can touch your tits. So soft. So perfect in his hands. Your nipples are so taut from anticipation and his attention. He pinches the sensitive peaks, your hips coming up to grind against him. He pulls away, receiving an unsatisfied groat. “Uh, uh. Answer me before you get what you want, you dirty slut.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He grits. He slides down one hand down your abdomen, down into the waistband of your skirt, down until he reaches and feels the wet patch on your panties. He presses and teases along your clothed slit. “See? So fucking wet. I barely touched you.”

“Quinn, please,” you plead, panting for more.

Why are you still not repeating your broken promise?

He’s getting so annoyed. He forces your clothes off, tearing every piece of clothing on your beautiful body. He ignores how much you complain, ignores your little ‘ouch’ because you’re full of shit. There’s no way it’ll hurt when he is tearing the fabric instead of pulling it against your fucking skin. Do you think he’s fucking stupid? Do you think he’ll hurt you that way?

He’s not a fucking rookie.

He keeps you down, spreading your legs by kneeling between them, watching how your pussy drips on the silk sheets, how your entrance quivers, begging to be filled. Languidly, he feels your folds. You feel so fucking good, so fucking soft, so fucking wet.

You gasp and moan like you’re already getting fucked. You’re just so sensitive, aren’t you?

Then he gives you a slap right there. On your dripping pussy. On your clit. His other hand grips your hip to keep you there when you attempt to crawl away, but he gives you another slap. Then another. Another.

You are moaning and writhing from the pain, begging him to stop, when you’re the one pushing your wet cunt against his palm. You keep seeking, even after briefly reeling away from every hit. Your eyes look over your shoulder, meeting his, begging and begging, mentally conveying, “More, more, more.”

Such a good slut.

His slut.

You’re his.

Quinn slides his middle finger into your heat, smirking at how your walls quivers around him. Your cunt is so red from his spanking. His thumb teases your other hole. You writhe, wantonly moaning, pathetically grasping the sheets for support.

You’re not running away now, huh?

Not when he is fingering you. Not when he pounds and puts pressure on that specific spot that has you screaming breathlessly. You want this so much. You’ve been waiting for a relief that he can easily give you.

He adds another finger, thrusting them into your pussy. Harder. Deeper. The squelching noises are music to his ears when it’s coupled with your moans and groans.

Then he feels the familiar pattern of your pussy walls. You’re going to come soon. He knows you so much. Knows your pussy more than you. Knows your little tells like how your thighs quiver, how your toes curl, how your back arches into the bed.

He knows it.

So, it’s so fucking easy to just…pull away.

You look back harshly. You look betrayed as your breaths come out choppy. Disbelief reflects in your eyes, not used to him not letting you come. He always makes you come. Not now though. Quinn takes his fingers from your arousal to his lips and slowly licks them, like he’s feasting on your pussy, groaning at how you taste. Fuck, you’re truly his favorite flavor.

“Quinn, I…” you call, your eyes tearing up. “You didn’t…”

He flips you over your back. He rests your ass over his thighs while your legs are spread out.

“Didn’t?” he mocks which you only process that as a question. You’ve already been dumbed by your pending orgasm, by your need for it.

“I didn’t come,” you whine, jutting your hips up the air, begging for another touch. “Please make me come.”

“Yeah,” he nods. That makes you smile, sighing in relief. Shaking his head, he silently says, “No.”

He doesn’t let you say another thing, plunging his fingers into your pussy. He fucks you fast and deep, thumb swiping over your clit just so perfectly, only to pull away when you’re on the verge of an orgasm.

By the third time, you finally understand what’s happening and you’re begging and begging.

Your pleas don’t reach him though.

They can’t. Not when he’s still not satisfied. Not when you still don’t say anything. However, the strange calmness that locked him is already dissipating the more he makes a mess out of you. The more beautifully and frustrated you cry.

Oh, his poor, sweet Love.

“Quinn, I’m sorry. I just wanna use my card.” You sob. “I’m sorry. Please. Please. I need to come. It’s been an hour.”

An hour?

You’re counting?

He pauses his torture, because you are finally talking.

You cover your face, hiding your fucked out face, hiding your beautifully blushing cheeks, hiding how your hair sticks to your skin.

“I saw you deposit money in my account again. I thought using my card would be a great revenge. Now, I know it’s not. This sucks! It hurts not to come. We both know you’re just going to pay the bill when it comes.” You sob, looking absolutely hurt and exhausted.

Quinn quickly pulls you up, soothing you with a hug. He sighs as you melt into his touch. You sniffle but your hand reaches between you two, tugging at his pants, trying to get to his cock.

“You have to make me come.” You beg, looking at him with your best puppy eyes. “Please?”

“You always beg so perfectly.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “Wasn’t so hard to admit your wrongs, was it?”

“I know. I already said sorry—”

He cuts you off by pushing you back. He quickly tugs his pants down, pressing his dribbling cock to your pussy, shuddering at the feel of your trembling entrance. One swift thrust and he’s seated inside of you. Fuck. Your pussy is truly made for him. He perfectly fits. All of him. He can feel every crevice, every texture, every arousal that coats you deep inside. Shit. So good. He can come just by being inside of you, by feeling your tight pussy’s embrace. Did you know that?

But he knows that it’s not enough for you tonight.

You need him to fuck you, so he does. He fucked you hard and rough that your eyes are rolling up as you come. Even then you plead for more and more.

So he gives you everything. Changing the tempo here and there, going slow and deliberate, going back to a fast pace. He gives you everything because you deserve it.

Every time he feels that you’re about to come again, he whispers into ears, “That’s my good girl. Give me one more. That’s it. My good little slut. Take what you need. Come, my Love.”

Every time.

He draws out your fifth orgasm then he comes deep inside you, swearing loudly into your ear. He’s coming so hard that his eyesight dims. Your pussy milks every drop of his cum. How he still manages to flick your sensitive clit while he comes so hard is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter when you start to gush.

You’re making such a mess.

You always do.

“Quinn, oh my, fuck,” you cry out.

“It’s okay. I got you. Just let go, my Love,” he encourages, flicking your clit again and again, until you’ve successfully drench both of you. “No more?”

“No more. No more.” You shake your head, so he stops. “Kiss me.”

He obliges you, kissing you, whispering praises in between. You both spend minutes just kissing until you’ve calm down. Quinn gives you one last kiss before he stands to run a bath. He puts a few drops of lavender and chamomile oils in the tub. It’ll soothe you.

He comes back out to wrap you with a fresh and heated towel while the bath fills up. You look so spent, so Quinn holds you for a few more minutes, whispering more and more soft praises in your ear, because you’ve earned it.

When he hears the tub fill up, he takes you to it. He helps you in, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Just relax here. I’ll join you in a bit, okay?” He says as you settle. You nod at him as your eyes slowly blink. “I won’t take long. Don’t sleep. Not when I’m not here.”

“Okay, Quinny,” you say as you yawn. Your tummy rumbles. “Hungry.”

“I’ll get you a sandwich then I’ll make dinner after our bath. Sounds good?”

You smile at him.

His heart flutters, his stomach filling up with butterflies. He presses another kiss on your head, before he’s off, leaving you to have a little alone time. He got one thing in his mind.

He made his way to your bag that’s left behind on the floor. Humming a soft tune, he carries it to the counter, setting it down, as he takes out the ingredients for a sandwich. Just bread and your favorite jam. Washing his hands quickly, he fixes your sandwich, placing it on a plate. He also takes a fresh and cool bottle of water. It will do for a light snack before dinner, but he doesn’t take it immediately to you.

He sits on a stool, rummaging through your bag, finding your wallet.

He smiles at your photo with him there. It’s taken from a polaroid. He knows there’s another photo tucked behind it. It’s you and him in an ice rink that you had personally printed out. You’re truly cute.

He touches your face, heart pounding at how breathtaking you always look.

Even when you’re so fucked out, your beauty never changes. He can’t wait to grow old with you. He bet with everything he has and more that you will still look like the beautiful woman in the world, because you are.

Then he takes the credit card you’ve used today.

His smile never goes away as he stares at it for full minute.

Then he snips it in half and does the same to another and another.

Now, you only have one card left.

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dimonds456 · 2 years ago

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Hope you feel better soon ♥️♥️

(I think this is in relation to the dreams post?)

Thanks. I'm good now, that was just a weeeeeird experience. Like, you know how nightmares can actually wake you up sometimes? It was like that, except I think it was pure anxiety that woke me up. Once I proved to myself that the dream didn't actually happen, I was able to calm back down. I'm good now ^^;

#uhh if anyone's curious i can explain what the dream was about #i woke up in the dream and got out of bed thinking about all the shit i have to do today #and i went over to my laptop to look at my notifications that gathered overnight- nothing unusual #my inbox had like over 100 asks in it #i went to look because ?????? HUH????? and they were all for a blog i had never seen before #but they were also clearly addressed to me #i realized pretty quickly that someone had hacked Stuck Together in a raid people did on the blog #they'd deleted most of what i had and had responded to the asks in my inbox from before with hate messages #some of the new asks were confused #others were writing essays on why im a bad person #still more were tearing apart my artwork and calling everything i was doing racist/antisemetic #but most of them consisted of people just sending me hate mail #so in a panic i went to check my other notifs and found that a hate blog reblogged one of my posts #and basically told their followers to attack me #I still had access to the blog so i deleted it- which made me loose all the progress i'd made with it so far- but wtf else could i do?#i went onto my hlvrai sideblog to apologize and say that wasn't me and that i'd been hacked and left it at that so i could go calm down #i came back about a half an hour later and the same thing happened to my hlvrai sideblog #had over 200 new asks this time #then i woke up #it was so vivid that i thought it was real for at least a minute while i tried to get my head on straight #the fact that i remember the whole thing from beginning to end doesnt help cuz usually i start to forget details when i wake up #i'm half convinced i saw an alternate timeline instead of a dream honestly #i need to be put on anxiety meds #fhdsjka #dimond speaks

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simplygojo · 3 months ago

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Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Two

author's note ⸺ Hello all! Tysm on all the love and support you've given me on just the teaser!! I have begun the series taglist as well (at end of fic) and if you'd like to be added, please comment so I can add you :) pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, slight tension, studying mentioned, modern au, reader uses female pronouns, this is an 18+ series - mdni divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

Morning meetings were always the worst.

Your eyes flicked between the PowerPoint presentation on your laptop and the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. 10:17 AM. Barely past mid-morning, and already your inbox was overflowing, a steady stream of tasks waiting to be tackled.

Your manager was droning on about Q2 projections, but you weren’t really listening—your mind was elsewhere.

More specifically, back to Geto’s message.

You had responded, the plans had been loosely set in motion, but ever since then… nothing.

No follow-up text. No details. No confirmation. It wasn’t like you were expecting Geto to flood your notifications—he didn’t seem like the type—but still, there was an odd weight to the silence. Like something unsaid was hanging in the air, waiting.

Your phone, face down on your desk, was an itch you couldn’t scratch. Every so often, between emails and reports, you found yourself flipping it over, just to check.

No new messages. No notifications. Just the same boring reality of your corporate grind.

You sighed, refocusing on your laptop screen.

Work first, overanalyzing later.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

By the time the workday finally dragged itself to a close, you were exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settled behind your eyes, heavy and dull.

You trudged back to your apartment, shedding your coat as soon as you stepped through the door, kicking off your shoes like they were the final obstacle standing between you and sweet relief.

Your phone buzzed as you collapsed onto the couch. For a fleeting second, your stomach twisted in anticipation—only for it to immediately unravel when you saw the name on the screen.

Gojo.

You exhaled through your nose, a half-smile tugging at your lips as you answered.

“What, do y’have a sixth sense for when I get home?”

“Obviously,” Gojo said, his voice light with amusement. “I told you, I’m always watching.”

“Gross.”

“You’re gross.”

This was routine by now—Gojo calling you at random times throughout the week, sometimes to tell you about his day, sometimes just to be annoying. You never really minded.

“So,” he drawled, “how’s the thrilling life of a corporate drone? Please, tell me in excruciating detail about your latest battle with Excel.”

“Oh, you know, just living the dream,” you said, stretching your legs out. “Emails. Meetings. Staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurs.”

“Riveting.”

“You know it.”

He chuckled. “Well, you got a busy week ahead, or what?”

The question was casual, barely even a thought, but before you could think better of it, you answered honestly.

“Not really. Just work. Oh, uh—actually, I’m meeting up with Geto sometime this week.”

Silence.

“…Gojo?”

A sharp inhale on the other end. Then, suddenly—

“This guy’s working in the shadows.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Oh my god.” His tone was deadly serious, but you could practically hear the grin behind it. “I had no idea…He’s been playing the long game. Years of silence, and now—bam. He’s got you exactly where he wants you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I knew it. I knew he was too smooth, too strategic—”

“Gojo, stop.”

“—waiting, biding his time, and then when I least expect it, he makes his move.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is why I don’t tell you things. There are no moves being made.”

Gojo laughed, full and delighted, like this was the funniest thing to happen all week. You could imagine him now—probably stretched out on his couch—taking up too much space, grinning like an idiot.

“In all seriousness, though,” he said, still sounding far too amused, “what’s up with that? Since when do you and Geto make plans?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around your phone. “I don’t know. He just texted me out of nowhere. Said he was 'working in my area now' and wanted to catch up.”

A pause. Barely a second, but you caught it.

Then—Gojo sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Oof. Wow.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Nah, nothing. It’s just—you ever watch a nature documentary?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You know, like, those ones where the predator stalks its prey for ages before it finally pounces?”

“…Gojo.”

He let out a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s just crazy. I always thought Geto was a patient guy, but this? This is another level. He’s been lurking in the tall grass for years, and now that the timing is right? Bam. He strikes.”

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

“No, no, I respect it,” he continued, completely ignoring you. “It’s a slow-burn strategy. Like, why rush when you can let the tension marinate, y’know?”

“There’s no tension. Or—ew—marinating. Why are you like this? ”

“Mm.” He made a noncommittal noise. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Because I dunno,” he mused, “feels like a little tension. Maybe a tiny bit. A smidge. A sprinkle.”

“Gojo.”

“There was definitely a little spark back in university,” he said, far too casually.

You scoffed. “Huh? No, there wasn’t. We barely even spoke.”

Gojo let out an incredulous laugh. “Were we even in the same room? You two had vibes.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I’m an eyewitness, actually,” he corrected, as if that made it any better. “And what I ‘eye-witnessed’ was undeniable tension.”

“You 'eye-witnessed' nothing.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is why I don’t tell you things.”

“I think it’s great, honestly,” he continued, undeterred.

“You guys should totally bond. Maybe do one of those, I dunno, deep and meaningful heart-to-hearts. Oh! Maybe a romantic little dinner. Candlelight. Soft music. He reaches across the table to hold your hand—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait! Wait, what are you wearing?”

You froze. “What the fuck?”

“For the meetup, duh.” He sounded way too amused. “Gotta dress for the occasion.”

You groaned so loudly it was nearly a scream, and Gojo lost it, laughing so hard you heard something clatter in the background.

“God, you make this too easy,” he wheezed.

“You’re the worst.”

You were going to regret telling him about this forever.

Before you could dwell on it too much, Gojo spoke again. “Well, I, for one, fully support this development. As long as you keep me updated.”

You snorted. “Yeah, because that’ll happen.”

“Hey! I have a right to know if my best friend is being seduced by my other best friend.”

“No one is being seduced—god are you even capable of shutting your mouth?”

“Just saying,” he said lightly, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “If you show up to our next reunion looking all starry-eyed, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”

You scoffed. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll know Suguru’s lost his touch.”

You groaned, pushing your face into a pillow as Gojo laughed through the speaker. He was ridiculous.

You ended the call with an exasperated sigh, tossing your phone onto the other side of the couch like it had personally wronged you.

Silence settled over your apartment, but your mind was anything but quiet.

Gojo was just messing with you—he always did. But still, his words lingered, replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.

“Feels like a little tension”—“There was definitely a little spark back in university”

Ridiculous.

There was no tension. Not back then. Not now.

…Right?

You scoffed aloud, as if that would somehow erase the warmth you felt spread across your cheeks.

Good thing Gojo hadn’t FaceTimed you—he’d never let you live it down.

The man had a sixth sense for embarrassment, and your flushed face would’ve been prime ammunition.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

*2 Years Prior: Campus Library — 11:46pm*

The study room was too small for the three of you—Gojo made sure of that. He sprawled in his chair, long limbs kicked out beneath the table, tapping a pencil against his textbook like he was drumming a countdown to his own inevitable failure.

The midterm was tomorrow, and judging by his groaning, he had barely started reviewing.

"I don't get why we even need to know this crap," Gojo whined, head rolling back against the chair. "I could fail this test and still be smarter than half the students here."

Across from him, Geto turned a page in his notebook, pen gliding smoothly over his notes. "Then fail," he murmured, voice steady, unbothered. "See how that works out for you."

Gojo huffed, but Geto wasn’t paying much attention to him anymore.

His gaze had flickered across the table a few times now, to you.

Your elbow rested against the desk, cheek propped in your palm, eyes flicking between your notes and the thick textbook at your side. The tip of your pen hovered between your lips, an unconscious habit that surfaced whenever you were deep in thought. A line appeared between your brows—concentration. Frustration.

Geto let his pen roll between his fingers, movements slow, measured.

The numbers on your page hadn’t changed in minutes. His eyes traced the faint tap of your index finger repeatedly tapped your cheek, the subtle way your grip on the pen tightened and loosened, like your thoughts were trying to work themselves out through movement.

He tapped his own pen lightly against the table near your textbook, breaking your trance. "You’re stuck on that problem."

Your head lifted, blinking. "Huh?"

The side of his mouth curled, almost imperceptibly. "You’ve been staring at the same equation for five minutes."

A quiet pause. Then you huffed, setting your pen down and leaning back slightly in your chair. "It's impossible. I’ve tried solving it three different ways, and none of them work."

Geto exhaled, shifting his chair closer. The scrape of wood against tile was barely noticeable beneath Gojo's continued dramatics. "Here. Let me see."

His arm brushed against yours—barely, just enough for him to notice the warmth of your skin through your sleeve. You smelled like warm vanilla and old books, a mix of whatever candle you always burned in your dorm and the ever-present scent of study sessions in the library.

After a moment, your brows lifted, expectant, seemingly waiting for an explanation.

His gaze flickered to your lips, still caught between your teeth, before dropping to the numbers scrawled across the paper. With a smooth movement, he picked up your pen, turning it between his fingers once before tapping against the right equation.

“Here,” he murmured, the weight of his voice settling between you. “You skipped a step.”

Your breath hitched—so faint he almost missed it. Almost.

He kept his voice level as he pointed to the equation. "Your mistake is here. You're missing a step between these two lines."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Seriously? Ugh, that’s so stupid. I should’ve caught that."

"You're tired." He said it plainly, matter-of-fact. "That’s all."

Another pause. You tilted your head slightly, watching him – Like you wanted to say something.

Then Gojo launched a crumpled paper ball at Geto’s head.

"Hey! If you two are done whispering sweet nothings over math problems, can someone help me before I actually fail this test?"

Gojo’s paper ball bounced off Geto’s head and landed on the desk with an unceremonious plop.

Geto barely reacted, only sighing through his nose like he’d already resigned himself to Gojo’s antics long before this moment. He passed you the highlighter you had been reaching for, his fingers grazing yours—just barely, just long enough that it wasn’t entirely accidental.

You hesitated, lips parting slightly, but whatever thought had been forming was cut short when Gojo's loud voice interrupted you.

"*Phew,* Finally! I was starting to think you two were gonna start privatizing your study notes.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting in your seat. “Have you ever made your own notes? Ever? Once?”

Gojo scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t need to. You are both so lovely I don't need them.”

Shaking your head, you refocused on your notes, tapping your pencil against the paper before absently bringing it between your lips again. It was muscle memory at this point—something you did when you were getting deep in thought, when you were stuck.

Geto noticed immediately.

His gaze flickered down, almost involuntarily, catching on the slight indentation the pencil made against your lower lip.

For just a second, his fingers stilled where they had been idly rolling his pen, the movement betraying the momentary shift in his focus.

He looked away, back at his own notes—but too late. You had caught the lapse, the flicker of hesitation, and the way his fingers flexed slightly against the spiral binding of his notebook before resuming their casual twirl.

But it appeared as if you hadn’t realized the reason behind his hesitation.

Geto cleared his throat, voice still effortlessly smooth but quieter now. “Fine. Let’s make sure you don’t completely bomb this.”

Gojo immediately perked up. “Thank god. I was losing hope, honestly.”

Neither of you responded.

Geto twirled his pen between his fingers again—slow, thoughtful. His eyes drifted back to you, studying, considering. Then—his voice, quiet yet deliberate—

“You do that a lot y'know”

Your brows knitted slightly. “Do what?”

“The pencil,” he said, tilting his chin toward you. “You chew on it when you’re focused.”

You blinked, seeming caught off guard.

Gojo snorted. “Wow, Suguru. Riveting observation.”

But Geto wasn’t paying attention to him. His eyes didn’t even flinch—He was still watching you, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes, like he was committing the detail to memory.

“Didn’t realize you paid that much attention,” you muttered, sounding unaffected by his gaze.

“Yeah?” His lips curved, the ghost of a smirk. “Guess I just notice things.”

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Back in the present, you exhaled sharply, shaking off Gojo’s previous teasing as you always did after your phone calls.

Your phone sat beside you, its dark screen reflecting your face—lips pressed together, brows drawn, eyes still distant, lingering somewhere between then and now.

You scoffed under your breath. A little spark? Yeah, okay.

If Gojo had been trying to get under your skin, he’d succeeded. But not in the way he probably thought.

You thought about it some more—what he had said on the phone—there had been no spark—not the way he meant, anyway.

It was just... familiarity. That quiet, unspoken understanding that came with years of late-night study sessions, shared snacks from vending machines, and the kind of silence that never felt uncomfortable. Geto’s attentiveness and willingness to help was just who he is, it did not mean anything more than that.

If there had ever been anything more, wouldn’t you have noticed?

Your gaze dropped to the phone resting in your lap, thumb grazing the edge of the screen before you realized you had already picked it up. With a quiet sigh, you leaned back against the couch, unlocking it without a second thought.

The message thread with Geto blinked up at you.

His last message was still there. Still waiting. Still unanswered.

"Geto: I know a place. I’ll send you the details later this week."

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for only a second.

Then, finally—

You: So, when’s this catch-up happening?

The message sent before you could overthink it.

With a yawn, you pushed yourself off the couch, stretching your arms overhead before trudging toward your bedroom. The day had been long, and the weight of it was finally settling over you, making your limbs heavy.

