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writesvani · 15 days ago

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dear me | 08

lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: death of a loved one, grief, childhood trauma, emotional vulnerability, mentions of smoking, mentions of hospitals, funeral themes, themes of loss, nostalgia, emotional dependency, performance anxiety, fear of failure, complicated parent-child relationship

comment here for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 6,3k // date: 28th of April

CHAPTER EIGHT — Fifteen Years and a Pinky; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hi gummies, how are you? here’s the ch 08. now, i know i told you this chapter is supposed to be 9k long and you may be surprised that it’s only 6.3k, but—listen. this chapter was originally supposed to include the night at the house too, but when i reread it i realized that three (3!!!) separate scenes would be like throwing your feelings into a blender and then stepping on it. and because the scene before the house night is raw (like steak tartare levels of raw) i didn’t want to ruin the flow. so here we are. soft. emotional. holding pinkies and sobbing.

this chapter is a bit heavy and personal for me, so if you’re thinking about sending hate asks or comments... respectfully, go touch grass. and maybe hug your grandma too while you're at it.

anyways, note goal for this chapter is 420 notes. if we hit it, you get chapter 9 which is lowkey spicey but not really but like... i sprinkled some ✨specs✨ of something in there okay. patience is a virtue, babes. see you soon.

The music at The House is doing exactly what it’s supposed to — vibing in the background like a low, steady heartbeat, not blasting your eardrums into oblivion like most places would. It's early, but a few brave locals are already perched at the bar, clutching their coffees like lifelines and pretending to be scandalized by Alex’s latest story. Honestly, half the chaos is in the fact that it’s barely 9 a.m. and he’s already causing a scene.

You can’t help but love mornings like this. Especially when the playlist is this good — Jezebel by Sade melts through the speakers, smooth and rich, and you bob your head to the beat as you sip your espresso like you’re in some cheap movie.

You and Jungkook had smartly claimed a booth instead of the bar. The bar is for nights when you need bad decisions and worse tequila. The booth? That’s strictly reserved for existential crises over coffee. Classy.

It’s almost funny how most people don’t even realize The House runs in the mornings too — it’s like an unspoken VIP pass to a secret world. Mornings here feel untouched, sacred, like you’re living inside a memory.

The place hasn’t changed.

The boy next to you — sprawled out, looking entirely too comfortable for someone with a cappuccino in hand — hasn’t either.

But you? Him? You’re not the same kids who used to think the world owed you something.

And maybe that’s the magic of it.

Or maybe it’s just the espresso talking.

“Vicky literally wanted to murder me yesterday,” Jungkook sighs, taking a small sip of his coffee.

“I think she did,” you agree, leaning back in your seat like the weight of the whole performance exhausted you. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you made it out alive.”

“She gave me a death glare that could’ve set the entire room on fire,” he says, laughing under his breath. “I think my soul left my body for a second.”

“She’s just... passionate,” you say, trying not to snicker.

“Passionate about hating me?”

You shrug, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Well, maybe don’t exist so loudly next time.”

Jungkook presses a hand to his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Brutal. Betrayed by my own favorite.”

You smile into your coffee cup, trying to hide the way your heart trips over itself at his words.

Jungkook tilts his head to the side, and you hear a loud crack echo from his neck. He winces, rubbing the spot.

"Jesus," he mutters, "I don’t know if I’m just getting old or what, but my neck’s been killing me lately. Like, constantly."

You snort into your coffee. "Join the club. For me, it’s the shoulders. Doesn’t even matter how I sleep—on my side, my back, curled up like a shrimp—bam, wake up feeling like someone beat me up in my dreams."

He chuckles under his breath, nudging your foot under the table. "We’re literally falling apart and it’s not even noon."

"Speak for yourself. I’m thriving. Pain is my lifestyle choice now," you say, dramatically stretching your arms and instantly regretting it when a sharp pinch runs through your shoulder.

"Yeah," Jungkook smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like you're thriving real hard over there.”

"So, Mr. Neck Pain," you tease, swirling your coffee, "what’s next now that you’re all settled back in town?"

Jungkook groans, slouching deeper into the booth. "Ugh, don’t even ask. Nina’s on this mission to redecorate my mom’s house. I can barely keep up with everything anymore."

"Redecorate?" you blink.

"Yeah, why?" he asks, eyeing you curiously.

You shrug, playing it off. "Nothing. I just always thought you loved that house the way it was."