Flicking off the light, you slid under the covers, the warmth of your blankets pulling you in almost instantly. You sank into the mattress, letting out a slow breath as your eyes fluttered shut.

Sleep came quickly, tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

Then—just as you were about to slip under completely…

Your phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Your eyes cracked open, pulse skipping despite yourself.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.

But eventually, you did.

a/n — I hope you guys like this. as always lmk your thoughts <3 taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @you-transfix-me; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe **please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**

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joeloverture · 7 months ago

Text

HOOK 'EM PT. 2

hook 'em hot stuff | coach!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | series masterlist | notifs blog | on palestine pairing: college football coach!joel x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] old habits die hard, so they say. you never understood why, but here you are, breaking into coach joel miller's house for a taste of what he's been keeping from you. warnings: (18+ mdni) reader is a bad example (a REALLY bad example), joel is so nonchalant that it's almost crackfic material, getting a semi when a pretty girl attempts a break-in, guilty joel attempts to keep his morals intact (and promptly fails), age gap (22/52), could be considered dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, undernegotiated kink for sake of storyline but don't follow this example, explicit content, pussy pronouns, daddy kink, brat tamer!joel, degradation, praise, meanish!joel, pussy slapping, belting/spanking with a belt, body writing, m!masturbation, cumplay/eating, panty play(?), face slapping, orgasm denialish (you'll see) [no use of y/n] word count: 7k (wtf) a/n: howdy. real cowboys never die so i'm back to continue what i started *checks watch* 11 months ago. (i also promised that if they won the game, i'd write this.) again, all of this is for entertainment parody, and any college implied here is incredibly fictionalized. coach!joel captured all of our hearts and he's here in this incredibly out of pocket (so out of pocket it's right) sequel. enjoy 💋

“This is head Coach Miller at Austin. I can’t get to the phone right now, but you can leave a text or a voicemail and I’ll be sure to get back to you–”

The answering message, as it plays through the tinny speakers of your phone, is dry, lackluster. As if Joel hadn’t wanted to record it at all, had said fuck it after the first take. It sounds nothing like the voice that had talked you through two of the best orgasms of your life.

You’d tried to rationalize it at first – he’s busy, a coach at one of the biggest college football programs in the United States, it’s approaching the playoffs, maybe he’s out of state recruiting some shithead high schooler – but after four missed phone calls and two unanswered texts spread out through the course of the week, you figure that’s that.

He’d been so tender with you after fucking your brains out. Dragging a wet rag along the seam of your thighs, redressing you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’d even refused to let you walk to your dorm alone so late in the night, his guarding, protective arm hanging around your waist as he’d escorted you to the shitty building. Now you’re leaving clingy voicemails in his inbox, staring at a ceiling that’s probably full of asbestos as you try to make peace with the fact that Coach Miller didn’t give a shit about you – only your pussy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

You were probably just some dumb college girl to him, close enough to graduating that he didn’t lose sleep at night over hitting it, but too far from adulthood to complement his crows feet and successful career.

Conclusion: even if it was the best sex of your life, you should’ve hightailed it out of there the second he’d offered to take you over his knee.

Again – you’re not known for making the best decisions.

You roll over on your stomach, burying your head in your arms and shutting your phone off.

The worst part about it all is that you’re fucking horny. Unbearably so. Even just sitting there, you can hear Joel’s filthy words carouseling through your head, that initial groan when he sank all the way inside of you. Your persistent horniness isn’t the only problem, either. Lately, your roommate never seems to leave the dorm, and when she does, you find that Joel has ruined your vibrator for you. Your pussy might just shrivel up if it doesn’t get the loving it deserves. He’d lit a permanent goddamn bonfire in your stomach, and it just so happened that he was the only one with a fire extinguisher.

But the same guy probably wants nothing to do with you. Probably came to his senses enough to know that everything about fucking his star player’s ex girlfriend is a recipe for bad news in the making.

There’s a version of yourself that doesn’t know when to stop. That’s the version that must be controlling you as you reach for your phone, opening up a new search. ‘Where does joel miller live?’ And, theoretically, you could stop right there, press the tempting little ‘x’ at the top of the screen and pretend that your mind hadn’t even gotten that far, that desperate. Instead, you click on the first article that appears: Miller’s new $1,000,000 Tarrytown home.

You could even stop there. Tarrytown isn’t a place for someone like you, waist-deep in student loans that need paying off. Tarrytown is wealthy and upscale, pretentious and genteel. In fact, you’d only passed through there once, almost blackout drunk in the backseat of your only sober friend’s car. You’d nearly jumped out of your goddamn skin upon seeing a roaming peacock with its feathers all spread, clucking through the street in search of a mate. She’s teased you about it ever since, but with what you have in mind, you’re about to be impersonating that peacock.

Knowing that the bastard lives in Tarrytown would usually be enough to put you off — if it were anyone else. Your ‘eat the rich’ values apparently stutter when there’s a chance of getting your pussy eaten.

Curiosity kills the cat, and so you poke around Zillow for recent sales in Tarrytown. Lucky for you, only one fits the description in the article. It’s multi-story, built on a half acre behind a centuries-old oak tree. And going for the hefty price of $1,002,358.

Nine minutes away. A good commute. Gated, and probably for good reason, considering what you’re about to do.

You throw on a nice, lacy set underneath your black clothes and top it all off with a black baseball cap. You’re pretty sure it’s Lucas’s, your shitty ex’s that had technically started this whole mess, but you can’t be too sure.

You don’t tell your roommate where you’re going, just that if everything goes well, you won’t be back until tomorrow morning.

You chain your bike to a lamppost, and it sticks out like a sore thumb on the cobblestone sidewalk. Even though you’ve already seen the pictures, Joel’s house is hardly even a house. It’s a fucking palace with windows for walls and a vaulted roof. Everything is stacked on top of each other, and the oak tree mentioned in the listing casts a shadow along the structure. The gas lamps adorning the gated limestone archway are on, and the flames wince across the concrete path leading into the home. They aren’t bright enough to blow your cover if Joel happens to peek through the many, many windows, but you steer clear of them regardless.

The gate really isn’t that tall, only about eight feet off the ground. A nearby sturdy tree gives you a good place to prop yourself up as you haul yourself over it and into a well-kept patch of ferns. You roll into the dirt, grunting as you almost fall flat on your ass. Your elbows catch you at the last second, and you take a few deep breaths.

You dust yourself off, squinting through the front of the house in hopes of catching a glimpse at him. He’s definitely home, and probably away, too, judging by the amount of lights that are on. Still, no sign of him. All football coaches have to be a workaholic. You wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was in his home office with his feet propped up, watching tapes of his opponents to prepare for the next game.

Good. Less chance of him seeing you right away.

Joel seems like the type of guy to subscribe to the ‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,’ philosophy, so it makes sense that both of his garages are closed. You half-crawl, half-crouch your way through the front yard, careful not to crush any more of his plants as you creep your way up the front steps. You give his front door a shot. Locked, too.

“Shit,” you mumble to yourself. You inch through the brush, turning the corner of the house and taking cover behind his rumbling air conditioning unit so you can scan the back patio.

Of course Joel Miller has a pool. And you’d bet good money that he never uses it. There’s an unlit fire pit surrounded by a sunken seating area nearby, and you slink through the area to make your way over to the terrace. Your hand reaches out for the doorknob, but it doesn’t even get there before you’re eating shit for the second time that night.

A body slams into yours as you hit the ground with a cry, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as concrete scrapes at your palms. Even though it’s dark and everything feels like you’re trapped in a kaleidoscope, you’d have to be an idiot not to recognize the familiar weight pressing into you. Strong thighs wrap around yours. Calloused hands grab at your wrists, effortlessly pinning them over your head. You squirm, trying and failing to knee at the small of his back.

You should be scared, terrified, maybe, of what he could do to you. Push you into the pool and tell you to fuck right off at best, call the cops and have you arrested for two counts of trespassing at worst. But instead, all you can think about is the insistent press of his bulge between your legs, his broad shoulders hanging over your torso, his long fingers twisted around your hands. All of it renders your heart racing and your body motionless. You look up at him, unable to stop yourself from eye fucking him. Loungewear is a good look on him, gray sweatpants low on his waist and a tattered longhorns t-shirt. He has his reading glasses on, and fuck, if it doesn’t do something to you.

A tiny whimper slips out, and, naturally, that’s when Joel’s dark eyes flash with recognition.

Joel mutters your name, surprise thick in his tired voice. “What the hell are you doin’ in my backyard?” He goes back on his haunches and lets go of your hands. You rub at the sore spots he’d left in his wake.

You don’t answer, opting to look away to hide the shame that’s plain as day on your face. This was stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.

“Are you always tryna catch a charge?” Joel asks. He shakes his head at you, forehead wrinkling as he furrows his brows. All you can do is nod in response. “Un-fuckin’-believable.”

He finally lifts off of you, groaning as something in his back pops when he stands upright. He reaches down at you, and, stubbornly, you ignore his hand in favor of picking yourself up. You dust yourself off again, winching as you brush against a patch of skin that’s sure to bruise later.

“C’mon,” Joel says, nudging the back door open. You step inside and pause to wipe your shoes on the rug beyond the threshold.

The interior is also just as fancy as the Zillow photos had suggested. You find yourself in a lounge with a vaulted ceiling, surprised to find just how Joel the space is. There’s sports magazines on the coffee table and a half-empty longhorns tumbler filled with black coffee. The TV on the mantle of the fireplace is playing a rerun of a Dallas Cowboys game, surrounded by memorabilia like an unmarked high school football helmet, probably a souvenir from his varsity career.

“Now, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” you say, albeit a little dumbly. You rub at one of your elbows to try to shake off the embarrassment.

Okay, aloud, it does sound just a teensy bit like an overreaction.

Joel blinks at you. Takes off his reading glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, releases a long, winded sigh. “Shit – hun, I’m so sorry–”

“Save your sorries,” you spit back, suddenly angry of all things. Angry that he has you wrapped right around the same fingers that had been inside of you, angry that he hadn’t answered your calls, your texts, your voicemails, angry that he has the audacity to ask what happened. “All that talk about treating me right and you can’t even pick up the fucking phone. I’ll leave right now if you’re not interested, but the least you could do is let me know.” Your lower lip quivers.

He goes quiet, toeing at the ground. His hands land on his hips. “Darlin’–”

“He cheated on me and you trampled all over my emotional vulnerability so you could get your dick wet. How the fuck does that make you any better than the boys you promised to be better than? You’re just like them. Fucking your way through half of the campus and nothing to show for it.” You’re breathing heavily as your eyes burn more and more by the second. You keep thinking you’ll have more to say, but you don’t. Everything in your body feels like lead, and time moves like molasses. Only silence meets you. Of course, it’d end like this. You, humiliated, and him, held all but unaccountable for his actions.

You squeeze your eyes shut before turning around on your heel to leave the way you’d come. His hand, soft and guiding as opposed to the last time he’d touched you, wraps around your forearm. You plant your feet in the ground, but still don’t turn around to face him. “You’re right,” Joel says, voice acquiescent. “It wasn’t fair to you. But ‘s part of why I didn’t pick up. Ain’t right, you ‘n me. I took advantage of you. Practically coerced you.” You swallow, but it’s like swallowing needles. “You shoulda reported me the second you got back to your dorm. For… for violating you like that.” He damn near spits the word out like it’s poisonous. Violating.

If that’s what’s holding him back…

You shift, facing him. He scratches the back of his neck. His flush bleeds down to his chest. “Joel, the absolute last thing you did was violate me. I wanted it. Haven’t stopped fucking thinking about it. That’s why it hurt so bad when you left me hanging.” A frown pinches your lips. “You could’ve at least let me know, Joel.”

“You needa quit thinkin’ about it. Ain’t gonna do either of us any good.” He exhales. “Besides. Even if I wanted to reach out, I’ve been workin’ 17 hour days in prep for next week’s game. This is the first day I’ve had peace ‘n quiet since we…” He trails off, cheeks somehow reddening even more.

“How often do you do that?” you can’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do what?” he asks, his own lips falling into a frown. He looks a little bit like a kicked puppy, being on the receiving end of your confrontation.

“Take girls half your age over your knee at the workplace. Let them call you ‘daddy’ while they squirm in your lap. Fuck them?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and hisses. You can almost see the memories flashing behind his eyelids. “Gotta stop talkin’ like that, hun.”

“No,” you say, voice quiet. “Really. How often?”

“Never,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “Been over a year since I was last with someone. Been a whole lot longer since it… felt that good.”

You take a step closer to him, tongue slipping out to lick your lips. “Felt good for me, too.”

He shakes his head, still denying what you’re laying out so plainly for him. “Just ‘cause it feels good don’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t it?” you ask. You cock your head, brows brought together and eyes round with want.

He takes a slow, unsteady breath. But he doesn’t step away.

“I’m an adult Joel.” You reach out to him. Again, he doesn’t step away. Your hand flattens against his shoulder.

“Not one of your brutish, sweaty players who only thinks in frat vocab.” You drag your palm down from his shoulder, across his chest, fluttering along his stomach.

His eyes close as your thumb snags the waistband of his sweatpants. Still, he doesn’t intervene. “I’m a grown woman with a future ahead of myself. It’s not in the handbook that you’re forbidden from engaging in this sort of thing with a student, so long as they’re not one of your players.”

“Yeah, yeah, I read the handbook, kid—”

When you palm at his bulge, he’s already hard.

You hitch a brow at him. A snide remark sits on your tongue.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grouses, and then shoves you back on his couch. Your impact knocks a tacky, tasseled throw pillow out of the way. You yank off the cap you stole from Lucas and toss it over your shoulder.

“Beggin’ for a dickin’ down,” he says. “Trespassing on my fucking property for it like some lunatic. That’s how bad you need this cock?”

You nod like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else. With how you act when you think of Joel, that’s… probably the case. “Joel, plea–”

He slaps you across the face. Your vision pixelates and your head rings, but the handprint blooming on your cheek translates to slick blooming in your panties. “Nuh uh,” he says. “You know my name, smartass.” You moan, hips jerking to meet his.

“Daddy,” you whine. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” It is. No silicone toy or plastic cock nestled in your bedroom drawer compared to the man in front of you — and you’d know. You tried them all.

“Ain’t a surprise there,” Joel says. “Bet you’ve been rubbin’ yourself silly thinking of your daddy, mm?”

“Yes!” you damn near squeal out as Joel roughly palms at your tits. You get stuck in the labyrinth of your shirt as you fumble out of it, arms finding all the wrong holes. Finally, you toss the thoroughly wrinkled scrap of fabric over the couch. “Every day, sometimes more,” you admit, because it’s the embarrassing truth. When it comes to him, you’re loopy, off-kilter, teetering with desire and want.

“Dirty girl, aren’t you?” he says, unclasping your bra. He lures your arms out of the straps. His throat bobs as he eyes you up. Based on how you look in the reflection of his dark eyes, he’s been thinking of this. Because for all his virtuosity, Coach Miller crumbles at the thought of defiling you. And he damns himself for it.

He says, “Came allllll the way over here to get fucked in this little number. Why, ‘cause your fingers ain’t enough anymore? Buzzing buddies not doin’ it for ya? Can’t make yourself come without me, hm?”

“No, no, I can’t—” you exhale at him, desperately arching your back to push your tits into his sports-calloused hands. He gives you nipples a squeeze and twist, and it’s electricity straight into your clit. Your squirm, legs kicking helplessly beneath him. “Daddy.”

He pouts at you. “Damn shame. Creamy, drippy little pussy like this…” You hadn’t noticed his hand lowering until he cups a hand around your clothed mound. Your hips jerk. “Bet she’s squeezing real good ‘round nothing, isn’t she? Wants to take daddy nice ‘n deep.”

“Please, daddy, I want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. Your head lolls back as his thumb presses over your clothed clit, the friction from your panties amplifying the sensation as he rubs you in tight, successive circles.

“Yeah, well that’s what you want. What you’ve earned is a belting. Hell, maybe even a paddling for a repeat offender like yourself. Gotta stop getting into scenarios where I needa spank you right. Clearly didn’t whack ya hard enough last time, girl.”

You pout at him, and he only rolls his eyes. “Really. First you had some revenge syndrome, and now you have dick disease. Have to make you earn it, sweetie. ‘Specially when you keep on diggin’ your own grave.”

“You spanked me last time we did this,” you mumble.

“Oh yeah? And I remember you leakin’ everywhere like a goddamn busted pipe. So shut your trap and bend over for me, mhm? I know this pussy likes when I’m rough with ‘er. Know you like it.”

You cross your arms. Consider leaving chin-up with your pride intact — not out of lack of interest, but out of stubbornness. But you can already feel your wetness smearing across your thighs. Not only did you come all this way hoping for this exact thing, but you can imagine just how uncomfortable the bike ride back to your dorm will be with the seat of your bike pressed into your crotch.

You bite the bullet and toss a pillow to the floor. You fold yourself over the couch.

It feels distinctly familiar and indistinctly unfamiliar. Just a few days ago, he’d hauled you over his knee for the same reason. Attraction lit like a match, and discipline served properly.

You hear Joel shimmying around in the vicinity and tilt your head to look at him. First, you’re captured by the broadness of him, how he can easily manhandle you with his stature. But it’s hard not to be distracted by how his house, for all of its grandeur, is little more than a fifty-year-olds bachelor pad.

The walls are mostly bare apart from the occasional art that looks like he snagged from Homegoods. Everything is so modern and brutalistic, all sharp-edged and cubed. “You need to hire an interior designer with that batshit crazy salary of yours,” you tell him.

He huffs out a half-laugh, and returns to your side with a belt he pulled from the table. You squint at the buckle. It’s a pewter longhorn. Of course. It’s like they have a longhorn fetish. They just can’t shake the obsession with the cattle.

“Gonna spank me with your livestock whip?” you snort.

Joel stares you down, unimpressed. “You think you’re funny,” he says. He sits next to where your cheek rests on the couch and gently rubs a circle into your back. His face turns serious for a moment. “I know I didn’t verbally establish this last time — and that’s on me — but you can ask me to stop any time. I hope you know that.”

You give him what feels like a bit of a dopey look. “I know, daddy. I know my limits, too.”

“Attagirl,” he says, patting you on the back. He gives you a look, seeking permission, and you nod. He tugs your pants down. They slump to your folded knees. You tap your fingers against the soft material of the couch. Joel reaches over you and under the gusset of your panties, swiping a long, thick finger through your weeping cunt. Your hips rock, chasing the sensation, and as if reprimanding you, Joel gives a swift tug to the back of your panties, lodging them deep within your cheeks. You squeak in surprise and stop your squirming. He chuckles breathlessly above you.

“Still got this… calligraphy… ‘a mine all over your ass.” He traces his thumb along each letter of the trophy he’d left you. The w, the h, the o, the r, the e. When you left the stadium that night, it was with a reminder of exactly what Joel thinks of you. “‘S like you’re tryna make it last, mmm? You like knowing you’re my whore?”

A tiny whimper splits from your mouth, forehead tilting into the crook of your shoulder as to hide your face. You manage a nod.

“Nuh uh,” Joel says. He reaches for your wrists and pins them behind your back. “Thought you’d knew better than to be repeatin’ the same song and dance. I know you can behave, slutty girl. Just gotta give you a nudge in the right direction.” He palms your ass cheek the same way he’d palmed your tit, and a chill travels along your skin at the perceived feeling of him being so close to your cunt.

He’d ravaged and ruined you, and you walked right back in to let him do it all over again.

Joel folds the belt in half, the gaudy buckle clanking as he turns his day-to-day belt into the perfect implement to administer your punishment. You muffle one of your noises as he drags the leather along your skin, raising gooseflesh in his trail. You can tell he’s tracing the letters, stretched and faded to near-obscurity, along your ass.

You expect him to bring it down across your ass, but instead, he teases it between your legs. Your breath stumbles over your teeth as the leather streaks along your clothed clit. Your hips chase the passing sensation, and the bastard snorts at you. In spite of Joel’s grasp around your wrists, your fingers twirl in anticipation.

“Pathetic ‘lil pussy. Dripping and squeezing even if you’ve got a thrashing comin’ up. Maybe it’s because you’ve got a thrashing coming up. Masochistic mess over here.”

You scoff, “Yeah, and a hot mess, if ‘Lil Joel is any indicator.”

The first hit takes you by surprise. Leather erupts across your ass cheeks, and your fingers scramble for purchase — impossible to find, with how Joel grips your wrists. You make a surprised noise, head tipping to knock your forehead into his thigh. “Shit, were you the quarterback? Packing a punch this time, Coa— mmph.” Your trailing, pathetic sound is muffled by the abrupt splat of his belt back on your exposed ass.

“Had enough ‘a your sass, baby. Can’t be giving me lip when your other set is salivatin’ all over my floor.”

You grunt, squeezing your eyes shut so you don’t glare at him. Dick. Fever licks up your spine. It wraps around your neck, making you lightheaded and nebulous with want. Arousal leaks down your inner thighs. When you press them together in hopes for relief and that Joel’s old man eyes will sabotage him, you’re not shocked by the next thwack of leather against your skin. It still makes you jolt.

“Not gettin’ away with that, sweetheart. Better not see ya ruttin’ against this couch either. Already had to scrub down the one in the locker room since you sprayed your pussy juices all over it like a sprinkler.”

“Yes, daddy,” you grumble. He raises a brow at you, face stern and hard.

You make up for it not verbally, but by arching your back and wiggling your hips. A willing participant in your own demise. It’s only a matter of time before the anaphora of Joel’s belt whacking against your ass has you keening for his cock. You’ve already begged for it every night this week — just with your own hand fishing between your legs for an orgasm you can’t seem to catch, and with his name glued to your pillowcase with your drool.

“See? That’s more like it.” You press back into him as his hand lets go of your wrists. It’s a brief respite, and you cling to the edge of the couch as his hand traces down your back, cupping your ass. Your eyes roll back as his finger slips past your panties and prods at your entrance, barely half of a knuckle.

“Daddy,” you pout.

“Sweet… as…” You look up through lidded eyes at him. Watch as your slick stretches hammocks between his fingers. Watch him slide them into his mouth, sucking them clean with an audible pop. You cunt clenches, demanding something that he doesn’t seem eager to dish out. “sugar.” he finishes. His fingers glisten.

“Daddy,” you say again. Needier this time. Longing. Wanting.

“Bet you could come untouched from this shit, couldn’t ya?”

The thought makes you shiver, but you shake your head back and forth fast enough to give you whiplash. You want — need him to touch you.

“Aww, poor little thing wants to come?” he all but coos at you. This time, you nod fast enough to take your own head off. “Too bad.”

You squeal as he brings the belt down again, toes wriggling as if they can run away from how electrified your body is. “W-what?” you choke out.

“You want daddy to let you come?”

Your hands fist into the couch cushion. “The fuck do you think?”

You don’t even see him move before you feel the belt, ripping like lightning along your inflamed skin. “After you snuck into my stadium?”

“After you vandalized one ‘a our new uniforms?”

You’ve tensed this time in preparation, but it’s not enough. The next swing of his arm has you crying out. Your pussy clenches and more wetness gushes from you. “Ungh, Daddy!”

“After you came snoopin’ around like the Pink Panther?” Two lashings, for that. Both in rapid succession, crackling flames along your hypersensitive skin. You don’t even have time to give him snark. You wail, and half of it jerks out of you in a ragged moan.

He’s too quick at giving your ass another lash. “After being a cock hungry temptress who’d do anything to get that drippy ‘lil hole between her legs stuffed?”

If you were sore after your first encounter with the man, you fear for your capability to sit after this one. “I’m sorry!” You sniffle a little, and while your eyes may be watering, you squeeze your eyes shut so not to cry. It’s embarrassing enough to be laid out in front of him like this, quivering with juices weeping down your legs.

“Cute,” Joel snorts. “Sorry for what, exactly? Bet you got a laundry list of misdeeds. Risqué little girl like you, so quick to put her ass up in the air and take a beating insteada owin’ up to her mistakes.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out. “F-For breaking in.” You frown. “...Twice.”

“Coulda had you in the slammer by now, girl. But no. You just want me, dontcha? All up in your guts…” He grabs your ass cheek and squeezes, kneading the flesh there and leaving it with a shrill slap. You whimper. “Whallopin’ this pretty little peach. Sortin’ you out. Bein’ your daddy.” He grips the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. His hand, large and ridged with callouses, travels up your knee, over your thigh, down to your core. You shudder.

“Daddy…” you plead. You tilt your head and look up at him properly. How he looms over you, his free hand wrapped around your opposite shoulder so he can hold your side against his thigh. A tiny smirk quirks his lips, and his nose crinkles. There’s a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. “Please.” Your voice comes out as a lust-thickened whisper, bittersweet like molasses.

You think he might throw you a bone. Might thrust a finger or two into your dripping heat, which throbs and has a heartbeat of its own whenever he’s around. Instead, he slaps your mound. Your clit twitches, and you stream slick onto his hand. “Ah! Daddy!”

“Drippin’ like a busted pipe, baby. All from bein’ tossed around a bit.”

You’re floating, now. Or perhaps a more apt way to describe it would be that you’re firmly planted on the ground — just facedown while the room spins and spins and spins.

“Honestly, I didn’t know this elite university admitted little sluts like yourself. Bet you hold yourself all prim and proper while you’re all academic during the day. Then you get home and, what, rub yourself silly? Spank yourself because you know you deserve it? You wanna get split open on this cock, roughed up, talked down to.”

“I do, Daddy, I do!” you whine. “I told you — I’m sorry! For all of it. Please, I want whatever you’ll give me. A-Anything.” You feel as if your bones are matches, each one lit up in a chain reaction all the way to your core, which melts and melts down the insides of your thighs. “I’ll do—”

“Anything, baby?”

You nod eagerly, your moistened lower lip jutting out.

“Alright, alright,” he says. His voice is calmer now. Steady. He pats you on the ass softer this time and taps the couch next to him. You scramble up on the cushions, kicking off your shoes and pants in the process, and lay back. Your fingers twitch with the desire to just touch him. From this angle, you can see the definition of his bulge in his sweats. You remember how all of him felt inside of you, as if your entire body had to reshape itself around him, had to make room for the amount of space he occupies. He tosses his belt onto the coffee table.

Your cunt is a kickdrum between your legs. Juices dribble down the creases of your thighs, and for a moment, you fear that you’re actually ruining another couch of his. If you are, he doesn’t say. Just hitches his waistbands down and —

You audibly moan.

“Slutty ‘lil whore,” he says as he takes his fat cock in hand. Precum beads at the tip, and you find yourself licking your lips. You salivate at the sight of him. The heavy balls hanging low beneath his cock, his girth, and the taut, tan skin of his thighs. He’s enrapturing.

“You’re cute, baby,” he says, but the words are condescending. That’s probably why it makes you drip. “You look real good with them ‘fuck me daddy’ eyes. Maybe they’re jus’ that glossy ‘cause your ass is still stingin’. But you deserve it, dontcha? For wanting it?”

“Yes sir…” His eyes flash with something narrowly close to possession. Your teeth dig into your lower lip. With his free hand, he reaches up to your lips, pulling down your bottom lip and running his tongue along the seam of it. You take it upon yourself to suckle on his thumb, tongue swirling around the rough pad of his fingertip. Your tiny moan buzzes around the digit. “Mmph.”

Joel’s eyes, dark and dilated, trail up your exposed form. “I’d shove my cock down that tight throat of yours, but you ain’t earned it.” His hand drags down your chest, tugging and groping at bare skin. His wet thumb plucks at your nipple. Your hips hitch, grinding against thin air. Joel tuts. “Thought I whipped some sense into ya. Or some goddamn manners, at least.” His hand leaves your chest and pins one of your thighs to the couch. You squirm.

“Daddy,” you mewl. “I need – something.”

“Daddy,” Joel mocks in a high-pitched, imitated whine of your plea. “You stay right still. You’re fortunate enough I’m letting you watch.”

It’s then that you realize what he’s planning to do. Deprive you by jerking himself off all over you.

“No, no, please– I promise I’ll be good! I’ll be good, please, I n-need your co–”

Joel slaps you across the face. Again. This time, it’s harder, enough for your head to roll to the side and your eyes to roll back. Your cunt throbs. Your hearing clangs like windchimes. “Do not whine at me like a petulant child. You’re a damn lucky duck that I ain’t knocked you on your ass for all the shit you been pullin’. So you’ll sit there, and if I see you raise so much as a fuckin’ hair on your head to touch yourself, I ain’t afraid to spank that pussy raw, too. Bet you wouldn’t be touchin’ it if it was all sore and achy.”

You look down and give a small, half-nod.

“Go on. Be a good girl and ask for it,” Joel says, brow hitched. Self-righteous bastard.

You mumble something faintly under your breath.

“Wanna repeat that, baby?”

“Jerk your cock off on my pussy, daddy,” you whimper out, hips still squirming on the couch.

“Mmm, that’s more like it.”

Joel taps his cock against your clothed clit. A warning, almost. “Ngh, daddy, I–”

“Don’t start,” he scowls and inches back a bit. Then, he wraps his hand around his cock and gives himself a languid pump. He groans, eyes going lidded as he starts up at a steady pace.

“I was going to say… I want you to come on me.” You take heavy, labored breaths, matching the rapid rise and fall of Joel’s chest. Sweat is darkening the creases of his shirt as he works himself.

“Yeah? Ain’t a surprise, there. Filthy slut wants daddy’s come all over her pussy? Gonna walk back to your dorm with it dryin’ on your undies?” You’ll make fun of him for that later. But now, all you can do is nod at him. “Or maybe I’ll stuff ‘em in your smart mouth. See how ya feel when you can taste how much of a whore you are.”

You gasp, back arching even though there’s no pleasure for you to chase. He gets off on this. On denying you. Degrading you. It’s a high like nothing else. “Please, I– I want you to stuff them in my mouth–”

Joel hisses. You see his cock twitch in his fist. “Make you walk home all leaky and wanting, just like a hussy should? For all those fits you’ve been pitchin’?” He grunts as his hips roll to meet each wet thrust of his fist. His lips are parted, head hung while he stares at your soaked pussy. How your panties cling to your folds. He moans, thumb brushing over his tip. More precum drips from the head, trailing down his wrist. His back curves inwards as he leans closer to you.

He squeezes the hand he’s got wrapped around your leg. “Daddy, daddy!” He’s close, you can tell. Each breath he takes is short and rasping. Each thrust gets clumsier. You think you could come from this alone. The image of him, huffing and red-faced while he fucks his fist right in front of you and calls you names. “Come on me, please, I want to be covered in you–”

He moans, and his cock jolts in his tight grip. “I’m comin’, baby, I’m comin’.”

Ropes of his cum sprays on the gusset of your panties, once, twice, but before the third spirit, he wraps his hand through the leg holes of your panties and tugs up. You make a choked, frazzled moan, and maybe it’s the way the fabric pinches your clit, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you as if you were made to be devoured. Maybe it’s just how pent up you are.

You tense and then shatter in one go, your orgasm gushing into your panties. Seizing, your back arches up off of the couch as one of your palms clambers for purchase over his. “Fuck, daddy,” you moan pathetically, hips thudding against the couch while you rock into the taut fabric. You fall back, limp and reeling.

“Fuck,” Joel says, breathless. He stares at where your white-stained panties steep in your convulsing cunt, how more juice seeps out of them with each clench of your wrecked pussy. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm. “Really are a nasty girl. A little pain slut, aren’t ya baby?” His eyes glitter while he looks at you, and you imagine he must be close enough to getting hard again that he can’t come through on his promises of anger.

“Roll over for me,” he says, tapping your thigh.

“Mmph?” You say, arm thrown over your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut while the aftershocks hurdle through your muscles. “Oh, yeah.” You fumble, and your sweat-slick skin sticks to the couch as you turn yourself over.

You hear a little pop, and can’t help but look over your shoulder. Of course. A Sharpie. This time, it’s gold.

“Gonna get a reputation, Miller,” you smirk at him, kicking your feet while he situates himself between your knees. He tugs your soiled panties off, and, as promised, guides the gusset to your mouth. You suck on it, eyes fluttering as you savor the conjoined musk of your mingling juices. It’s tart, but a little sweet. You feel the marker tugging at your ass, and hiss a little when he traces over a particularly sore spot.

“Yeah, well you already got one. I’m just makin’ sure you don’t forget.” He gives your ass another smack when he’s done, and you squeak. The couch stops slumping, and he pads across the room.

You stay there, head rested into your elbows and panties hanging out of your mouth while he rummages around in the vicinity. He comes back with some aloe gel. Gentle, he removes your panties from your tongue and tosses them on the table. You lick your lips, giving him a knowing look. He only rolls his eyes as he massages it into your bruised skin.

“Went a little hard on you this time, darlin’,” he says after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“I liked it,” you say.

“Yeah, I noticed.” He pats you dry. “If you got any ice packs back in your minifridge, wait a while before you ice that. Gotta let the skin repair for a day or so.”

“Aye-aye,” you say before rolling over to face him again. He’s tugged his sweats back on, but he’s golden with a post-sex glaze, a glow of sweat and contentedness.

“‘M sorry,” he says again.

Your brows pucker. “I already told you, I lik-”

“No, for how I treated ya. Ain’t right to promise you somethin’ I can’t give ya.”

“You just gave it to me. Quite well, might I add,” you tease with a cloying grin.

“I can’t take you out,” he says. Your grin slips. He drags a hand down his face. “Everyone in this fuckin’ state, everyone in the goddamn south, even, knows who I am. Imagine the shit they’d say. Lucas–”

“Is a dick,” you say.

“Is a dick, but is also my kid. My mentee. The future of this team and my career, too. And even though he might be an asshole, he’s a good throw. Not to mention the three decades b’tween us. Not a good look, ‘specially for you. You got a whole world ahead ‘a ya. I can’t take that from you just ‘cause we have good sex.”

“So let’s just keep having good sex,” you say. “It’s the simplest thing in the world.”

“Yeah,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes. “Simple.” But then he seems to look like he’s thinking about it. Properly. He swallows. Crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Fine.”

“Really?” You say, brows raised. You’re surprised that worked.

“Want me to take it back?”

“No,” you say.

He simpers. “Thought so. Now c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” He beckons you down the hallway after him, and you scoop your long-abandoned clothes off the floor.

A smarter version of yourself would agree with him. But this version of yourself, the version that hopped his fence tonight, wants nothing more than to run back to the throttle of his hand and the loosening of his belt.

That version of yourself is the one who follows him down the hall.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #coach!joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #hook 'em fic

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roosterforme · 1 year ago

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Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 8 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: It has been too long since you heard from Bradley. Perhaps something went wrong. Or maybe he was avoiding you. Just when you start trying to accept that the last few months were too good to be true, things start to turn around again.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, language, Bradley being sweet

Length: 3000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

Days went by. With only two weeks left of Bradley's deployment, you weren't really expecting to receive air mail at school with your name on it, but you certainly did miss it anyway. Your students asked about him every morning, wondering if he'd sent a new email, hoping for another video with Marty. But you got nothing in either of your email inboxes.

He was on your mind almost constantly. What happened on his mission? Did the Navy decide it was okay to cut off communication right when you were completely attached to hearing from him? Did this really mean you had to wait until the aircraft carrier arrived back in San Diego?

It was right before your students were due to arrive in your classroom that you had perhaps the most distressing thoughts of all. What if something went terribly wrong and he didn't survive? Or what if this was simply his way of ghosting you before he had to see you in person?

Jayden raced in ahead of the rest of your class, calling your name along the way. "Did Lieutenant Bradshaw write back yet?"

You pointed him toward his desk as you shook your head. "I already explained that he may not have time to respond before his deployment ends."

Jayden just bounced in place in front of you. "Then that means he can visit us when he gets back!"

Now a small group of your kids surrounded you, and you wished more than anything that you could tell them that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, their beloved pen pal, would definitely be visiting your classroom in a few short days. Instead you told them, "Please, take your seats so we can start our Natural History lesson."

This turned out to be your new normal. Every time you got an email notification, you jumped to unlock your phone, but it was never a message from Bradley. When you saw a box tucked in your mail cubby in the school office, you ran for it, only to find the science supplies you ordered weeks ago had arrived. You even forced yourself to go back and read some of the old emails from him, just to make sure it all really happened, but his words left you aching for more.

...I like giving Gorgeous teachers butterflies...

...You'd look adorable snuggled up in your bed. But then again, when aren't you completely Gorgeous?...

...Gorgeous girl, you're messing with my head...

...And it's not a matter of if I touch you, it's a matter of when...

After nearly two weeks had gone by, you tried to figure out if the USS Theodore Roosevelt was back in port, but short of driving to North Island to see for yourself, you couldn't seem to find a solid answer online. And if you did drive there and found it at the dock, what were you supposed to do? Contact the US Navy? If they told you that nothing happened to Lieutenant Bradshaw and that he was perfectly fine, you'd be mortified. If they told you something in fact did happen to him in the last two weeks, you'd be devastated. That's assuming you could even get them to give you any information at all which was doubtful.

On Friday, you were on the verge of tears as you got ready for work. "You're being ridiculous," you whispered, and that fact made you want to cry even more. You tried to take the time to make yourself look presentable, thinking that may be the key to having a good day. Your outfit was cute. Your makeup looked nice. But you weren't smiling, and you didn't feel like doing so at all.

You grabbed your bag, hoping the short ride with your favorite playlist would be enough to get your spirits up, but all you could think about was how you probably weren't cut out for life with a guy in the military anyway. Waiting around like this to see what was going on was making your stomach upset, and you weren't getting enough sleep. When you closed your eyes, you just pictured a very kissable face with a scarred cheek and big brown eyes.

"You need to focus," you scolded as you parked your car and headed into the school with your ID badge. You had eighteen kids who required your attention, and you'd once again give it to them, because you were fantastic at your job.

This morning, Violet was the first one to mention Bradley in passing, and you had to shake your head. "Please find your seats. If I hear from Lieutenant Bradshaw, I promise I will let you know. I'm not hiding any letters or emails from you all, okay?" You tried to smile as you said, "I'd like to hear from him every bit as badly as you would. I can guarantee that."

You struggled through your morning lessons, often reminding yourself that you needed to focus on your students. Then you sat quietly at your desk with the classroom lights off during lunch, scrolling back through the dozens of emails you'd exchanged with Bradley on your phone. You pulled up the picture of the sun setting behind him in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and even though you tried, you couldn't find anything other than the most sincere expression on his handsome face.

Maybe he would text you this weekend, letting you know he was back and your date was on. You had to believe he would still contact you. When the bell rang, you counted to ten, and then your students came flooding back through your classroom door. They wanted to tell you all about how Jasper from Mrs. Wynn's class got in trouble during lunch, and you humored them before saying, "I'm sure none of you would misbehave like that in the cafeteria."

"No way!" Henry promised.

"That's what I like to hear," you told him with a forced smile. "Once you're all in your seats, we'll start our math lesson. Maybe I'll put a few aviation problems on the board at the end if you show me how well you can focus for the next twenty minutes."

You had just started copying the first fraction that you wanted to discuss from your notebook onto the board when there was a sharp knock on your classroom door. You sighed and let your forehead rest briefly on the white board, knowing that another disruption would completely derail your kids after all the lunchtime nonsense. When you turned to face the door, they were already starting to chatter with each other.

"Come in!" you called out, and every head in your room whipped around to see who was there and what they wanted.

When the door swung open, the room went silent. The first thing you thought about was how peculiar it was to see someone in a khaki military uniform standing there. Then your eyes slid up that tall, muscular frame as your lips parted in surprise. As soon as you met his gaze, he smiled and said, "Hey, Gorgeous."

You couldn't speak. As he took a full step into your classroom and pulled the door closed, you finally noticed he was holding some pretty flowers. Then he was heading your way, his combat boots squeaking ever so slightly against the tile floor with each long stride. Bradley Bradshaw wasn't hesitating at all as he made his way directly to you while your students started talking again.

"It's Lieutenant Bradshaw!"

"I knew he'd come visit us ever since I asked him to!"

"Does this mean his deployment is over?"

"Why does he have flowers?"

He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of you, and the butterflies in your belly were fluttering so much, you were convinced you could float off of the floor. You weren't sure what else to say, so you simply whispered, "Bradley."

His smile grew as he said, "I love the way that sounds when you say it." You could only squeak in response, and his warm gaze flicked from your eyes down to your lips. At this rate you'd be a puddle at his feet in the next ten seconds. He swallowed hard, cheeks flushed as he leaned in closer, taking another small step forward until his boot gently bumped your shoe. His voice took on a raspier edge as said, "You told me you wanted me to kiss you as soon as I saw you."

He didn't stop slowly closing the distance, and when you reached out and let your fingers tangle with his, you whispered, "Please." Then you closed your eyes as his lips brushed feather light against yours. You gasped. He was here. Nothing had ever felt as good as this in your life. You opened your eyes to find him grinning right in front of you, and you chased him for another one of his dreamy kisses.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw kissed her!"

"I think they're in love!"

"They are definitely going to be girlfriend and boyfriend!"

Bradley wrapped his fingers around yours a little tighter as you and he laughed, and he ducked his head before looking up at your class. His cheeks were the most alluring shade of pink as he told them, "Hey, I hope you don't mind that I decided to surprise you and your teacher."

"We don't mind!" shouter Oliver as he was practically sitting on his desk now in excitement. All of the kids were bouncing with anticipation, and you couldn't stop smiling as Violet clapped her hands together.

"Great, because I brought my responses to your last batch of letters, too. I can't thank you enough for being my pen pals for the last few months. You made my time away from home a lot more fun." He turned to look at you before softly adding, "And you made coming back home feel really good."

You wanted to kiss him again. You wanted to run your fingers along his scars and press your lips to his skin in their wake. You wanted to bury your nose against his neck and inhale the smell of his skin and his uniform collar. You wanted to feel his mustache on your lips. Instead, because every eye in the room was on the two of you, you told him, "I'm really happy you're here." You tugged on his hand so he was standing front and center, and you turned to your kids and asked, "What do we say when we have a special guest visit us?"

"Thank you!" they all shouted in unison.

"That's right," you told them. Then you looked up at Bradley, and he handed you the flowers with a crooked little grin, and that's when you noticed he had a small notebook in his hand as well.

"Can I call each kid up to get their letter?" he asked, as if you would deny him anything at the moment. "Then I can put faces to all of the names."

You were still definitely at risk of melting. "You wrote each of them a personal letter again?" you asked him, holding your flowers to your chest and trying not to swoon.

"Yeah," he replied, opening his notebook to show you. He stood there, looking devastatingly sexy, tearing out a page for every kid. He called each of them up and talked to them for a minute. He remembered the name of Jayden's dog. He remembered that Violet loved neon-colored everything. He remembered that Henry said his grandfather was in the Navy. He remembered so much, and he was so willing to indulge all of their questions.

You just stood there with your flowers and watched this endearing man captivate all nineteen of you with his words. He let Oliver try on one of his insignia pins. He drew a diagram of an aircraft carrier on your white board. He met your gaze more often than not. He smiled at you every time he did. He told your students that the reason they were so smart was because you were such a good teacher. The butterflies were here to stay now.

When you looked around, you noticed that your kids were cherishing their personal notes just like you were your flowers. You didn't want this afternoon to end, and yet, as soon as the first bell rang at three o'clock, you jumped to attention. The sooner your students cleared out of the room for the weekend, the sooner you could hopefully have a few minutes alone with Bradley before he wanted to go home and rest.

"We need to pack up," you announced, finally setting the bouquet down on your desk while Bradly affixed his pin back on his uniform shirt.

"Do we have to?" whined Jayden. "Lieutenant Bradshaw like just got here!"

He had in fact been in your classroom for over two hours, but you couldn't blame them for wanting more. Bradley cleared his throat and looked at you as he said, "I could come back again?" with that sincere gaze you were already weak for. "Spend a few more hours answering questions? Maybe bring some engine parts with me?"

You bit your lip before you could whimper out loud, and he started to head in your direction. "We would love that," you told him.

"Yeah?" he asked you as your kids erupted into a rowdy mob, grabbing all of their belongings as the final bell rang.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, waving lazily to your students as they shouted their goodbyes to both you and Bradley. His steps had him reaching you right as the last few kids left your room, and you whispered, "You'll come back?"

He reached for your hand as he said, "I'll do anything you want, Gorgeous." He must have been able to read the needy look on your face, because when you tugged on his hand, he came all the way to you. His other hand ended up at your waist as his lips found yours, and this time, the feather light kisses deepened as you parted your lips. Bradley groaned softly, kissing you just right, and then he whispered, "I've been dying for this."

Your arms went around his neck, kissing him a little frantically, melting at his touch and the feel of his soft, wavy hair between your fingers. "Me too," you told him before pulling his bottom lip gently between yours. He backed you up until you bumped into your desk, and all you could think about was how good his weight would feel on top of you.

Your skin felt too hot when he finally broke the kiss, panting softly as you ran your thumb along his scars. "I didn't like not hearing from you the past two weeks," you told him, and his brown eyes softened even as his hold on you tightened a little bit. "It was... kind of scary."

"I didn't like it either," he told you. "And I was going to text you immediately when we docked this morning, but then I decided to just come here instead." He grinned as your fingers crept back up into his hair. "If they didn't let me sign in with my military ID in the front office, I don't know what I would have done. I just wanted to see you."

You kissed his chin and said, "Usually I hate surprises. But this one was perfect."

"Okay, see, that's good information to know," he rasped. "I only got a ride home long enough to throw my duffle in the front door and hop in my Bronco. I stopped for the flowers, and then I just wanted to get here with my notebook."

You tipped your head back and whispered, "How am I supposed to deal with how sweet you are?"

"Oh! That reminds me," he muttered, rubbing his hand along your back before releasing you and strolling over to where he left his notebook on Oliver's desk. The way your body wanted you to follow him was surprising, but it gave you a chance to look at him again from head to toe as you stood next to your desk. There was nothing out of place on this man, and you pressed your lips together as his bicep flexed against his shirt sleeve. He tore another sheet of paper from his notebook and said, "I have one more note to deliver."

He walked back over to you, and when he held it up with a hopeful look, you took it from him and read.

Hey, Gorgeous. I couldn't wait one more minute to see you. And now that I'm here, I don't want today to end. Is there any way I can convince you to let me take you out for our first official date tonight instead of tomorrow? Bradley

When you looked up from the page, his eyebrows were raised, and that crooked little grin was hovering close to the surface. "I know I said to plan for tomorrow, but I can't fucking wait that long."

You bit down on your lip, shocked by how much better today turned out to be than you could have ever imagined earlier this morning. "Yeah. You've convinced me, Bradley. Tonight sounds perfect."

With that, you were treated to a little smirk beneath his mustache. He carefully took the sheet of notebook paper from your hands, set it down next to the flowers on your desk and proceeded to kiss you senseless.

----------------------------

He's going to make me hyperventilate. Those kids were SO excited to have him in their classroom, but they were nowhere near as excited as Gorgeous! He's home! And he wants to have his beach picnic and takeout and makeout sesh immediately. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 9

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

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currrentfixations · 1 month ago

Text

the cut that always bleeds 2 — park hu-min

pairing: park hu-min (baku) x gotaksister!reader

genre: just fluff tbh, they deserved a happy ending.

word count: 2,115 words

note: friendship?? they love each other, your honour. also thank you so much for all the love on my first fic it means a lot 😭🫶, hope you guys enjoy this one as well!

part 1

you were woken from your slumber by your phone buzzing next to you.

hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ flashing on your phone screen, before the screen went black again.

you had fallen asleep slumped against the door. your eyes swollen from crying, and your body stiff and sore from the rigid position it had been frozen in for the last couple hours. slowly getting up, you reached for your phone.

your head was throbbing, like someone had struck it with a hammer. tapping your phone, you checked the time. 11pm — you had been out for almost 2 hours. under the time, you noticed all notifications you had missed.

4 missed calls from hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ 1 voicemail from hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ 6 messages from hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ 2 messages from seo jun-tae 🙇‍♂️

nothing from hu-min. you never deleted his number. the last time you messaged him was the day of hyun-tak's accident, wondering if he'd seen or heard from hyun-tak. he never replied.

pushing the thoughts about hu-min aside, you opened up jun-tae's messages first.

seo jun-tae 🙇‍♂️ [9:42pm]: hey, it's jun-tae! seo jun-tae 🙇‍♂️ [9:43pm]: hyun-tak was worried bc you're not answering, call me or him when you get this 😊 delivered — read at 11:03pm

you loved jun-tae — he was a recent addition to your brothers friend group. he was absolutely adorable, and had won you over with his polite and respectful nature. tapping on his contact, you hit the call button. the phone rang 6 times before it went into voicemail.

with no response from jun-tae, you decided to check your brothers messages.

hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:17pm]: hey idiot hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:18pm]: sorry i haven't messaged or called, just got caught up with friends hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:18pm]: call me when you get this hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:36pm]: hey don't purposely ignore me hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:36pm]: i know for a fact you're stuck to your phone 24/7 hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [10:59pm]: ok did something happen, call me when you get this delivered — read at 11:06pm

wow only 6 messages, that was a new record for hyun-tak. better than the time he had messaged you a single word at a time causing your inbox to inflate with 248 messages. you clicked on his contact, checking what time you had missed his calls.

hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ — 2 missed calls at 9:20pm hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ — missed call at 9:38pm hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ — missed call at 11:00pm

you giggled, it was just like him to call you 2 minutes after messaging because you didn't immediately answer. tapping on the voicemail, you gave it a listen.

"hey baby sis, are you okay? i'm worried that little miss glued to her phone isn't answering. anyways whenever you get this, call me back. also don't be mad, i'm at the hospital."

were you really related? your brother was a dumbass. instead of assuming you were asleep, the first thing he thinks is that something is wrong.

wait. hospital. what?

you shot up, panic flooding in. running into your room, you grabbed a small bag, shoving your phone, wallet, keys and headphones inside.

running back out to the entrance, you forced shoes onto your feet. as soon as your shoes were on, you sprinted outside to grab a taxi. the drive to the hospital felt endless. you were beyond scared, imagining all different types of scenarios.

thanking the taxi driver, you rushed inside the hospital and upon entering you heard hyun-tak's voice.

"man, you crybaby. did you cry again?"

and hu-min's voice.

"i didn't."

"si-eun, don't worry he cries all the time." — "i didn't cry, jerk."

hyun-tak sounded completely fine. speeding up a little, you reached the group of boys. seeing hyun-tak with no injuries, you wrapped your hands around him, a sense of relief washing over you. he's okay — your brother was okay.

wait, you were supposed to be angry.

pulling out of his grip, you smacked hyun-tak on the shoulder. "owww, what the hell was that for?" he whined.

"what the hell was that for!?" you said, your eyes bulging. you smacked him again.

"you're an asshole, do you know how worried i was? why on earth would you end the voicemail with 'i'm in the hospital' when you're perfectly fine! you scared me!".

you wanted to smack him more but your body betrayed you, wrapping your arms around him once more.

"i'm sorryyyy —" hyun-tak said, smiling and gently patting your head. "the voicemail ended before i could say anything else. i was going to include that i was in the hospital to see si-eun".

"i'll deal with you at home." you huffed, pulling away from him. forcing a smile, you turned around.

"hi jun-tae, long time no see!" you said to the boy who stood to the right of you, giving him a side-hug.

"hi si-eun, i hope you're okay. nothing serious right?" you asked, giving him a polite wave. si-eun wasn't much of a hugger or talker, especially with those he didn't know well. but he knew he could trust you, you were like a mini hyun-tak.

"i'm okay, just a minor accident. only a few scratches here and there" si-eun replied, smiling softly.

"i'm glad" you responded, mirroring si-eun's smile.

"hey ___". you were surprised hu-min was talking to you, considering he hadn't acknowledged what you had said to him while he was leaving.

you almost didn't want to respond to him, but feeling the eyes of your brother and his friends on you, you settled for a simple 'hi'.

you stared at hu-min in silence, waiting for him to say something. but instead juntae cleared his throat, "i'm going to drop si-eun back to his room. let's go si-eun." — "i'm gonna go with them" hyun-tak added.

they hadn't left because they weren't uncomfortable. they'd left to make you feel comfortable, to give you the privacy you needed. hyun-tak had told them about your past with hu-min, how you had been harbouring feelings for each other, both afraid to do anything about said feelings. how his accident was the tipping point for you.

watching their silhouettes disappear, you felt a hand grab your wrist. you looked up at hu-min with a confusion expression that translated to 'what are you doing?'.

holding onto you, hu-min led you outside. the cold wind hitting your face as you exited the hospital. "what do you think you're doing?" you asked him. "i need to talk to you. sit." you slowly lowered yourself onto the wooden bench.

the frosty air settled on your skin making you realise that you'd forgotten a jacket. out of the corner of your eye, you saw hu-min removing his hoodie and before you could refuse, it is in front of your face.

"i'm fine, it's fine."

"just take it, you're shivering like crazy" he exhaled, placing the zip-up over your shoulders. you, unconsciously, pulled his hoodie closer to you, feeling his lingering warmth in the fabric.

"what did you wanna talk about hu-min?" the cold weather was making you impatient causing the words coming out sharper than intended.

taking a deep breath, hu-min gathered his courage. fighting with other boys, easy. talking to the girl he likes, no thanks. he'd rather fight a 100 boys than feel the emotions he was feeling right now, ever again.

"your brother forgave me, why can't you?" he whispered. he was right. hyun-tak had forgiven hu-min — technically he had never blamed hu-min to begin with. so what about you, what was holding you back for forgiving him?

a heavy silence settled between you. "nevermind... forget i said anything, i'm sorry". hu-min was getting restless, shifting his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing.

"no... you're right, i'm sorry hu-min." you've gotten this far, now it was time to just rip the bandaid off.

tapping the space next to you, you silently invited hu-min to come sit down. he had been standing the entire time, worried that being too close would make you uncomfortable.

"i'm not angry at you —" you spoke slowly, trying to keep your voice steady. "i mean i was angry, initially i did blame you for what happened to hyun-tak. all i could think was, had he not been friends with you, he won't have gone through what he did".

taking a deep breath, you continued explaining how during the first two months of hyun-tak's recovery you were so so angry at him and how by month four, it had become tiring.

not only did you not want to hate the boy you love, you'd realised you were incapable of it.

"soon after, hyun-tak had picked up on the fact that i wasn't speaking to you. and you know what he said to me?" you let out a quiet laugh. "don't hate hu-min too much, the guy is a bit of a dummy. just go talk to him". what you had tried so hard to hide, your brother had picked up on in seconds.

after hearing those words from your brother, you realised that the anger and resentment you had held towards hu-min for being the "cause" of hyun-tak's accident had dissipated. and the real cause was something else altogether.

"the reason i've been upset with you is something else. did you think i was angry because of what happened all this time?"

"yeah..." — "well do you get why i was actually upset?" hu-min shook his head 'no'. you were starting to believe that he did, in fact, have a 99iq.

"hu-min!" you slightly raised your voice, slapping his shoulder. "can you please explain to me why you were actually upset with me?" he asked, with the most innocent look on his face. "are you serious?" was he trying to tease you?

"i was upset because you didn't reach out to me. after i walked past you in the hospital you didn't try to contact me. not once." you sighed, taking a breath to prevent tears from welling up in your eyes.

"i felt abandoned. i thought i meant more-" hu-min pulled you into a hug before you could finish. 'i'm sorry' he repeatedly whispered, like a mantra, his voice full of regret. you pressed your lips together, trying your best to not cry, but it was too late. tears had began to slide down your face, dampening hu-min's shoulder.

"hey, you're making me look bad, why are you apologising? i'm the one who is sorry hu-min, it was wrong of me." you spoke, your voice muffled.

"ialsomayhavebeenupsetbecauseyoudidn'tfeelthesamewayaboutme" you quickly murmured under your breath, praying he hadn't caught onto what you said.

but he had. hu-min pulled back just enough so he could see you, his eyes softening at the sight of your slightly puffy eyes. "oh dear, my poor baby —" he said in a teasing tone, wiping the remnants of your tears. " ___, do you have 99iq or do i? i think we both do."

"i like you".

"i like you so much. my every waking thought is about you. hell, even my dreams are about you." you were speechless, your brain was short-circuiting. "i was worried that baek-jin would go after you so i thought the easiest and safest thing to do was to stay away. i'm sorry i should've told you."

"please say something."

without a second thought, you wrapped your arms around hu-min.

"i like you too, god we're both idiots." you laughed, with a final few tears making their appearance. hu-min hugged you tighter — "guess we are" he mumbled, laughing softly.

"c'mon lets go inside". standing up, you laced your fingers through his. "give me a minute, you head in first" he replied.

you nodded and made your way towards the hospital entrance. realising there was one important thing you forgot to tell him, you turned back around.

"hey baku" you yelled with a grin on your face, "you know you're not alone right, you have me, hyun-tak, jun-tae, and si-eun. try not to hold the burden all on your own, i don't want my future boyfriend to get squashed. now hurry up and come inside".

hu-min hadn't realised how much he yearned to hear that nickname from you. and for the first time in a while, hu-min smiled. not a polite one to show everyone he was okay when he wasn't, but a genuine one.

turning back around, you headed inside. you felt happy, happier than you have been in the past year. even though there was still the whole union mess to clean up and even though you technically weren't dating yet, you were happy. you didn't mind waiting for hu-min for a little while, not when he had waited for you.

for @bloodysxxl who wanted a second part 🫶

and as always lmk your thoughts!! :)

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dontbesoweirdkira · 9 months ago

Note

Hello! I was wondering if you could do a small request? I was thinking of platonic Yandere Dick and batsib where batsib is getting harassed(hope I spelled it right) at school or online but can’t find Jason or the others so finally gives in and asks Dick for help on how to handle the situation?

A/N: Yes, ofc! Thank you for requesting. I was originally never going to post the og headcanon because i thought people wouldn't like a darker take on him. I'm so happy you guys do. its actually dick just cyber bullying you into coming to him loll

Warnings: concepts of online harrassment, but it's mainly fluff.

Requests: open 24/7

Masterlist

"Sweetie, don't cry. Tell your big brother what happened, okay?" Dick's voice cooed as he used his thumb to gently wipe away your tears.

This wasn't a position you imagine yourself to be in. You never figured you'd be coming to Dick for anything. Ever. Let alone comfort. For the past few months of being in Wayne's house, you've avoided your older brother like the plague. There wasn't any circumstance you wanted to be around him, you didn't particularly like him for your own reasons. Jason was the one you found the most comfort in. He made you feel safe and at ease unlike Dick.

But Jason wasn't here right now. He and the others were taking their shift on patrol and they wouldn't be back at least until the sun rose. Dick was the only one home and available to help with the situation at hand.

~~~~

You had recently started up a social media account with much persuasion from your sibling, Barbra. It was just supposed to be something wholesome to better connect with the other siblings as it was a frequency they used. You weren't too fond of the whole thing, it was slightly anxiety inducing but you agreed to make them happy. They felt bad about sharing so many family photos without you being as they were all proud to show you off.

Unexpectedly, you kind of got into it. You started spending quite a few hours scrolling posts and sharing videos to your siblings, even deciding to make a few of your own...not thinking much of it.

It was great and all of the feedback was positive, mainly being from your sibling or school friends. It was a fun and rather safe escape for you to enjoy on your downtime.

That was until you finally decided to check your laptop after a few days away. To your surprise, lots of new notifications flooded your inbox. Maybe your post went viral or something, you excitedly thought to yourself.

The excitement quickly died down after reading through every comment and message you received during your hiatus. Copious amounts of vile content flooded your eyes. Most of them attacked your appearance or the fact you were 'just another pitiful orphan'. But nothing disturbed you like the dm you received that was filled with death threats and altered photos of you.

Mixed feelings of terror, anxiety and sadness overtook your body. You were never one to cry much but this, this did something to you. The only thing you wanted was to be held. Your safe space was ripped from you and turned into a heinous landfill, you felt so violated. You knew that person was only behind a screen but what if they were coming for you? What if it was an enemy of your family? You weren't nearly as trained or half as capable as your siblings and this person probably knew that. What if they're not around and that person captures you..

You didn't want to die. You didn't want to be their target….

~~~~~

You could sense the blood boiling beneath Grayson's skin as told him all that happened. For once in your life you seen his smile drop and his eyes growing dark., his sky blue eyes were nearly a deep black. He couldn't stop the fury from seeping into his vein as he thought about all the ways to get his revenge on the person who made you like this.

He never wanted to see his baby sister in this state, he didn't like that you couldn't enjoy yourself. He felt so guilty, this was his fault. He gave the green light to Babs about the social media thing when she brought it up to him. How could he be so stupid? Why didn't he think about the possibility of something like this?

It was supposed to be something to get you out of your shell and closer with them, not a breeding ground for degenerate fuckers like that.

He was silent for a while, entrapped in his own mind and anger before you tugged on his shirt.

"..Dick, please help me. I'm so scared. I really don't want to die. What am i going to do?" Your words were almost inaudible as you choked over them. The few lone tears turned into a heavy stream. You needed him to make this all go away. It was too much for you to handle alone.

Your plea for his help snapped him out of his thoughts. Dick's heart nearly crumbling at the cracks in your voice. He loved you so much and making sure you knew you were safe was the most important thing. The plotting could wait, there was plenty of time to take care of them. Softening his face, he flashed you his pretty smile, and took your hands in his.

"Do you think your older brother, Dick, would ever let them come through these doors and hurt you?"

You shook your head and rubbed at your puffy, red eyes.

"My sweet birdie. You have to know as long as i'm living, you'll be safe."

Dick hesitantly opened his arms out for a hug, not sure if you'd be willing to accept it this time. To his surprise, you did. Practically throwing yourself into his embrace, you wrapped you arms around his neck and sobbing in the crook of his neck.

You tightly held onto him as you nuzzled your head as deeper into it. Maybe you were wrong in your judgement of him?,,,or maybe it was the heat of the moment, but something about this was actually…nice. You never had a hug that felt as warm and protecting as this was now. There was just something so precious about the he handled you with so much care. It was as if you were made out of some kind of delicate material.

A feeling of regret rushed your body as you thought back to all the times you avoided and othered him. Was this what you were missing all those times?

You could've been getting love like this but you willingly rejected it all. Stupid.

"...I'm sorry,,,"

A curious hum left his voice as he wondered what you could be referring to. None of this was your fault nor was coming to him any sort of burden.

",,,for y'know.”

You could feel his head gently tilt to the side as he was still confused as to what you meant.

“I've been a bad sister to you, dick. I’m so sorry.” Your shaky voice was pitched high as you fought against your tears.

Shaking his head, he rubbed circles on your back.

Richard held his own breath for a moment, processing the words you just said. It was almost unbelievable to hear those words escaping from your mouth. Almost as unbelievable for you to finally be in his arms like this, at your most vulnerable. A fuzziness started in the depths of his stomach and exploded his body in bliss.

This was a long awaited feeling he so desperately had been craving. At that moment, all of his patience was worth it. All he ever wanted was to be your safety net, your best friend and he’s finally getting it. He wanted you to hug him like this forever. He wanted you to be safe right here in his arms. This was everything he could ask for.

Pay offs like this confirms he chose right in prioritizing his family over everything. His tendencies weren’t indeed crazy but necessary. He’s the backbone of the bats.

Dick’s muscular arms tightening in their embrace, gave you a nice squeeze.

"If you were a bad sister, i wouldn't love you as much as i do. The world doesn't deserve an angel like you, neither do i."

Dick breaks the hug and puts your hands in his once more. A soft kiss is planted on your forehead and there's a beat that passes as he's observing you. His smile is wider than ever. To him, you're the most perfect sibling he could ever ask for.

"I'll do whatever it takes, even bending a few rules, if that means you can sleep peacefully. I’m your nightwing."

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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

Text

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part seven)

warnings ; they’re speaking through sex again :’( slight choking, slapping (it’s one time!), they talk through the entire sexual encounter except she’s just being a bitch and so is he, unprotected sex

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 ; three things. 1) i may have taken it too far. 2) midnight rain by tswift should be your preferred song for this chapter. 3) this is actually the longest part of tpod. idk where we took a left turn chat but we did. i swear i didn’t mean to make this part as solemn as i did but as we near the end of tpod (tears.), i felt like it was only right to understand oc at her core so here’s the result of that. also — to understand where i got jungkook’s backstory with his parents from, this tiktok is a good place to start!

playlist here

series masterlist here

No one warns you that the final stretch is the most brutal. That success feels just as suffocating as failure when the entire world is watching.

The campaign is nearly done. Months of work, endless negotiations, photoshoots, and strategy meetings all culminating. It’s the moment where everything either clicks like a symphony or combusts in front of the entire fashion world.

Your inbox has been a battlefield. Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing, notifications piling on top of more notifications until it feels like your brain has been rewired into a crisis-response machine. There’s always something, always someone asking, demanding, needing. Your calendar bleeds red with the words URGENT. FINAL. APPROVAL NEEDED. Stores in Milan are delayed, Tokyo wants new creative, LA’s billboard specs aren’t matching the mockups.

Every second is accounted for, every breath calibrated. Still, it’s not enough. There’s not enough hours in the day, not enough you to go around. You take passion in every single project you’ve ever spearheaded — and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that Jeon Jungkook has some entanglement with your priorities.

Every single frame, every image of Jungkook’s face stretched across Times Square, across Paris, Seoul, London, has to be perfect. It has to work.

You really should be relieved this is all coming to an end shortly. Each campaign you work on gets more tedious, takes more out of you mentally, but somehow this time the relief makes it nowhere near your brain.

The strangest thought keeps entering your consciousness, and you have trouble shaking it out — you can’t tell if you’re more afraid of it ending or it continuing forever.

When this campaign ends, so does everything else. The excuses. The built-in justifications for why he’s still around. There’ll be no more moments where his thigh brushes yours and he pretends not to notice. No more mornings on set where he leans too close and murmurs “Did you sleep?” like he didn’t spend the night in your bed.

The truth is louder than every thought you’ve had in the past week. The problem isn’t that you’ve slept with him.

It’s that you haven’t stopped.

Every spare moment, every sliver of stillness not swallowed by meetings or mayhem or managerial fires, you spend with him. It started innocently enough; one night, when you couldn’t sleep and had downed two bottles of apple soju alone in your hotel room, you knocked on his door and asked if you could sleep in there. Technically, you could blame it on soju and loneliness and ‘he was just there’.

But then it happened again… and again. And now it’s every night.

In his hotel room, where his bedframe slams against the walls multiple times before you have to yell at him to stop it before the people next door hears.

In his trailer, where you tell yourself you’re just checking on wardrobe or last-minute adjustments (even though clothes have never been part of your job description), only to end up with your skirt bunched around your hips and his cock pounding up into you.

In your hotel room, where he shows up unannounced, backs you against the wall, and makes you forget why you ever built walls in the first place.

You keep having to tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t stop insisting it’s just sex. Just stress relief. Just bodies crashing into each other because neither of you have time to feel anything else.

You’re a terrible liar, always have been. You could never even get away with sneaking an extra rice cake as a kid; your mother would take one look at your face, at the twitch of your mouth or the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeves, and sigh like she was exhausted by how transparent you were. You’d try to deny it anyway, cheeks flushed, the truth practically dripping off your skin. She’d just shake her head and say, “Don’t lie if you can’t carry it.”

With Jungkook, it’s not just twisted idea of sexual release anymore.

He brushes the hair off your face when he thinks you’re asleep. His fingers trace idle circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to move. He lingers around you, waits for you.

It’s not like you’re any less guilty. Your hands find him without thinking. Your head always fits perfectly on his chest. Your breath evens out the second you hear his voice.

You hate that this messy, reckless, undeniably complicated situation has somehow become a place you seek out, a weakness you swore you didn’t have.

For all the chaos, all the pressure, all the madness of a global campaign hanging by a thread, he’s the only part of it that feels like breathing.

You’re already two coffees deep and three interns down by 10 a.m. The first one had emailed you a question you answered in the kickoff deck. The second brought you the wrong mockup. The third called you ma’am.

Your phone hasn’t stopped vibrating since sunrise, updates from 4 different countries, each ping a reminder that the final rollout is less than a breath away. You can practically hear the plastic peeling off the billboards, the glass being polished on storefront displays.

You haven’t eaten or even blinked. Your brain is a latticework of numbers, dates, time zones, PR contingencies, and the endless, echoing drumbeat of what if it all falls apart.

You’re seated at the long glass table in the Calvin Klein Seoul office, surrounded by executives from three continents. Stylists, art directors, logistics leads, all of them watching you click through the final rollout deck you spent all night walking through, dressed in Jungkook’s oversized t-shirt, while he had watched you with a little glimmer in his eyes . You’re walking them through the launch cadence, slide by slide, one city at a time. “And when the Seoul flagship hits its first 24 hour mark, we immediately cue the social media team to drop another teaser—”

The wooden door creaks opens. You don’t dare look up. You can already feel it, that little shift in the air, the flicker of attention from the far end of the room, executives perking up at the sight. Something in your chest tenses before your brain catches up.

The person doesn’t interrupt or make a sound. They slide into the room like smoke under a door, low-profile but impossible to ignore.

Without a word or so much as a glance at you, you realize Jungkook sets something down beside you. It’s a paper bag, small, folded once at the top. No label. No note. Just… placed at the edge of your space like it belongs there.

Your words catch mid-sentence. Your mouth stays open, but your voice doesn’t follow.

You keep talking. At least, you think you do. The rest of the sentence escapes your mouth, but it doesn’t sound like you anymore. Because then your gaze snags on him in your peripheral vision; black hoodie, Calvin Klein embroidery at the sleeve, hands in his pockets like he’s some kind of sniper, and your nerves flare like firecrackers in the pit of your stomach.

He moves slowly behind the row of seated execs, ducking his head slightly in polite apology, brushing past some stylist from Paris and the campaign director from London.

You stare down at the bag as if it’s a live grenade. Somehow you already know what’s inside. The shape gives it away. The crinkle of the wrapper when he set it down. The faint, familiar scent.

You only mentioned it once a few days ago.

Late at night, half-asleep, your cheek pressed to his chest, his tattoos warm beneath your fingers, you were tracing one lazily when you said it, half a joke, half a memory. Something about how your mom used to buy you honey-butter rice crackers from a specific stall near Jagalchi Market. You hadn’t had them in years. You didn’t think they even existed anymore. You also didn’t think he was listening.

Certainly not enough to track them down, to bring them here, to drop them beside you in a boardroom full of Calvin Klein power players like it was nothing. Like this isn’t about to ruin you in ways you don’t have the language for.

Because now, your voice is gone, stomach is in knots and your heart is doing something stupid and traitorous in your chest.

You force yourself to keep going, click to the next slide, pretend that your hands aren’t shaking. Pretend you’re not unraveling, one honey-butter memory at a time.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your hotel room in Korea is technically five-star; minimalist, modern, all black slate and cool steel, with blackout curtains that seal out the city and a minibar stocked with items that probably cost more than your old New York rent.

But tonight, it feels lived-in.

Your heels are discarded near the entryway, blouse tossed over the arm of the chair without a second thought. The table is cluttered with evidence of your unraveling; printouts, lipsticks without caps, a mangled pen you’ve been chewing to death all week. Three water bottles, none of them finished. A wrinkled Post-it with the wrong font code scribbled in your own handwriting. A half-eaten package of the honey butter cookies you and Jungkook shared a few moments earlier. You can’t remember when the room got like this. You just know it reflects some incredibly disorganized part of your brain.

And in the middle of it all, there’s Jungkook. Or rather, you, under him.

Jungkook’s mouth is warm against your skin, dragging slow along your neck, his lips parting slightly as he kisses the hollow just beneath your collarbone. The mattress dips under his weight, one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding down the curve of your waist, fingers splayed. You arch into him before you can stop yourself, chest rising to meet him.

He hums low, the sound buzzing where his mouth meets your skin. “Stress looks good on you.”

You don’t even open your eyes. “Shut up.”

He chuckles quietly, his nose nudging just under your jaw, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Your eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and already dizzy. “..For what?” you manage to get out.

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, dark eyes glittering. “Your snack.”

God, there it is again. That stupid flutter. That microscopic internal panic. That ache in your chest you keep calling indigestion.

You groan, dropping your head back into the pillow. “You can’t do that.”

His brow lifts, completely unbothered. “Do what?”

You shove at his shoulder playfully, “You know what. You can’t just bring me something like that, not in front of the team.”

He blinks with wide-eyed innocence. “Why not?”

“Because it’s—” you flail, exasperated, “weird. It’s unprofessional. It’s—”

“It’s not like I kissed you in front of them,” He shrugs.

Your mouth drops open. “Jeon Jungkook.”

He grins, his even stupider bunny teeth poking out with no remorse. “Wait, should I have? I can schedule it for tomorrow if that’s easier for you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious. I could do a casual peck in the meeting room. Or, I don’t know, something soft and respectful, like neck biting.”

Your hand flies up to cover your face, laugh muffled against your palm, already hating how much he’s getting to you. “You are the worst.”

“And yet, here I am,” he says with a shameless grin as he lowers his mouth to your collarbone, brushing it with a kiss that feels deceptively light. “Feeding you. Stressing you out more. What a catch, huh?”

You don’t laugh at that. The truth is, you’re still thinking about it. The snack. The paper bag. The quiet way he placed it beside you like it was nothing, like it didn’t detonate right there on the boardroom table, splitting something open inside you so violently it still hasn’t settled. It could’ve been nothing, could’ve been a small, forgettable passing gesture. And for a moment, it was. Until suddenly it wasn’t and it was the idea that he’s noticing you, listening to you, remembering.

You’re not sure anyone ever has before.

You can’t want that. You’ve spent your entire career making sure you didn’t need that.

His mouth is on you again, trailing lower. Warm lips, slow kisses, fingertips slipping beneath the wire of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

You feel yourself slipping again. The thread you were holding onto, gone. His touch undoing whatever discipline you had left.

And then, as if he can hear the chaos in your head, he murmurs against your ribs, “You’re thinking too loud again.”

“You’re being too annoying,” you snap, though it comes out weaker than intended, barely hanging on to its own conviction. What a comeback. Are you 5? Is this a playground? Is your crush really biting your collarbone while you pretend it’s not affecting you?

He hums against your skin, teeth grazing before he bites, your spine curving into him involuntarily. His mouth keeps moving, lower now, and you pathetically keep talking.

It’s not in full thoughts or arguments that matter. Just stray words, loose complaints, flung into the air between shallow breaths and the rising ache in your throat.

“You’re not funny,” you murmur, voice barely there as his lips ghost along the slope of your ribs.

“Never said I was,” he mutters back.

“And I still think you shouldn’t have brought that snack—”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s weird,” you go on, even as your fingers curl in the sheets, “It’s too thoughtful. You don’t get to do that.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook, you—”

“Baby,” he says, and the word lands like a spark. “Shut up.”

You blink at him, not because it’s crude or sharp or surprising — he’s said worse to you in moments less intimate — but because it works. His hand slides up your side, fingers spreading across your ribs like he’s calming you.

“I’m trying to kiss you,” he whispers, mouth brushing beneath your breast now. “And you’re out here giving a speech.”

Your jaw drops at him, and you stare, half-shocked, half-infuriated. “You are so—”

But the sentence breaks apart in your mouth before it can land, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You’re too wired on the cocktail of adrenaline and intimacy and all the feelings you’ve been swallowing down like pills you can’t afford to miss.

You opt for the kindergartener route you have going for you, and shove him. He barely has time to react before you’re pushing him onto his back, straddling him, arms folded tightly across your chest like you’ve just declared emotional war.

He looks up at you from the mattress wide-eyed, hair a mess, lips pink and swollen from the trail he’d been tracing down your body.

“I’m grumpy now,” you announce, “And it’s your fault.”

Jungkook pauses in his tracks, and then he laughs. It’s a real expression, cracking open the air between you like it’s never carried tension at all.

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “You think this is funny?”

“I think,” he says as his hands slide slowly up your thighs, “you’re so hot when you’re pissed off.”

You scoff, but you don’t move. “You think everything I do is hot.”

“Because it is.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

Lightly, his thumbs press against your skin, steady and unrepentant. “Especially when you’re annoying.”

Your pulse is roaring in your ears, and his hands stay exactly where they are. It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to lean in, waiting for whatever version of you breaks first.

Before you can stop them, your lips twitch. “Fine,” you roll your eyes, the words dragging reluctantly out of your mouth. “Maybe I do talk too much.”

He grins ridiculously wide and so outrageously beautiful it makes your stomach twist in protest. “Told you.”

You roll your eyes again, but it’s half-hearted now. You’re already caving. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes still locked on yours, like he’s enjoying every second of this unraveling. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “It’s already there.”

And then you kiss him again, desperately in a way you’ll hate yourself for later. It’s full of every word you won’t let yourself say, every truth lodged somewhere between your chest and throat, caught like a warning. Because if you keep talking, you’ll say too much. And if he keeps listening, really listening, he might hear it.

You kiss him like it’s the only way to shut yourself up.

You’re still straddling him, knees digging into the mattress, hands sliding up over his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt that’s too soft, too in the way, too much when all you want is skin and something to grip onto when the rest of your world keeps spinning.

His mouth moves with yours, not in a hurry at all. Yet for some reason your lips cannot stop flapping even as he kisses you like he’s trying to teach you silence.

You mutter between breaths, the words slipping out faster than you can catch them, strung together by nerves and some long-forgotten version of logic. Half-formed thoughts. More pointless complaints. The last flailing attempts to keep control in a situation where you’ve already lost it.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, teeth grazing his bottom lip as your lips move against his.

He laughs into the kiss warmly “Is this foreplay?”

“Want it to be?” you murmur, already leaning in again. Your mouth finds his like it’s been waiting all day (Mostly because it has.)

He hums lowly, tongue dragging down the sharp line of your jaw. “We could at least make it original,” he whispers, and you feel his teeth brush your pulse point.

“You make everything complicated,” you breathe out, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, your nails dragging slightly over the skin of his stomach.

“And you,” he says, “make everything dramatic.”

You pull back enough to shoot him a look, the kind that could kill if your blood wasn’t already on fire. “You kiss me with that dirty mouth?”

Jungkook smiles infuriatingly and raises his arms without a word. You yank his shirt off in one swift motion and toss it aside like it’s offended you just by existing.

He’s bare beneath you; golden skin, lean muscle, smooth lines and sharp edges. He’s the kind of stunning that should get less shocking with time, but it doesn’t. No matter how many times you’ve seen him like this, it still stops you for a second.

Looking at him like this, laid out beneath you, like you’re the one with the upper hand, it does something to you. His thumbs stroke slow, lazy circles into your skin, gentle in a way that feels unearned.

“You’re staring,” he says softly.

“I’m thinking,” you retort a little too quickly, fingers dragging over the center of his chest.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Thinking about what?”

You shrug, playing it off like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs. “About how stupid you are.”

And he laughs again, head tipping back, throat exposed. “You know,” he says, still catching his breath, “most people find better ways to compliment me.”

You shut him up with your mouth, kissing down his neck, biting lightly at his collarbone, your hands moving with purpose now. He groans, his hips twitching beneath you, but he doesn’t stop you.

But even with his body under yours, even with your hips beginning to grind slowly into his lap, even with all that heat simmering between your thighs, your thoughts won’t quit. They spin like a storm behind your eyes.

You actually have no idea what the fuck you are going to do when, in a short amount of time, you kiss goodbye whatever this is between you and Jungkook.

This arrangement, this twisted little thing you swore was temporary and physical, has spiraled into something else entirely.

You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to know better. Actually, you do know better.

But how do you walk away from the only thing that makes sense when everything else is spinning? How do you stop when his hands are on your waist and his mouth is stealing the air from your lungs and the only time you feel like yourself is when you’re pressed against him like this?

Now it’s going to be a bitch to walk away from. Somewhere between “just this one time” and the fifth time you woke up in his arms, it stopped being casual. Somewhere between a breathless fuck in his trailer and that stupid paper bag left beside you in the middle of a meeting, it became a cautionary tale for everything you’ve ever believed in.

And for just a second, you wonder if maybe this is what being alive is supposed to feel like. It’s a thought you shove down the moment it surfaces, because god, how cliché. How humiliating. You’ve spent your whole life rolling your eyes at that exact kind of sentiment. At those stupid American rom-coms where the grand romantic arc begins with a spilled coffee and ends in a rain-soaked confession at JFK. You’ve never been that girl. Never wanted to be. You don’t believe in fate or big love declarations at airport gates. You believe in cause and effect, in strategy.

You barely notice when his hand finds the clasp at the back of your bra, his fingers moving deliberately slow like he knows what it means for a woman like you to let someone like him this close to something soft.

The straps slip off your shoulders, snag at your elbows, then fall. Somewhere between the edge of the bed and the frayed edge of your sanity, it’s gone.

You’re bare on top of him now, and his eyes are on you, trailing over every inch like he can’t decide where to look first.

And then because you’re an idiot with a long-standing habit of self-sabotage, you open your mouth again

“So,” you start, “how many girls have you done this with on a press tour?”

He stills, hands pause on your waist. His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to make sense of the sudden shift. “I’m sorry,” he deadpans, confused. “What?”

You blink down at him. “You know. Girls on your team. Staff. Stylists. Whoever.”

His brows lift slowly, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s weighing whether to be amused or offended. “You want to talk about this,” he murmurs, “right now?”

His hands move again, this time sliding up your front, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before cupping them fully. The way he touches you is infuriatingly natural, clearly enjoying the contradiction of you scolding him while arching into his hands.

“I just think it’s a valid question,” you reply, which would sound far more convincing if you weren’t already tilting your hips forward.

He raises a brow. “While you’re straddling me? Shirtless? After kissing my neck two minutes ago?”

You glare, unamused. “Answer the question.”

Jungkook sits up slightly, bringing your bodies flush, his chest against yours, his lips brushing the curve of your collarbone as he speaks.

“If I did…” he begins, mouth skimming the edge of your shoulder, “would you be jealous?”

You scoff, but the sound lacks any real bite. “I just want to know what kind of PR nightmare I’ll be cleaning up next.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” You clarify.

“You are,” he exhales, his mouth now at your throat, “And it’s adorable.”

You want to fight back but his lips are moving down your chest. His teeth graze the swell of your breast, and then tongue follows. Argument folds in on itself. Brain goes brrr.

Whatever the answer was, it doesn’t matter. Right..?

You slide off his lap just long enough to push your skirt down, the fabric gliding over your hips and slinking down your legs in one smooth motion. It falls to the floor, pooling quietly beside his forgotten shirt like it’s grateful to be dismissed.

You’re back on top of him, barely even clothed, one flimsy thong on your body, saying things you shouldn’t say in a voice that sounds dangerously close to jealousy.

“I mean,” you murmur, your hips shifting enough to feel him through the frustrating layers still separating you, “it wouldn’t surprise me.”

He tenses beneath you, but you keep going because you’re already too far gone. “You’re always surrounded by women,” you continue, even as your fingers curl into his shoulders. “Stylists… assistants… makeup artists practically sitting in your lap. All of them obsessed with you.”

His grip on your thighs tightens. “And you…” you breathe, eyes locked on his as you roll your hips once, “you like being adored, don’t you?”

Jungkook’s eyes are half-lidded, his mouth parted like he wants to answer, like he might, but the words never quite make it out.

You don’t even know why you keep talking. The longer you speak, the more ridiculous it sounds. The more foreign it feels coming out of your mouth. You don’t recognize yourself like this — you are not inherently petty or insecure. You know damn well who you are.

You don’t need the answer to any of this. Because he already gives you everything else. When you rock your hips again, his breath stutters. His hands slide up your sides, fingertips skimming your ribs like he doesn’t know whether to stop you or pull you closer. You brace your hands on his chest, breath halting in your throat.

He exhales sharply as if he’s been holding it in since the moment you climbed back onto him. “Jesus,” he chokes, head tilted back, throat working as he swallows hard.

He still hasn’t touched you the way you want him to. Still hasn’t said the thing you’re almost certain is sitting right there on his tongue.

Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, your arms wrapping around his neck like your body’s already decided you’re staying, even if your mouth is still trying to fight its way out.

God, your mouth. It’s still poking at bruises that might not even be there.

“I mean, I’m sure they all throw themselves at you,” you speak against his jaw, your lips brushing the curve of it “You’re famous. You’re pretty. You walk into a room and girls practically trip over themselves to be noticed. Of course they want you.”

“And I bet you let them,” you whisper, quieter now. “I bet you don’t even have to try. Just one look and—”

“Okay,” he says finally. “Where are you going with this?” It’s not a snap, more of a low, tired rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.

You freeze, arms still looped around his neck, “Your dick’s been inside me, Jungkook. God forbid I be curious.”

He exhales slowly like he’s not sure whether to laugh or call you out again. Instead, he reaches for his waistband, shoves his pants down far enough to get them off with your help, your hands sliding down his thighs, helping even as the tension between you simmers.

He shakes his head, lips twitching with disbelief. “So, what, should I start asking about your history too?”

You shrug, eyes locked on his, your legs bracketing his hips again like the conversation isn’t tearing you open. “I’m an open book,” you say, voice too calm to be sincere. “Ask me whatever.”

His hands find your waist, fingers gripping tighter now, your clothed core dragging over the thick line of his cock through his boxers, and the sound he makes isn’t quite a moan but it’s not far off.

“Yeah?” he tilts his head back, eyes dark. “You fuck other guys like this, then?”

You don’t answer with words. You respond with another slow grind, as the weight of what’s really being asked sinks into the silence between you. “I could,” you say, the lie slipping out so fast it almost convinces even you.

The truth is actually laughable. You haven’t had a good fuck before Jungkook, not in months. Not since that work trip to Dubai, when you let some stranger talk his way into your hotel room after a rooftop dinner and two glasses of wine you barely tasted. It was fine, technically. He was attractive, charming enough, said all the right things. You came. You faked it the second time. You deleted his number from your phone the next morning.

And yet, that dude still texts you sometimes when he’s bored and nostalgic. The thought makes your stomach turn.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe to win. Maybe to deflect. Maybe because if you keep reaching for the upper hand, you won’t have to admit how far beneath him you already feel.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift right away. He inhales, sharp and deep through his nose like he’s swallowing back whatever instinct is clawing its way up his throat.

“Yeah?” he says, almost calm. “Are they here right now?”

Before you can answer, his hands are on your waist, pushing you back enough to slide you out from under him a little. He shoves his boxers down with a kind of frustrated urgency, his cock springing free and slapping hard against the taut line of his abs.

You already know what kind of sex this is going to be. The kind where no one says what they mean. The kind where jealousy and resentment and desire all tangle into something loud and wordless. To put it very nicely, he’s going to fuck the attitude right out of you.

But you’re past the point of caring. You’re on a blind rampage now, the dam cracking wide open, and whatever damage comes next, you’ll deal with it later.

“We can call them up if you want,” you snap, teeth bared in something that’s not quite a smile.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, eyes locked on yours with a look that is so far from the man who brought you your favorite childhood snack in a paper bag. “Let’s fucking do that, why don’t we?,” he growls, as his hand moves up and down, “Call them up right now. Let’s see if they fuck you as good as me.”

You kick your panties off, flinging them somewhere toward the foot of the bed without a second thought. There’s this self-destructive little ache that lives just beneath your skin, the one that wants to push him until he snaps. That sadistic little part of you that’s already soaking wet from how far you’ve pushed him, and how much further you plan to go.

He asked a question earlier you have to ponder: Is this foreplay? It has to be. Because if it’s not, then what the hell is it? A psychological experiment? An Olympic sport in emotional repression? Some new form of torture designed specifically for overachieving women with control issues and a deeply repressed praise kink?

Either way, it’s working. Your body is humming, your brain has turned into jell-o, and your dignity is already halfway to hell. So yeah. If it’s not foreplay, it’s a very convincing impersonation.

“Hm,” you hum as you settle over his lap again, letting your fingers graze his chest for balance. “One time, this guy had my legs on his shoulders, I nearly had my feet on the wall behind me.”

The lie drips from your tongue like a challenge. His jaw flexes at the words,pressing the tip of his cock against your folds, dragging it through your slick. You both moan in an unrestrained, ugly, desperate fashion.

“Oh, really?” he grits, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness again,“Didn’t we do that two nights ago?”

You bite your lip, fighting a whimper that threatens to shatter the act. “Did we?” you murmur, dumbfounded, “I don’t remember.”

You’re playing with fire. You know it. The look in his eyes is a warning — you’re as good as dead.

“Don’t worry,” he growls, his voice scraping over your skin like sandpaper, his tip circling your clit, “this is just my nighttime shift. Probably gonna call Jennie tomorrow. It’s been a minute.”

He’s hit something raw now, a nerve buried so deep beneath your indifference, you didn’t even know it was there. Because you don’t care about Jennie. You don’t. You’re not even sure if they ever actually fucked. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. They probably did. Right?

Why wouldn’t they?

They looked close enough together. Seemed to be the kind of comfortable that doesn’t just happen unless you’ve seen someone naked or nearly naked or laughing in your hotel bed at two in the morning.

You moan involuntarily as the head of his cock slides over your clit, the friction sparking between your hips that makes your fingernails dig into his shoulder. “Y–Yeah?” you gasp as your body clenches around nothing. “Is she as good as me?”

“Sometimes,” he fires back. He presses in, just the tip. Your mouths both fall open like it’s instinct. “You play your cards right tonight,” he grits, breath hitching as his fingers bruise into your hips, “and I’ll bump you up to my number one option.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to sob into his shoulder and tell him you’re sorry, even though you don’t know what for.

You feel so full and he’s barely inside you. “Hnnh, fuck,” you exhale, trying to blink through the haze. You’re bleeding pride and panic and can’t let him win, so you say the worst thing possible. “You know,” you bite your lip to restrain another moan, “we’re thinking of doing another idol for the next campaign.”

His eyes narrow into hateful little slits.

“Might go with Mingyu.”

You twist the knife all the way in. “He’s fucking hot.”

You feel his body go still, every muscle wound tight.

You don’t even know why you said it. You just remember reading something on a gossip site once, some stupid headline about the ‘97 line’ and how close they all were. You don’t really get it. Also don’t really care.

“Yeah?” he grits out, the words slipping between clenched teeth, “Fuck. You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

His head falls back for a beat, jaw tight, breath ragged. “Why are you doing this to me?”

It’s not a threat or even anger. He’s genuinely asking, vulnerable in a way you’re not ready for. You’ve taken it too far, and you know it.

You always know it, right before you feel the consequences.

You sink down fully onto his cock, guided by the firm, trembling grip of his hands on your waist. Your body jolts from the stretch, from the violent relief of finally having him inside you again.

Jungkook fills you slowly, inch by inch, and your walls flutter around him tightly. You’re already clenching around him when he speaks again,, every word punctuated with a thrust that makes your body seize and your mind go white. “Talk all you want about other guys,” he growls, thrusting up into you again, harder now. “But we both know—” another thrust. “it’s my cock you keep coming back to.”

You try to say something, but nothing comes out. All you can offer is a moan, your head falling back as your hips roll against his, matching his rhythm even as your body trembles from how much he’s giving you.

The only sounds left are incoherent — some cock-drunk babbles and gasping praise neither of you have the presence of mind to translate. But somehow, he feels deeper tonight. His eyes open, and when they meet yours, something inside you stops.

“I don’t care about anyone else,” he says like the words are being torn out of him. “I’ve never — fuuuck — looked at anyone else the way I look at you. Not one fucking person.”

That sentence shouldn’t make you want to hurl but it does. Not because it’s some grand ideology , or because it’s unexpected, but because for the first time in your life, you believe it. No one’s ever looked at you like that before, not even your ex, not even the men who promised things they never meant. No one’s ever made you feel like you were the only one in the room, like you were something chosen. It’s not the thrusts or the stretch or even the way he holds you that finally breaks you; it’s the quiet, devastating truth of being seen.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, head pressing into the pillow, jaw clenched trying not to cum too fast. “Still so tight.”

His hand drags up your thigh, then curves around your waist again. “Always feel so fucking good around me,” he gasps.

“This pussy,” he rasps, voice fraying as he thrusts up into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs, “was fucking made for me. Say it.”

The words hit like a pulse between your legs and you swear you feel your brain glitch. You blink down at him, completely drunk, lips parted, a blissed-out smile threatening the corner of your mouth. You don’t even bother pretending to hold back. “Yours,” you whisper breathlessly, “All yours, Jungkook.”

He makes some satisfied move and your rhythm builds with every roll of your hips, every grind that forces him deeper, and then you’re bouncing, chasing friction like a madman. Your arms wind around his neck, dragging him up, chest to chest, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear as your body fucks him with all the fire you’ve been holding in. Every wet snap of skin echoes through the room loudly.

“Shit, baby,” he chokes, hands slipping down to grab your ass.

You grab his jaw, fingers firm, forcing his face back to yours. “Don’t you dare fucking look away from me.”

His eyes fly open, drowning in black. He stares at you, and your hips move faster, sloppier now, thighs burning. You can feel him twitching inside you, every nerve in his body pulled tight and shaking. “You promise there’s no one else?” you murmur, voice even as it splinters at the edges from how fucking good he feels.

He groans like he’s dying, as if the question alone might undo him. “Fuck, baby no,” he gasps, nodding so fast it’s practically frantic. “You’re it. You hear me? You’re the only one who fucks me this good. And I’m the only one who knows how you like it.”

You lift yourself the entire way off his hardened length, and then slam yourself back down, squeezing around him just to watch his face go slack, mouth falling open in a silent curse. “That so?” you tease, “You swear I’m the only one?”

He shudders beneath you, hands everywhere now, “No one else,” he groans, “There’s no one else.”

He pulls you closer, foreheads pressed, skin slick with sweat. There’s nothing between you now. Not pride or distance or a single lie.

Your hips find a rhythm that borders on reckless. It leaves no room for thought, only sensation. You only feel the stretch of him inside you, the way he fills you so completely it’s a miracle you can still breathe.

“You look so good like this,” he grits out, his fingers sliding up the column of your throat, “Can’t even hold back anymore, huh?”

You really can’t. You’re past that now. There’s no pretending anymore. There’s no compartmentalizing the way he makes you feel from the way he’s already carved himself into every part of you that was supposed to stay untouched.

His mouth brushes your ear, hips snapping up into yours with a sharp, brutal slap that makes your whole body jolt. “What were you saying about those other guys?” he pants, teeth grazing your skin. “Because your pussy says otherwise.”

Your head drops forward with a whimper, fingers clawing at his shoulders, tangled in his damp hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Shut up,” you gasp. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, panic and pleasure all tangled up together, no way to pull them apart now.

Before your mind has a chance to pause your actions, you slap him. A quick, sharp smack across the face. Not enough to hurt.

It doesn’t deter him, not even a little. If anything, it makes him grin harder, all flushed and delirious like you just did him a favor. His hand at your throat tightens slightly, encouraging your worst instincts.

His tongue drags across his lower lip, catching on the silver ring that gleams when the light hits just right. “Feels so good, Jungkook,” you choke out, voice dissolving into air.

“No one else,” you manage, the sound soft and shaky, like it’s been dragged from the pit of your chest and barely survived the journey. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

The admission slips out before you can stop it, suddenly too exposed under the dim lights in your room, and it’s immediately followed by a cry when his hips slam up into yours.

“I want to cum,” you gasp, the words tumbling out as your back arches, nails embedded into his shoulders. “I want to cum so bad.”

Jungkook’s grip at your throat softens, thumb brushing along the line of your jaw, “Say that again,” he begs, pleading.

You hesitate long enough to panic. Your heart’s in your throat, your brain’s short-circuiting, and suddenly you have no idea which part he means. But you’re not about to repeat the one that sounds like a confession. You default like you always do and dodge the feeling that has bloomed in your chest like an unwelcome old friend.

“I w-want to cum,” you repeat, lips trembling. It’s quite embarrassing how quick you wither from his touch. He’s fucking you in earnest now with deep, relentless thrusts that make your whole body shaking from the sheer force. Your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips, hands grasping for anything solid — his shoulder, the back of his neck, the sweat-damp strands of hair curling at his nape.

And then he’s just pouring unholy words into your ears and it’s somehow the sweetest noise you’ve heard all week. “You feel that? That’s mine. Every inch of it. Every fucking inch of your pussy… mine.”

“Jungkook!” you practically scream, his name tumbling out like a broken prayer. You try to say more, but nothing actually forms. His head drops against your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“I know,” he speaks into your skin, cock plunging so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach. “I know, baby. Cum with me. Please, just like that.”

Your body is on fire, everything pulling tight at once. Your nails are buried in his shoulders now, deep enough to leave marks he’ll have to explain later. “Jungkook, fuck, aah, I—“

And then you’re falling down… down, crashing somewhere in your sheets. Yet the only image that flashes, all you can think about is those honey-butter cookies. The ones your mom used to bring home in paper bags. The first time you tasted them, you remember thinking: this is the best thing I’ll ever feel. Somehow, this feels like that again. Like safety. Like sweetness. Like something you weren’t supposed to have but got anyway.

You cum with a cry that tears straight from your throat, body seizing around him so tightly it drags a broken grunt from his chest. The release is blinding, back arching so sharply it feels like your spine might snap, your limbs useless and numb, your mind nowhere and everywhere at once. Blood roars in your ears, heart pounds similarly to a war drum, arms locked around his neck like you might float away if you don’t hold on.

He tries to move, to roll off you like he’s already thinking about cleanup or consequence, but you tighten your grip — arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist — locking him in place with the kind of desperation you don’t even bother hiding. You want him to stay. In you, on you, with you. Your hearts are thudding so hard it feels like they’re trying to break through your ribcages just to reach each other, like even now, even here, it’s still not close enough.

You know you’ll have to get up soon, do all the very normal, very unsexy things: pee, breathe, pretend like this didn’t mean more than it was supposed to.

Not yet, though. Not when your body still feels warm from the inside out. Not when he still faintly tastes like honey butter.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Busan looks different when you return with everything you once swore you needed to prove.

The sea still stretches wide, unbothered by your ambition. The wind still catches at your clothes the same way it did when you were a little girl except now the fabric is designer, and your heels leave imprints in sand that once knew you barefoot.

It’s just another set. Another location added last minute to an already bloated campaign schedule.

It wasn’t even supposed to be part of the rollout. But Jungkook asked for it, a final shoot in the city that made him, to be plastered all over the country like a love letter. He said it with that easy comfort of someone who’s never needed to run from the place that raised him.

You couldn’t argue with him.

The second your feet had hit the boardwalk, you felt it. It was a slow, gnawing ache in your chest, the kind that smells like sea air and old wood and guilt.

You haven’t seen your parents in months. Haven’t spoken to them, either. You run through the excuses you gave yourself in your head, ready to recite them at a moment’s notice — too busy, too tired, too afraid.

Now, here you are, back in the city that built you, standing in the middle of a place that should feel like home. It couldn’t be far from that demented word.

You’re the most successful stranger this town’s ever seen.

Jungkook glows under the sunlight, dressed in pale denim and soft white cotton as he leans against a sea-worn railing, the camera clicking in frantic bursts around him.

You haven’t said much today, barely offered any notes. The comments to the stylists have been short, distracted, your arms crossed too tight across your chest as you chew the inside of your cheek raw.

He smiles for the lens, shifts his weight, lets the wind lift his hair just enough to catch the light, but his eyes keep drifting. Away from the camera, past the crew. Back to you, again and again. You might need to call him out for his staring problem.

You don’t want to explain why your stomach’s been twisted since you got here, why the smell of sea salt and tteokbokki stalls makes your chest go tight, why your parents are twenty minutes away and still have no idea you’re here.

So you keep your arms crossed and your eyes moving from the ocean, to the clouds, to a rusted street sign you swear you used to pass on your way home from school. You’re just not that girl anymore, the one who used to run barefoot across this boardwalk and dream of anything bigger.

Still, when the stylist asks you to step in while she goes to the bathroom and adjust Jungkook’s collar, you hesitate. It feels oddly domestic, despite being surrounded by over ten crew members.

And then you’re in front of him, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric back from his skin. His neck is warm beneath your touch, flushed from the sun or the attention or maybe from the way your hand lingers a second too long. You can’t tell if it’s the wind that makes you shiver or the fact that you’re touching him.

“You good?” he murmurs, meant only for you.

You look up, caught off guard, your hand still near his collarbone. His eyes are already on you, steady and far too gentle for someone who’s supposed to be your problem.

In that second, you swear he knows. Nothing to the extent of the constant inner turmoil your brain is under, but that he watched the way your eyes keep flickering back to the sea and has deemed you mentally unstable.

You don’t say anything. You nod too fast, like that makes it casual, like that makes it fine, and step back like you didn’t just give yourself away.

For the rest of the shoot, his eyes keep drifting back to you, thankfully not in a way that gives him away. It’s more in that quiet, insistent way that makes it impossible to ignore.

Later that night, the world finally shuts up.

The shoot’s been over for hours. The lights are packed, the cameras wrapped, the team scattered across Busan in waves of laughter and secondhand adrenaline, spilling into barbecue joints and neon-lit bars.

You told them you were exhausted from the travel, that you wanted a reprieve in the form of a good book and your mattress.

You’re a better liar than your mother thought you were.

You’re here instead. Barefoot in the sand just beyond the edge of the hotel’s private beach, your heels abandoned somewhere behind you, your white button-down rolled to the elbows, a half-drunk bottle of soju dangling from your fingers like an afterthought. The wind nips at your cheeks, and the ocean keeps moving, loud and endless and entirely uninterested in you. The sky stretches above you like black velvet, stars painting the horizon.

You stare out at the waves as they crash against the rocks, steady and relentless. You let the sound fill the hollow space in your chest where something used to be.

Your phone is off. Your mouth tastes like salt. You haven’t cried, not really, but your throat burns like you’ve been swallowing it all day.

You don’t even register him at first.

“Drinking alone? Brutal.”

You flinch visibly and immediately curse yourself for not hiding better, for letting your guard slip when you’re this close to falling apart.

You turn your head, slow and unwilling. He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie, his hair still a little windswept from the shoot. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft in that way you’ve come to dread, uncomfortably observant.

Tiredly, you exhale, and look back at the sea. “Not right now, Jungkook.”

There’s a moment of silence, an unfortunately long one. It stretches enough to feel intentional, like it could tip either way. The waves speak for you, crashing steady and loud, giving you something to focus on that isn’t him.

But he doesn’t leave. He sinks down beside you with an exhale, arms draped over his knees, shoulders slouched in that unbothered way he gets when he’s just existing.

Without turning, you tilt the bottle in his direction. “You want?”

He takes it without a word, drinks, passes it back. The glass clicks softly between your fingers.

“Your jaw was locked all day,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Didn’t yell at a single photographer. Honestly kind of alarming.”

Technically, he’s not wrong.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “That’s poetic.”

He shrugs, “I’ve had time to study the source material.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s lazy. The waves fill the space again, stretching wide between you, all sea breeze and salt and unspoken memories filling your brain.

After a moment, he glances sideways. “You okay?”

It’s a simple inquiry. One of those questions you’ve answered all week with a nod and a forced smile and some bullshit about sleep deprivation.

Tonight, it lands differently.

You keep your eyes on the ocean. On the white spray hitting the rocks again and again “Just tired,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You’ve been carrying this whole thing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the gentleness of it. “Not alone,” you answer automatically, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “I have a team.”

“You don’t let them carry it the way you do,” he says. “You hold it like if anything goes wrong, it’s your name thrown in the dirt.”

He’s not wrong. Your whole life has been defined by approvals, by acceptance. Admitting it just doesn’t come as naturally to you as you like.

You tip the bottle back again. The soju doesn’t burn as much now. Slides down easy. Maybe it’s because of the cold numbing of your lips or the ache between your ribs. The waves crash ahead of you, rhythmic and unbothered. The seafoam bursts white against the dark curve of rock, and somewhere beneath all of it, something small gives way.

The words slip out before you even realize you’re speaking.

“There used to be this one stretch of beach my sister and I would sneak off to when we were kids.”

Jungkook shifts beside you, but thankfully says nothing in response.

“It was maybe ten minutes from where we lived. Nothing fancy. Mostly local. Never crowded.”

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Why you’re letting the words drift out like this. Why your lips won’t keep still.

“We didn’t have swimsuits. Not real ones, anyway. We used to cut up old t-shirts and tie them with elastic bands, like we were designing our own line or something.”

You almost laugh at the fond memory. Your sister was somewhat of a eccentric kid, always dragging you along on journeys your mother didn’t want to put a stop to as she cried over bills overdue on the table, as your father drank himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t bare to dig himself out.

You glance down, dragging your thumb along the green glass of the bottle, your hair catching in the wind, brushing against your mouth almost to remind you you’re still here.

“One summer we went every day,” you murmur. “Took leftover rice balls, bruised fruit, whatever we could sneak from the kitchen. Sat on a plastic mat and swore we were queens of the coast.”

Another sip, let the silence settle over the story like a tide pulling back.

“I remember the sand being warmer than this,” you say after a moment. “And the wind smelled different. Less like salt, more like sugar.”

You’re not really sure you want a response from him. This isn’t something that needs fixing. The bones in your jaw tighten, as if that might be enough to keep everything else from slipping out.

Jungkook shifts a little closer. The wind picks up around you, sharp and briny, curling through your hair and catching on your shirt. Somewhere behind you, far beyond the sand and the silence, the city is still awake. But out here, it’s just water and breath and the kind of quiet that makes your skin feel too thin.

“Do you know when the last time I spoke to my sister was?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the shoreline, glazed and distant. Kind of hoping the sea might offer a version of the truth that hurts less.

“Or my parents?” you add.

You let out something that resembles a laugh but comes out dangerously close to a sobbing gasp.

“Five months ago,” you say.

The wind shoves harder at your shoulders, like it’s trying to force the words back into your chest, but it’s too late. They’re out now. Floating in the space between you, real and impossible to take back. “I’ve declined every call.”

“I keep telling myself it’s because I’m too busy,” you murmur, eyes still locked on the waves. “That I’ll call tomorrow. That it’s not the right time. That I’ve got too much going on.”

“But the truth is…” You breathe in slow. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

It slips out like seawater, salty and sharp and heavy. You don’t know why you said it. Why you’re saying any of this. Why the silence next to him feels like the safest place you’ve had to fall apart in years. Why the words keep showing up uninvited, too heavy to hold and disgustingly honest to bury.

Your career was built on knowing when to shut up. Spent years learning how to compartmentalize, how to file grief under “later,” how to turn pain into something manageable. Now your ankles are in the sand, shoes discarded, spilling your family guilt to Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“I think I’m the worst daughter in the world.”

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or say something about how this is above his pay grade with his position in your life as the dude you fuck. Or try to fill the silence with a joke or a solution or whatever it is people usually offer when they don’t know what else to do.

The problem about it all is you can’t erase the image from your mind of you and your sister playing on the beach, who wore dresses made from seaweed and had dreams sculpted in the shape of seashells. Now, you’re just the girl who ran. The girl who hasn’t called home. The girl who isn’t sure if there’s anything left to run back to.

You swipe at your cheek even though there aren’t any tears yet. The threat of them is there, high in your throat, burning at the edges.

And in the back of your mind, there’s a voice. Your own judgmental one. Why are you telling him this? Why does it feel easier to say it here, now, to him?

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, low enough that the waves almost swallow it whole. “I didn’t talk to my parents for a while either.”

You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively around the neck of the soju bottle, eyes locked on the ocean even as your focus fractures. Tide foams white at the edges of your vision, but it’s his words that drown you.

Jungkook keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you. “It wasn’t some big dramatic fight or anything,” he says, almost as if he’s still deciding if it’s worth saying out loud. “No ultimatums. Just… time and my pride. Too many excuses that felt valid until they didn’t. And then suddenly it’s been two months, and calling starts to feel harder than not calling. Because if you do, you’ll have to explain why it took so long.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest.

“I love them,” he continues, “They know that. But when the whole world starts looking at you a certain way, it’s hard to go back to just being their son.“

He looks down, brushes his hands together absently, and sand is clinging to his palms. “I think part of me thought I’d disappoint them just by being… myself.”

You stare at him blankly. Finally seeing him clearly for the first time.

There’s a man underneath it all, a man who’s known guilt. A man who’s run too far and too fast. A man who is still, somehow, trying to figure out how to come home to himself.

Something inside you twists like the nauseous thrum after one too many drinks on an empty stomach.

He looks over at you then, and the moonlight catches across his face. You can see it now, the weight he’s still carrying as he tries to make room for yours.

“You’re not the worst daughter in the world,” he says. “You’re just a girl trying to survive.”

Throat is tight, chest tighter, and head feels like it’s slowly filling with static. But the worst part, the part you weren’t ready for, is the way your heart aches not just for yourself but for him.

He inhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the ocean ahead, “I saw them again,” he goes on. “After everything, after the time apart.”

“My mom made all this food,” he smiles without humor. “Like it was Chuseok or something. I think I cried before I even got my shoes off.”

He glances down at the sand, his tone softer now, afraid of breaking whatever’s holding this moment together. “And I remember thinking… no matter how far I go, no matter who I turn into, there’s still a place that’ll wait for me that doesn’t care about the stadiums or what the numbers say.”

“I knew I had to come home,” his final line delivers like a punch straight to the nose. “Not just for them. For me.”

You don’t fight the tear that slips down your cheek without permission or preamble. No wiping it away or any acknowledgment of it. Saltwater on skin.

“I feel so lost,” you whisper so quietly it barely counts as sound.

Jungkook already knows that saying ‘okay’ wouldn’t help. The wind threads through your hair like a ghost of comfort. You literally don’t know why you’re still talking. Why you’re letting the softest, most wrecked parts of yourself spill out here at his feet, under this sky.

Yet, he hasn’t flinched and somehow he’s the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but exactly who you are right now.

Jungkook hasn’t touched you the entire time which makes you feel like a basket case. He’s supposed to be making some remark about how your tits look great in your top, or trying to grope you through your pants. He’s choosing instead to let you break without rearranging the pieces to make them prettier.

You take another sip. The bottle’s gone warm now, bitter at the bottom.

“Maybe it’s time to call them.”

His advice doesn’t come with weight or warning. It lands like a paper cut and it stings in a way that makes you go still. “Not because you owe them anything or because it’ll fix everything. Just… because it might fix a part of you.”

Saliva trickles down your throat like molasses. Your hand tightens around the bottle, your knuckles pale where they catch the moonlight, as if holding onto something will stop the rest of this. “And maybe,” he continues, talking more to the sand than to you, “… maybe, they’re waiting. They’re probably scared to try again or say the wrong thing. Scared to lose you completely.”

You hate the way your chest clenches at that. Hate the calm in his voice, the certainty in it.

Hate how he says it like he knows something you don’t, something you’ve spent too long trying not to think about.

You wipe at your face with the back of your hand. Another tear slips free anyway, trailing down your cheek before you can catch it. You drink to chase it down, hoping the burn will swallow the emotion with it.

“You don’t know them,” you retort.

“You’re right,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t.”

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. “And you don’t know me.”

The silence that follows feels like a dare.

“I’m starting to.”

Your throat closes around it, tight to speak. You stare at the waves again, vision swimming, heart caught somewhere high and trembling in your chest. Shoulders tense like your whole body’s trying not to fall apart under the weight of being seen.

“Why are you right about this?” It’s not really a question. Not one that needs an answer.

Jungkook shrugs, “High chance I’m not.”

“What would I even say to them?” You expect yourself to start crying harder as you imagine the look on your mother’s face when she swings open the wooden door that divides you two, but instead you let out some strangled breath.

And then, with that same quiet certainty that’s been threading through everything he’s said tonight, he replies. “Hi is a good start.”

You huff a laugh, if you can even call it that. There’s nothing bitter in it, not really, just the frayed underside of someone who hasn’t let herself admit how much she wants something to feel easy again.

You turn back to the water, and in what feels like days or maybe weeks, you let your shoulders fall. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Before you realize what your body is doing, you shift.

Slowly, almost cautiously, your head finds his shoulder.

His hoodie is soft where it meets your skin, worn cotton and faint woodsy notes of his cologne. He stiffens for half a second, long enough for you to wonder if you should pull away. But then he exhales, and you feel it beneath your cheek as he settles.

You close your eyes. It’s the first thing you’ve done with him that isn’t laced with tension or a good fuck or something to prove. Like something steady beneath your feet for the first time in months. You’ve spent your whole life staying ready. Even in bed with him, you’re still half-armored, still controlling the pace, the narrative, the exit plan.

Your mind is spiraling. This man, who you swore was just a complication to manage, another name on a campaign, has somehow managed to see more of you tonight than most people ever do. It almost feels like the first real thing you’ve had in a long time.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder what he’s thinking. Then you really don’t have to wonder as his voice slides into the quiet.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if you keep drinking that, I’m going to have to carry you back to the hotel.”

You scoff against the fabric of his hoodie, breath mingling in the cotton. “Please. I’ve survived four week campaign launches on three hours of sleep and a melted protein bar. I think I can handle a little soju.”

“You’re really bad at accepting help,” he says, not unkindly.

You don’t miss a beat. “You’re really bad at minding your business.”

Jungkook takes the bottle from your death grip on it. “You know that’s mine,” you mutter, not bothering to move.

“You offered it earlier,” he snickers, not looking at you.

“That was out of pity. You looked cold.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts the bottle back and takes a sip. “Mm,” he hums, swallowing. “Tastes like judgment and unresolved emotion.”

A snort exits your body at that statement, and without thinking too hard about anything else, you reach for him, loop your arm through his. You curl into his side, your fingers sliding into the bend of his arm.

Your heart pounds harder than it should. This touch, it’s nothing like what you’re used to.This isn’t about sex or dominance or who will give in first.

Your pulse hammers as you stare at the waves, trying to calm yourself. You’ve had his hands all over you. You’ve kissed him until your mouth went numb. You’ve slept in his bed and cursed him and come undone beneath him.

He leans his head slightly toward yours when he says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You gulp. “What did you expect?”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I honestly don’t know.”

Waves answer for you, their rhythm steady, the only constant in a night that’s shifting under your feet. You take another drink from the bottle he passes back, let your hand stay exactly where it is.

The bottle moves between you two so many times you lose track. When it’s empty, you reach for the rest of the pack you bought and open the next one. And… then another. Neither of you keeping tabs nor trying to.

You’re too warm now to feel the breeze. The moon hangs low and heavy over the water, dim and pregnant. The waves shimmer beneath it, silver and restless.

You’ve stopped talking about work and pretending this warm feeling that’s spread from your scalp to your toes isn’t nice. Now it’s smaller things.

Jungkook tells you about his first performance in elementary school, how he nearly threw up behind the curtain, convinced he’d forget all the words. How he still remembers the way it felt when the crowd clapped at the end.

You tell him about your first pitch meeting in New York, how your voice shook the entire time and your hands wouldn’t stop sweating, but how you walked out with the deal anyway because you refused to let anyone doubt you twice.

You go back and forth like that. Fragments of lives neither of you meant to offer up but somehow keep giving.

Somewhere in the middle of his story about failing his first math test twice — both times for forgetting to put his name at the top — you look at him.

It nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

The curve of his mouth when he’s laughing. The way his hands move when he talks, animated and careless. The soft gleam of the light catching on his earring, on the slope of his lashes, on the faint scar on his cheek that you’ve never noticed before. His hair’s messy from the wind. His hoodie’s rumpled. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol.

You must be drunk. You have to be drunk.

Because… god…. he’s beautiful.

Jungkook’s always been hot. You’re well aware of how women all over the world fawn over him. But now he’s just for you under the stars.

You don’t plan it or think much.

You just lean in and kiss him.

His mouth is soft when it meets yours, a little tentative at first. You’re already tilting your chin just so, letting your fingers curl tighter around his arm. He smells like fabric softener and salt, like sea air clinging to his skin and the faint trace of cologne you’ve only ever caught in passing but could recognize even in a lineup. He tastes like soju and mint, like laughter, like stories shared too easily under moonlight. And when he kisses you back, slow, more certain now, you don’t dare hesitate to let the bottle drop from your hands onto the sand, cupping his other cheek with your palm.

Reluctantly, you pull away, your warm fingers still pressed into the side of his face. Your breath whispers against his mouth, “Why did I just do that?”

Corners of Jungkook’s mouth tilt slightly, “I don’t know. But.. if you do it a second time, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, biting back the smile that threatens to give you away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, “You’re the one kissing me under the stars. Kind of romantic, no?”

You exhale a laugh. Then kiss him again while holding your breath because you don’t want to say anything else.

And the next day, when you drive twenty minutes to your parents’ house in Busan, you don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding your breath since that kiss until the street comes into view.

The building looks smaller than it used to. That’s the first betrayal.

Smaller, duller, drained of the larger-than-life scale it once carried when you were a kid staring up at it like it could swallow you whole. The bricks are paler now, bleached by time or guilt or maybe just too many summers. The gate still creaks and the third step wobbles beneath your weight like it remembers you.

Everything is exactly the same. Which is somehow so much worse.

You stand there longer than you should, keys cold in your hand, thumb pressing into the metal like if you just hold it tight enough, maybe the anxiety will dissolve. It doesn’t. You try to rehearse something. An opening line, a reason, an apology but your brain’s playing static. White noise and old echoes and the blood-rush sound of your own name when it used to be shouted across this lawn.

You think of Jungkook. “Hi is a good start.”

So you knock.

The door opens too fast. No time to brace, no time to breathe.

Your mother with a breath caught in her throat. A wrinkle at the corner of her mouth you don’t remember being there. Eyes you’ve spent half your life trying to forget and the other half trying to see again.

You almost forget to say hi.

She looks older somehow. Smaller than you remember. Her hair is pulled back the same way it always was, her apron dusted in flour like she’s been baking something just to pass the time.

She stares at you for a second, silent and wide-eyed.

You ditch the practiced words. Yoy say something else that finally breaks you.

“Eomma.”

You don’t even make it another second before the tears hit you full force. You move with muscle memory, and when your arms wrap around her, she’s already there catching you.

She smells the same. Feels the same too.

Her hands move across your back in rhythmic circles, pressing comfort straight into your skin. Erase the ache of every voicemail you never returned, every text you left hanging, every birthday you pretended didn’t sting.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and her voice breaks around it. “I missed you so much.”

You nod into her shoulder because your mouth doesn’t work right now. Because your throat is tight and your eyes are flooding and your voice gets caught somewhere behind all the guilt. But the words come out anyway, muffled and wet against the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to come back.”

She pulls you in even more like she’s trying to fold you into herself, as if you’re something she’s been trying to find her way back to, too. She just gives you the one thing you were never brave enough to ask for.

Grace.

Faint footsteps are heard in the background. You lift your head barely to see your sister.

She’s in the doorway like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be here, with those same wide eyes, hands pressed to her mouth.

“Unnie?”

It’s all she says.

You nod, and that’s all she needs before she’s hurtling toward you, flinging her arms around your waist like she’s trying to make up for every time you didn’t answer her call. Her hug is messier, less practiced yet hits you just as hard.

You laugh. You actually do, right there between the sobs and the apologies and the second-chance hugs. Not because anything’s fixed or that the damage is undone.

It’s just that there’s too much love in the room to hold without spilling.

You dig into your bag with trembling fingers, reaching for the one thing you knew would make her smile. You hand her the photocard. Jimin, smiling on glossy paper.

She gasps like you’ve handed her a diamond. “No way.”

“I bribed someone at the top,” you tease, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t have to,” She hugs the picture tight to her chest.

“I wanted to,” you say, and you mean it.

Time ticks differently that day, a clock you weren’t expecting to miss. There’s too much food, stories told fast, many emotions that rise and fall without warning. You cry again, laugh more, and sit on the same couch you once did with textbooks and chipped nail polish, listening to your mother fuss over your appetite and your sister’s loud music.

Though it isn’t perfect, though there are still things left unspoken and walls to slowly disassemble, it feels like a beginning.

When you finally climb back into your car that evening, parked just down the street where the air smells like dried seaweed and laundry, you sit in silence for a long time. The engine doesn’t start. Your hands don’t move.

You think of Jungkook again faintly.

You realize then and there: you don’t feel so lost.

You feel grateful.

And maybe a little unsteady, knowing that Jeon Jungkook, the cockiest, most infuriating, most impossible man you’ve ever met, was the one who handed you the courage to come home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

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#jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #bts #bts x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook au

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purplereina11 · 1 month ago

Text

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 8 Other Parts

Word Count: 7.5K

You knew it was coming but it didn’t hurt any less when the list dropped. You saw the names. Scanned slowly, as if your own would appear if you blinked enough times, but it didn’t.

Not selected for this England camp.

Your phone buzzes with the group chat a stream of heart emojis and for the first time in years, you don’t have a reply, because you’re not going. Not even close.

You’re at home, sat on the corner of your bed, thumb resting on your screen like it might undo the post if you hold it long enough. You’d known something was wrong weeks ago.

Your club coach hadn’t looked at you the same since the injury. Since the press focused more on your recovery than the team after a must win game the team won. The minutes dried up, then the starts, then the glances.

You kept your head down, you trained harder, you didn’t say a word, you worked to prove every day you were recovered fit and ready to go.

But now because you weren't playing for club, you’ve been benched into invisibility.

You lock your phone. Stare ahead. Try not to let it sting more than it already does, but the spiral is already happening not fast, but deep. Your body’s healthy, but your mind was slipping, because if you’re not on the pitch… who are you?

You had no idea, and the comments of your move to Germany was career suicide were all coming back and proving themselves right.

The list isn’t haunting your inbox. It’s haunting your silence.

You think about training the way the coaches don’t speak to you unless it’s procedural. The way they praise others. The way your name never leaves their mouth, unless it’s followed by 'off the pace; or 'needs to be sharper', despite in your opinion you were doing a lot of drills better than some that were getting on the bench if not starting.

You think about your body. How it’s fine now, fully fit. Working hard. You’ve done everything right. And still nothing. The frustration sits hot in your ribs. Your jaw clenches. You want to scream. You want to cry. You do neither. You just sit. And the spiral deepens.

Am I not good enough anymore?

Did the injury change how they see me?

Or did it just make it easier for them to forget me?

You rub your eyes with the heel of your palms. They burn, the ache behind your cheekbone old bruising still echoes in your face like a shadow of that night. The night you won, and bled, and mattered.

You haven’t felt like that player since.

Your phone buzzes once. You don’t check it. Then again. And again. You still don’t look.

Because it might be Georgia. Or Beth. Or Sarina, with something generic and clinical like 'Keep working hard, we’re watching.' And you’re not sure which would hurt more, their concern, or their silence.

So you lie back on your bed. Eyes on the ceiling, and let yourself feel nothing, because that’s worse than anger and right now, it’s all you’ve got.

The buzz comes again not a notification from socials, not news, not group chat noise.

Just one name.

Alexia

You stare at the screen. It’s not a meme. Not a casual thinking of you. Not a selfie she wants to know if was ok for an Instagram dump she was doing.

It’s a message that makes your chest pull tight.

You haven’t said anything about the call-up list.

You read it once. Twice.

The simplicity of it hits harder than anything else, because she knows you would have said something, because she’s read your silence perfectly.

Then, another one, quickly after:

I’m not asking if you’re okay. I know you’re not. Do you want to talk or do you want me to distract you?

You don’t answer right away. You just stare at the messages, fingers hovering over the screen, throat tight, because it’s not pity. It’s just her. Knowing the exact right way to stand next to you when everything feels like it’s slipping.

Your reply takes a minute to type, but you send it.

I don’t know what I want. I just feel like I’m disappearing.

Her typing bubble appears almost immediately.

You’re not. I see you. Even from here.

You stare at those words. Let them sink in. Let yourself feel them and for the first time all day, the spiral pauses.

The call comes less than a minute after her last message. Your screen lights up with her name and you hesitate for half a breath then answer.

“Hola,” she says gently. “Hi.” You don’t speak right away. She fills the space, soft and steady. “I’ve booked you a flight.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ve booked you a flight,” she repeats, firmer now. “To Barcelona. Two nights, maybe three. Before I leave for camp.”

You sit up slowly on the edge of the bed, one hand against your temple. “Alexia…”

“Not taking no for an answer,” she says, cutting off your protest before it starts. “No plans. No expectations. Just you, me, and my sofa.”

You exhale, heavy. “I can’t just leave Teddy—”

“He has a ticket.”

You freeze. “What?”

“I booked him a pet fare,” she says casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Cabin-approved. I looked it up.”

Your lips part, silence stretching between you. “You’re serious,” you finally murmur.

“Of course I am.”

You run a hand down your face. “You didn’t even ask—”

“You wouldn’t have said yes.”

You lean forward, forehead against your knee. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” she says immediately.

The line goes quiet for a second, your heart stutters, then she adds, softer now “And I’m not letting you spiral alone.”

You wipe at your eye nothing’s fallen yet, but the pressure is building. You whisper, “When?”

“Morning. 10:15. Pack comfortable things. Teddy’s allowed a blanket and treats.”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh. “Of course you looked up dog policy.”

“You needed something to hold onto,” she replies. “So I made the space.”

You swallow hard. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Her voice breaks just a little when she says, “Maybe I’m just finally showing you what not being alone looks like.”

You nod, even though she can’t see. “I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

⚽️

You wake to your alarm barely slept, eyes gritty, the weight of yesterday still clinging to your ribs, but something is different.

There’s movement. A tail thumping.

Teddy’s already pacing by the door, ears alert, head cocked like he knows. Like Alexia texted him the plan.

You stretch gently, wincing just a little, and mutter, “You’re too smart.”

He just wags harder. You pack slow only what you need. Soft clothes. A hoodie that smells like your flat. His lead. His travel harness. You pause once, staring at the mirror. You decide to pack a few nice outfits just incase Alexia does an impromptu lunch again.

At the airport, everything is controlled chaos.

Teddy is beside you, full of tail wags and leash tangles, drawing smiles from half the check-in staff as he tries to lick the counter agent’s sleeve.

"He's a beautiful dog,” the woman behind the desk says with a warm smile, watching you fumble with his paperwork.

You open your mouth, then close it. Smile, soft. “Yeah. He is.”

Security is a mess, Teddy insists on sniffing everything, whines none stop when his emotional support elephant plush toy had to go through the scanner and lays dramatically on the scanner floor when asked to wait but eventually, you're through.

On the plane, he lies quietly at your feet, head on your shoes, gaze flicking up at you every few minutes like he’s checking you’re still here.

You reach down, fingers brushing his fur, the plane hums, clouds roll past the window, Teddy is the best of boys and your heart picks up, because you’re almost there and she’ll be waiting.

⚽️

You stand just inside the arrivals hall, trying not to look like you’re searching, even though you are.

You’re holding Teddy’s lead in one hand, your travel bag looped over your shoulder, hoodie pulled up slightly despite the warmth of the Spanish afternoon light filtering through the glass walls.

Teddy pants beside you calm, tail swaying, already earning smiles from strangers. You don’t notice. You’re too busy scanning faces.

Your fingers twitch around the strap of your bag, heart thudding, that soft, fragile voice inside your head asking, What if she’s not here yet? What if this was too much?.

Down the corridor, behind the sea of people, moving toward you with that familiar, grounded walk, calm, steady, head high.

No hoodie this time. No low-key disguise. Just Alexia. In soft denim, white tee, hair tied back in a low twist, sunglasses pushed up into it like she forgot they were there and the moment her eyes land on you, everything else slows.

No smile yet just her gaze, fixed. Sure. Certain.

You don’t move, because you can’t, but Teddy does.

The second he sees her, he lunges forward with the full weight of 35 kilos of devotion, dragging you a step before you catch him, breathless “Teddy!”

But Alexia laughs. Full, bright, and relieved.

She drops into a crouch as she reaches you, arms open without hesitation, Teddy barrels into her, tail thumping, nose pressing into her shoulder like she’s his, too and she takes it. All of it.

Then she looks up at you from where she kneels hair half-loose now, eyes shining and says, softly “Bon Dia.”

Your breath catches “Hi,” you whisper back.

She rises slowly, one hand steadying Teddy, the other brushing against yours as she stands.

You should say something clever. Something casual. But all you manage is “You came.”

And she just smiles. “No,” she says. “You did.”

⚽️

The trunk closes with a soft thud.

Teddy’s curled in the backseat already, head resting against the window like he owns the car. His breath fogs the glass in soft huffs. He’s content. He always is.

You slide into the passenger seat just as Alexia settles behind the wheel, adjusting her sunglasses and glancing your way.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She starts the car, shifts smoothly into gear. “Hungry?”

“A little.”

“I’ll make something.”

You glance out the window. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she says. She always says it like that simple, no weight. Just truth. The first few minutes on the road pass in easy quiet.

Barcelona blurs past the windows palm trees, red-tiled rooftops, the hum of city midday. The kind of sun you forgot existed when you’d been stuck inside so long. Her music plays through the speakers mellow, not English. Soft vocals and layered guitar. You don’t know the song, but you don’t want to ask. You just want to listen.

At a red light, she glances sideways. “You didn’t pack much.”

You shrug, eyes still on the road ahead. “Didn’t feel like I needed to.”

She nods slowly, as if that answer is good enough. Maybe it is. “I’m glad you came,” she says, finally.

You rest your head against the window, let the cool glass anchor you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

The sun shifts on your skin as the car turns, her hand stays on the wheel, yours rests in your lap and there’s nothing else to say.

Not yet, not when being here, next to her, finally feels like the most normal thing you’ve done in weeks.

The city softens as you leave the airport zone the buildings lower, the roads narrower, every other corner bursting with flowering trees and motorbikes tucked in at angles only locals understand.

Alexia slows at a small plaza. There’s a corner shop old, sun-faded signage, a line of crates outside stacked with oranges and glossy tomatoes. “I’m stopping here,” she says.

You glance sideways. “Need something?”

She eases the car to the curb, cuts the engine. “You’ll want snacks later. I’m not risking you staring at me in hunger like I’m your next meal.”

You huff a tired laugh. “No faith.”

She unclips her seatbelt but doesn’t move right away. “I’ll be two minutes. You good?”

You nod. “Teddy’ll protect me.”

Her mouth curves, amused. “He’ll sell you out for a breadstick.”

You lean your head back as she steps out. The door closes gently, and through the window, you watch her walking in that quiet, purposeful way she always does. Not hurrying, not hiding.

Inside the shop, she grabs a basket, you can see her from the car, not watching you. Just knowing you’re there.

You glance at the backseat Teddy asleep, one paw twitching like he’s chasing something in his dreams. The car smells like warm air, her cologne, a bit of dog fur.

You sink into your seat, let yourself breathe. A few minutes later, she returns. One small bag. Two bottles of something fizzy. A box of those pretzels you always get when you travel.

She gets back in, hands you the bag wordlessly. You peek in, your favourite chocolate is there too.

You look at her, “You remembered?”

She doesn’t answer, just starts the car again and says softly, “I never forgot.”

⚽️

The car crunches up the short gravel drive, your legs are stiff Teddy’s tail is already thumping, his nose pressed against the window as if he can’t wait to get out and explore.

Alexia hops out first, moving fluidly. She’s already pushing open the door as you round the car, unclipping Teddy’s harness before you even reach the door.

“Wait, wait—” you mutter, but it’s too late.

She opens the front door and Teddy is gone. A streak of gold. His paws thunder across the smooth tile, nails clicking like a percussion line as he slides around the corner and out through the wide living space, paws thundering on the tile like a small horse who’s just discovered freedom.

“Wait— Teddy—” you half-yell, already regretting unclipping his lead too early, but he’s gone.

“Jesús,” Alexia laughs, stepping in behind you. “He’s been here two minutes.”

Teddy’s zooming around through the hall, into the open-plan living room, and straight for the glass bi-folding doors Alexia’s just finished sliding open to the backyard.

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t look back. “TED—”

He launches. Golden limbs splayed. Tongue out and then SPLASH. Water erupts from the pool like he just landed a cannonball in a silent library. Your stomach drops. Face flushes hot. You blink hard, hands rising like you might somehow rewind time.

“Oh my god, I’m— Alexia, I’m so—” She just laughs. Not politely, not politely at your expense. It’s real. Full. Bright.

“¿Pero qué…?” she manages through her laughter, hand to her chest as she watches him resurface and immediately start paddling laps with the grace of a floating rug.

You’re frozen, halfway into her house, shoes still on, mouth open in mortification. “I swear he’s not usually like this. He’s— he’s never jumped in a pool before. He’s not even— he’s not allowed on furniture when we go to peoples houses he knows that, I don’t— I’m so sorry—”

Alexia holds up a hand, eyes still on Teddy, who is now trying to climb out the shallow end and failing gloriously. “You think this is the worst thing that’s happened in this house?” she says, grinning. You blink. She nods toward the soaked paw prints already tracking along the tile. “He’s fine. The pool’s fine. The floor’s waterproof. Breathe.”

You exhale shakily, rubbing a hand over your face. “He does this now?” you mumble.

“I like that he feels comfortable.”

You glance at her the way she’s still smiling, watching Teddy with something closer to fondness than frustration. “You’re… weirdly chill about this.”

She shrugs. “You came here. You brought him. He likes the pool who wouldn’t”

You shake your head. “You’re too calm. I’m panicking.”

“I know,” she says. ��It’s cute.” You groan, half-turning away. She walks past you, grabbing a towel off the laundry rack near the garden door. “Come on. Let’s get your idiot son out of the pool before he drinks it dry.”

You’re still red in the face when she hands you the towel, but her hand brushes yours, steady, warm and when your eyes meet, the embarrassment softens.

Because somehow she’s not laughing at you, she’s welcoming all of it. Even the soggy, soaking, zoom-prone parts.

⚽️

She didn’t make it a thing, just started chopping. Tomatoes. A bit of fresh bread. Cheese. Olive oil. Nothing complicated but it smells like someone meant it.

You hover near the edge of the kitchen, Teddy’s passed out across the tiled floor, tongue out, legs twitching. You don’t speak for a while, neither does she. The quiet isn’t awkward.

Finally, you push your hands into the pocket of your hoodie and ask, “Did you know I wasn’t called up before I said it?”

Alexia doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “Thought so.”

“I saw the list. Checked it twice.”

“Right.”

She finishes arranging the food on two small plates, then sets them gently on the island before finally looking at you. “I waited to see if you’d tell me.”

You nod again, “I didn’t know how. Saying it out loud makes it feel real.. yanno?”

She moves around the counter and sits on one of the stools, keeping the other one beside her empty. Not pushing. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to,” she says.

You swallow. “I wasn’t picked. Not even a standby.”

“I know.”

“And I’ve been benched at club. Barely starting. I don’t think I’ve even had a full match since the injury. Not one.” She nods. “It’s like…” you exhale, leaning your hip against the counter, “I’m healthy. I’m trying. I’m still me. But nobody’s looking.”

Her voice is soft. Steady. “I am.”

You blink down at the wood grain of the countertop. “I don’t even know why it’s hitting me this hard. I’ve had setbacks before. I’ve been dropped. It’s part of the job.”

Alexia watches you. Quiet. Hands resting lightly on the rim of her plate.

“But this time,” you continue, “it feels like I got hurt and they were… relieved. Like it was the excuse they were waiting for to justify not playing me.”

Alexia nods once. Then finally speaks, “I’ve felt that too.”

You look at her sharply, surprised.

“I know what it’s like to be the golden one until you’re not useful. Until your body doesn’t move the way they need it to. Until they stop calling. Stop asking.”

You sit slowly, not saying a word. She presses her thumb to the edge of her plate.

“But you know what matters?”

You meet her eyes. She smiles, just a little.

“That you’re still trying. That you showed up everyday anyway”

Your throat catches. You don’t speak and then, like it’s nothing at all, she nudges your plate toward you.

“Now eat something. You can spiral again after lunch.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, pick up a slice of tomato, still quiet, but steadier. Not fixed. But held.

You take a bite, not because you’re hungry, because she asked, because she listened. It tastes better than you expected. Tomato sweet. Cheese soft. Bread with a crisp edge. All so ordinary. And maybe that’s why it makes you feel like crying.

She watches you gently. Not pressing. Just present. You chew slowly, eyes down. Then, without looking at her “Did you ever think you wouldn’t come back?”

A breath, “Yes.”

You look up. She nods, no hesitation.

“After the surgery,” she says, voice steady, “I couldn’t imagine myself moving the same. Playing the same. Being the same.”

You rest your elbow on the counter, leaning into it, “What did you do with that?”

“I let it break me. Quietly.” Her voice doesn’t waver. “Then I got bored of being broken. And remembered how much i love playing football and i wasn’t about to give up on it so easily”

You blink.

She half-smiles. “So I let myself change instead.”

You sit with that. Let it land and then your voice comes low. “I’m scared it’s not a phase.” She nods. Doesn’t interrupt. “That this isn’t temporary. That the version of me I keep waiting to feel again… just isn’t coming back.”

You meet her eyes, finally and she gets it. Not with a pep talk. Not with stats or promises, just with her gaze. “Maybe you don’t need her back.”

You freeze. “What?”

She says it again, slower. “Maybe you don’t need the old version. Maybe this one now, hurting, rebuilding, here is the version who gets to decide who she becomes.”

You don’t know what to say. Not right away, but your chest eases just slightly and after a pause, you whisper, “I want to believe that.”

Alexia tilts her head, watching you with such soft certainty it burns. “I already do.” The silence after that isn’t heavy, itholds you both, then she nudges your plate again.

“Finish that. You need fuel for reinvention.”

You smirk faintly. “You sound like a self-help podcast.”

She grins. “I’m bilingual.”

And just like that the weight doesn’t vanish but it shifts.

⚽️

The sun’s slanting warm across the tiled floor when Alexia tugs her training top over her head. Hair pulled into a braid, she moves around the house with the quiet focus of someone who’s done this a thousand times but she still glances over at you twice in five minutes.

You’re leaning against the doorframe with Teddy at your feet watching curiously, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves shoved up.

“You sure you’re okay with Alba picking you up again?” she asks, slipping her watch onto her wrist.

You nod. “I liked her. She didn’t make me feel like a guest.”

Alexia looks up at that and smiles, just a little. “You’re not.” A moment later, the gate buzzer sounds. “Speak of the devil,” she mutters.

You follow her down the short path to the front door Teddy trots beside you like he belongs here and maybe he does.

Alexia opens the door and there she is Alba, leaning against her car, sunglasses on, already waving when she sees you.

She beams when you come down the steps. “Hola! Look at you, and look at this guy,” she adds, crouching immediately to give Teddy a proper greeting, which he accepts like she’s his long-lost best friend.

Alexia watches the reunion for a second before turning back to you, “You good?” You nod, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. “Text me when you get there,” she says.

“I will.”

She leans in, no hesitation, and kisses you once, quick and warm, just a little longer than necessary and then she’s jogging toward her car uncharacteristically late for her own game, braid swinging, focused now.

You slide into Alba’s passenger seat, after taking Teddy back inside and giving him a treat to distract him.

As you pull away, Alba glances over, her voice light. “You’re not nervous this time.”

You shrug, watching the road ahead. “No,” you say softly. “We've done this before, I'm not nervous”

She smiles. “Good.”

The city slips past the windows in shades of soft yellow and sun-dusted stone. Warm air filters through the cracked window, Alba drives with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses still perched high, her elbow resting against the edge of the window.

Music plays low Spanish indie-pop you don’t know, but don’t mind. She glances over once you’re clear of the tighter city roads, “You’ve been quieter than last time.”

You huff a faint laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“No. Just different.”

You nod slowly, watching a couple cross a narrow street holding cones of ice cream. “I guess I feel different,” you admit.

She doesn’t respond right away. Just lets it hang for a few blocks. You like that about her the patience. Then, softly, “Alexia said you weren’t called up.”

You glance at her not sharply, but it still surprises you. “She told you?”

“She didn’t need to,” Alba says. “I’ve known her long enough to know when she’s holding someone a little closer than usual.” You look back to the window. Alba adds gently, “And I’ve seen her try to hold herself together after an injury. She wasn’t okay then, either.” You swallow. The words settle deep. “You don’t have to say anything,” she continues. “But I figured I’d say I see it too, your quite obviously sad, but if you want to off load, you can to me to”

You nod. Quiet. A bit glassy-eyed now. “Thanks,” you say after a second. “I’m not great at talking about stuff.”

“I didn’t ask you to be.” She smiles. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance over at her again, and this time, your smile breaks through. “So, what, are you the secret emotional support sibling?”

Alba grins. “God, no. That would require emotional growth.” You both laugh. “I just care about people who care about my sister.”

You sit back, letting it hold you.

Alba chuckles. “You’re going to be alright, you know.”

You nod because you know it was just a set back and you had heard and witnessed people come back from a lot worse than a coach who didn't particularly like them.

The car eases into the reserved lot, and Alba navigates the back entrance, there’s a warmth in the familiarity not VIP treatment, not arrogance, just belonging.

Alba nudges your elbow, “Come on, star guest. You’ve got a front-row view and zero excuses.”

She leads you through the short hallways, the buzz of the stadium starting to build just outside crowd noise like the sea. Distant but growing.

The players' families and friends section is fuller than last time you were here, you settle in beside Alba until she nudges you again, subtle this time, tilting her head toward the pair approaching from the left aisle.

Lucía, graceful, sharp eyes and warm smile waves gently as she walks up, her son in tow.

“Hola,” she greets, reaching for a hug Alba returns easily. Then she turns to you.

“I’m Lucía. I’ve heard… a little about you.”

There’s a playful tone in her voice. Enough to make you blush. Enough to make you laugh too. “Hopefully the good parts,” you say.

“Oh no, just the dramatic parts,” she teases.

Then Mateo maybe three, maybe four peeks around her side, wide-eyed and shy at first.

You crouch slightly, resting your hands on your knees. “Hey, bud,” you say. “I like your boots.” They’re bright green, one lace already untied.

He squints at you. “Are you the football player who’s friends with Ale?”

You blink. “Yes,” you say slowly. “That’s… exactly right.”

“Good,” he says, and without another word, plops into the empty seat beside you like he’s claimed it for himself.

Lucía sighs fondly. “I guess you’ve been approved.”

You glance sideways. Mateo’s already tugging lightly at your sleeve. “She says you have a doggy” he asks, very serious.

Your lips twitch. “I do"

He suddenly looks away and points instantly at the pitch. “Thats my mami”

You follow his finger, and there she is Irene jogging across the pitch, all ready to go. You smile, soft and full, even before you realise you’re doing it. “Yeah,” you say. “Your mami makes my job a lot harder when I've played against her”

He nods, satisfied, Lucía sits beside her son, folding her hands with a glance toward the pitch.

The anthem fades. The whistle blows, and football begins. Not chaos. Not frenzy. Just the steady rhythm of the ball and the crowd and the heat of the early evening pressing into the concrete stands.

You’ve got your legs crossed, and Mateo beside you, his feet barely reaching the edge of the seat, arms crossed dramatically. Alba returns from the small concession line, slipping past Lucía with practiced ease.

She hands you a drink first something cold and fizzy then grins and produces a tiny tub of chocolate ice cream with a plastic spoon.

You lift an eyebrow. “We said no churros.”

“This isn’t churros,” she replies, smug. “It’s Ice cream.”

Mateo’s eyes are locked on the tub before it’s even fully in your hand. “I like ice cream,” he says gravely.

You glance at Lucía just a quick, discreet check. She gives you a soft nod. “One bite won’t kill him.”

Mateo immediately shuffles closer, then closer, then just leans, his shoulder bumping gently against your thigh as you peel the lid back.

You hand him the first spoonful.

He eats it with the exaggerated focus only a child can summon, one slow blink, a moment of stillness, then immediately declares, “That’s the best one.”

You smile, keeping your voice light. “Best flavour?”

“Chocolate,” he says. “Then strawberry. Then chocolate again.”

You hum thoughtfully, scooping a small bite for yourself before offering him another. “Strong list.”

He accepts the spoon, tilting his head dramatically as he eats it like a critic.

Alba leans closer from the other side. “You’re spoiling him.”

You grin without looking away from the pitch. “You bought it.”

“And you’re letting him lean on you like a puppy.”

You glance down, Mateo is half-resting against your hip now, eyes still fixed on the game.

You look at Lucía, half-apologetic, but she just smiles soft, real. “He’s comfortable with you.”

That hits you somewhere deep, because this isn’t a press conference. It’s not a stat line or a minutes report. It’s a child, trusting you. It’s this moment, so simple, earned.

You offer him another bite, and when he takes it, he sighs like he’s lived a life already. On the field, Alexia touches the ball for the first time clean, calm, confident.

Mateo points. “Auntie Ale kicked it really far”

You nod. “Yeah,” you murmur. “She’s something else.”

⚽️

The crowd has thinned. The sun’s dipped low behind the buildings, but the air’s still warm, humming with leftover energy the kind that lingers long after the final whistle.

You’re standing by Alba’s car, chatting lazily, Mateo propped on your hip. His cheek rests against your shoulder now, but his mouth is still going, hands gesturing like a proper little pundit.

“And then she kicked it so fast,” he says, wide-eyed. “Did you see that?”

“I saw,” you say with a laugh. “She does that sometimes.”

Lucía’s beside you, sipping a bottle of water, half-listening. Alba leans back against the car, sunglasses perched on her head, watching the whole thing like it’s better than any post-match analysis.

“Will you come play at my house sometime?,” Mateo adds suddenly.

You smile at him as he went a little shy, "Mr Paredes are you asking me on a play date?"

"I have super cool toys.. I promise"

"Well when you put it like that" you smile, "I'm not here for very long, maybe next time I come to barcelona?"

"Where do you live?"

"Munich"

"Munich?" Mateo's brows furrowed testing the word

"Yeah it's in Germany" You pull your phone out and show him on a map, "We're here, and I live all... the way over here"

"Wow" Mateo looks as Lucia takes a step closer, "I asked coco on a play date.. she said not now but another time"

“That’s because you were perfect,” Lucía replies, pressing a kiss to the top of his hair.

“I think she’s perfect,” Mateo announces, looking at you with all the sincerity in the world.

You blink. “Me?”

He nods seriously.

“Oh no,” Alba says, hands on her hips, turning just in time, “Irene,” she calls, spotting her and Alexia stepping out of the players exit, bags slung over their shoulders. “Your son just asked someone on a date.”

Irene lifts a brow. “¿Perdón?”

Lucía laughs, catching Irene’s eye. “He asked Y/N over for a play date” You and Irene smile politely at each other, you were not very aware you'd barely said a word to the defender and you were holding her son being invited into her home.

You glance up at movement and there Alexia is, hair damp from her post-match shower, sleeves rolled to her elbows, boots in hand. She slows when she spots you.

You don’t miss it. That little flicker in her expression, her eyes go to Mateo, then to your arms around him, then back to your face. "Did you her that Alexia? Mateo asked Y/N on a date"

It’s subtle, the shift in her jaw, the way her eyebrows pull ever so slightly together, the bite at the inside of her cheek. Jealousy, of a child. Soft. Undeniable. Ridiculous, but real.

You almost laugh but you’re too delighted, you offer her a perfectly neutral smile. Keep one arm snug around Mateo and say absolutely nothing.

Alexia recovers quickly, switching on a pleasant nod as she looks to the group and Mateo. Irene scoops Mateo from your arms, he grumbles but goes, eventually.

Alexia gives you a brief once-over. “You good?” she asks.

You nod, lips twitching. “Perfect,” you say, because you’ve seen it now and she’s never living this down.

⚽️

The house is quiet when you step through the door. Still warm with leftover sun. Teddy stretches on the cool tile as soon as he’s woken up, immediately rolling onto his back like the day hasn’t been long enough getting belly scratches from you.

Alexia walks ahead of you, keys jingling once before she tosses them into the bowl by the door. She says nothing as she slips off her shoes, sets her boots by the mat. Still cool. Still collected, nut you’ve seen it.

You’ve absolutely seen it and now that the front door clicks shut, you turn slowly, leaning your shoulder against the wall.

“Mateo asked me on a date.”

Alexia doesn’t look up right away. Just slides her fingers through her hair, tying it into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. “I heard.”

You hum, watching her carefully. “Said he had super cool toys. He promised.” A pause, still no reaction. You push just a little more “Really sweet, actually. Polite. Just adorably cute.”

Alexia lifts a brow. “He’s three.”

“He’s got good instincts.”

She meets your eyes now level, unreadable. But you see it: the way her jaw ticks, just once, the faintest narrowing of her gaze. “And are you… tempted?”

You grin. “Little bit.”

That does it, she closes the distance in two slow steps. Not urgent but purposeful. “You’re lucky I like you,” she murmurs.

You tilt your head. “I must be. I’m very popular lately.”

She narrows her eyes, eyes dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat too long, and then soft, sharp, teasing right back “Maybe I should’ve asked first.”

You hummed pressing your finger to your lips, "Maybe you should have, but I'm a one person kind of girl, so maybe next time" You blink. “Are you jealous of a three year old?”

“No.” Beat. “I’m jealous he got to lean on you like that.”

The words land like heat across your collarbone. You stare at her, caught just enough off guard to go quiet for a second.

Then, softly “You could’ve.”

Alexia shrugs one shoulder. “I was sweaty.”

You laugh, breathless. She grins. You move toward her now, not fast, not heavy, just there. Your hand brushing her waist as you pass her into the kitchen. She turns with you, following. You open the freezer, still smiling to yourself. “Ice cream?” you ask.

“You’re not seriously going to let him win.”

“I mean…” You glance over your shoulder. “He made a pretty good case.”

Alexia shakes her head, stepping close enough that her voice is practically in your ear. “I’ll make a better one.”

You blink. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

She places a hand on each side of your waist spinning you to face her “Both.”

You’re standing a little too close now, her in front of you, hands resting on the counters edge either side like she’s keeping you in place. Not trapping. Just… there. Present. Intentional.

She doesn’t step back. Instead, Alexia watches you carefully, her eyes darkening in the dim kitchen light cautious but certain. Waiting.

“You’re not usually this forward,” you tease softly, one finger brushing the hem of her T-shirt.

She holds your gaze, her voice low. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to be.”

That hits you low and warm. You shift ever so slightly, a deliberate tilt of your head. “Then don’t.”

She exhales slowly, shaky, barely controlled and that’s all you need.

She moves first, hands finding your waist, gentle at first, then firmer. Your breath hitches again as she presses you slowly backward until your back meets the cool edge of the countertop. It grounds you, the contrast sharp against the warmth of her body.

Her mouth finds yours careful at first. Testing. Soft and slow, until you shift closer, your hand sliding into her hair, pulling her gently deeper. The kiss goes hotter, heavier, the weeks of careful tension breaking open in a heartbeat.

Her fingers slip beneath your hoodie, tracing carefully along your waist, respectful of the lingering tenderness but barely. She’s warm, sure, and somehow exactly what you need.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper against your mouth, “I’ve been thinking about doing that since the airport.”

You grin, breathless. “Not since Mateo asked me on a date?”

She groans softly, her head dropping forward onto your shoulder. “You’re really going to ruin this moment?”

“I’m improving it,” you whisper back, your thumb brushing along the edge of her jaw.

She lifts her head, eyes meeting yours with a kind of soft intensity that makes your stomach flip. “Just kiss me again.”

You smile, gentle, teasing, even as your chest tightens. “Ask nicely.”

Alexia’s eyes narrow but she’s already leaning in again, mouth brushing yours. “Please.”

And you do. Slow, deep, your body melting into hers, losing track of time, space everything except the feeling of her hands sliding along your waist, hips pressing yours into the counter.

It’s too much. And it’s perfect.

Then Teddy chooses exactly this moment to pad into the kitchen big paws clicking on the tiles, pausing to sit with an exaggerated sigh right next to you both, staring upward like he’s waiting patiently for an explanation.

Alexia breaks the kiss with a quiet laugh, leaning her forehead against yours. “He has your timing.”

You grin, lips brushing hers lightly once more. “Consider it payback”

She smiles into your mouth, stepping back just slightly, one hand still lingering at your side not daring to ask what the payback was for.

You breathe out slowly, your heartbeat eases, but the warmth lingers. Neither of you moves. Neither needs to. She hasn’t moved far just one step back, enough space to breathe but not enough to forget what just happened.

Teddy is sitting between you both now, looking from one of you to the other like he’s waiting for someone to acknowledge that he, too, is emotionally involved in all of this. You smile down at Teddy, "You're so clever Ted, you know it's time for your walk"

Alexia breaks the silence first between you both, nudging your hip lightly with hers. “Are you always this smug when you win?”

You glance over at her. “Only when I know you hated losing.”

She scoffs, but her smile betrays her. “He’s three.”

“He’s got vision.”

“He ate all your ice cream”

“And still had a better chance with me than anyone else tonight.”

Alexia rolls her eyes, steps in close again, and taps your lower lip with her thumb. “You’re getting cocky.”

You smirk. “You started it.”

She huffs a quiet laugh and presses a final kiss to your mouth slower this time. Not playful. Just certain. Her hand rests on your waist, fingers curling through your hoodie fabric. You lean into it, eyes slipping shut, letting the moment stretch.

When she finally pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours again. “Come on,” she murmurs. “Sit down.”

“I’m going to—”

“Let me walk Teddy.”

You blink. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she says simply.

You glance down. He’s still staring up at her like he’s been waiting for just one of you to go towards his lead by the door, “He likes you.”

She shrugs, smiling. “He has good taste.” You groan into her shoulder, and she laughs. “I’ll be fifteen minutes,” she says, already moving toward the lead. “Sit on the sofa. Be a good girl.”

You call after her, teasing, “You’re very bossy for someone who was just kissing me against a counter.”

She stops in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder with one eyebrow raised. “You liked it.”

You grin. “That’s the problem.”

She disappears around the corner, and Teddy follows obediently tail wagging, as if the evening hadn’t just shifted something real between you.

You’re left standing in the kitchen, breath still a little unsteady, pulse still slow and deep, but you’re smiling, because she kissed you like she meant it and walked your dog.

Alexia’s steps are slow. Not lazy. Just unhurried.

The leash hangs loose in her hand, her fingers brushing the woven thread absently as Teddy trots a half-step ahead tail swaying, head occasionally turning like he’s checking she’s still following.

She rounds a corner, her hoodie sleeves pushed up, the night air clinging warm to her skin. There's a breeze now, just enough to brush loose strands of hair across her cheek. She doesn't fix it.

“Alright,” she says aloud, glancing at the dog beside her. “So... what do we think?”

Teddy huffs, not stopping.

She chuckles, gaze drifting over shuttered windows and balconies heavy with vines. “She likes simple things. But also… she’s dramatic. Low-key dramatic, if that’s a thing.”

Teddy glances up at her like everything is a thing if you say it like that.

“Something yellow?” she wonders, tilting her head. “Or maybe white.”

They keep walking. She hasn’t meant to go this far. Not really, but her feet led her here and when she glances up again, there it is.

A little flower shop.

The bell above the door rings softly as she pushes it open.

Warm air greets her earthy and full of cut stems and something citrus-sharp. Inside, the space is narrow but layered: vases on every surface, bundles of flowers waiting to be wrapped, the faint hum of a small radio playing quietly in the corner.

Teddy pauses in the doorway, looking up like he knows this isn’t exactly his kind of place.

Alexia glances down at him. “Behave.”

The florist an older woman with silver-streaked hair in a loose bun and hands stained green at the fingertips smiles from behind the counter.

“Still open?” Alexia asks softly, motioning toward the door.

“For you? Sure,” the woman replies with a wink. “But I’ll be closing soon.”

Alexia offers a soft smile, nods her thanks, then moves slowly through the small space eyes flicking over blooms without touching them. Her fingers brush her own wrist, thumb running circles like she’s thinking too much and trying not to.

Teddy follows, nose twitching near a bucket of baby’s breath before deciding it’s not edible and sitting with a huff.

“Looking for something special?” the woman asks from behind the counter.

Alexia doesn’t answer right away.

She stops in front of a low wooden shelf lined with single stems in narrow glass jars. Her gaze lands on a cluster of pale butter-yellow ranunculus, soft and round like layered silk.

She nods slowly to herself.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “But not loud. Something… kind.”

The florist doesn’t ask more questions. She just starts pulling blooms together with quiet expertise.

Ranunculus. Small sprigs of waxflower. A few pieces of soft eucalyptus, pale green and curling at the edges. A single white freesia tucked into the middle simple, elegant, unassuming.

Alexia watches it come together, arms crossed lightly, the corner of her mouth twitching up just once.

“She’s been having a hard time,” she offers quietly.

The florist ties the stems gently, like the arrangement’s not just for decoration like it’s a message.

“She’s lucky to have someone who notices.”

Alexia doesn’t answer. She just nods, as the bouquet is wrapped in brown paper and tied with a loose ribbon, she glances down at Teddy. He thumps his tail exactly once.

“You’re making me look good,” she tells him.

He yawns dramatically, the florist hands the bouquet over with a smile that doesn’t pry.

“Here,” she says. “Take care of her.”

Alexia takes it carefully, fingers closing around the paper. “I’m trying.”

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