"I do," he says, running a hand through his hair, "but we want it to be, you know, a good place if we ever start a family."

Your brows knit together, something tugging at your chest. "But we—I mean, you—grew up there. It's already a good place."

He smiles a little sadly. "True. But you know how Nina is—she loves the latest trends, new aesthetics, all that HGTV bullshit."

You force a chuckle, but your heart isn't in it. "Yeah... I know." You pause, tracing the rim of your cup. "I just thought… there were too many good memories there for you to change it."

Jungkook’s expression softens, and he leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "We're not tearing it down, just giving it a facelift. Besides..." he trails off for a second, choosing his words carefully, "there were a lot of bad memories there too, you know."

You gulp, regret washing over you in waves.

As much as you loved that house, the memories, the time you spent there with Jungkook, you know better now. When you left, he stayed. They all stayed behind. In there.

"Shit, Kook, I’m sorry," you mumble, your voice quieter than you intend. "I wasn’t thinking."

Jungkook glances at you, his expression neutral, but you can see the tiredness in his eyes. "It’s okay," he says, but it doesn’t sound as reassuring as it should. "Really. You didn’t say anything wrong."

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. "Still... I always run my mouth before thinking."

"It’s fine," he repeats, more firmly this time, though it doesn't quite ease the tension between you. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply like he’s been holding his breath for too long. He seems like he wants to move on, but you can tell the weight of the conversation hasn’t shifted for him.

There’s a pause as he stares down at his coffee cup, swirling the contents absentmindedly. "Speaking of the devil… He called me last night."

Your stomach sinks, a tight knot forming in your chest. "How does he even know you’re back in town?"

Jungkook shrugs, looking like he’s trying to make light of it, but the slight crease in his brow gives him away. "Maybe a neighbor mentioned something. You know how it is. Small town, everyone talks."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. "He said he misses me. Wants to see me."

You take a breath, your heart pounding a little faster than usual. "Kook..." Your voice softens, and you try to hold his gaze, willing him to understand. "You don’t have to go see him. You don’t owe him anything."

His eyes dart to yours, but they don’t hold the same certainty you’re used to. There’s a flicker of something there—maybe guilt, maybe doubt. "I know," he says, the words thick with hesitation. "But he’s still my dad."

You lean forward, putting your hands on the table as if grounding yourself, trying to find the right words. "Jungkook, I get that. I do. But look at what he did to you. To your family. You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not after everything he’s done."

A flash of pain crosses his face, but he quickly masks it with a forced shrug. "Maybe he’s changed." His voice is small now, as if he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

You feel a pang in your chest as you watch him. His words sound like a plea, a hope that hasn’t faded, despite everything. "Maybe," you say, your voice quieter than before. "But... Kook, you’ve given him so many chances. How many more does he need to mess up before you stop waiting for him to change?"

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at the table, his jaw clenched. His hands are folded together, knuckles white from the pressure. The silence stretches between you like a tension-filled rope, and you hate how long it lingers.

Finally, he lets out a long, slow breath, his voice almost inaudible. "I just... I don’t know. Part of me keeps thinking that maybe one day, he’ll realize what he lost. That he’ll finally see everything I’ve done for myself. But I’m still his son, you know? I still want him to be proud of me."

Your heart aches for him, and you find yourself reaching across the table without thinking, your hand brushing against his. "Kook..." You pause, unsure how to say what you want. "You don’t need his approval. You never have. You’ve made your own path, your own life. You don’t need him to recognize that."

He meets your eyes then, and for a moment, the world outside fades into the background. He’s so tired, and it’s not just the physical exhaustion. It’s the emotional weight he carries, the years of longing for something from his father that he may never get. "I don’t know if I can just let it go," he admits quietly.

You squeeze his hand, offering him a small but sincere smile. "I know it is. But you’ve been carrying this for so long. You deserve peace, Kook. You deserve to stop wondering if he’s going to come around."

He nods slowly, but the doubt still lingers in his eyes. "I’m just... not ready to give up on him yet. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to let go. But not now."

You nod in understanding, even though you wish he didn’t feel this way. You’re not sure if he’ll ever let go of the hope that his father might change, but you’ll be here for him—whether he wants to see his dad or not.

Because even if he can’t yet walk away from that, you’ll be the one to catch him if he falls.

"So..." Jungkook leans back, stretching like he’s trying to shake off the whole conversation. "You want another coffee or what?"

You huff out a laugh, sensing the way he’s desperate to change the subject. You’ll let him. For now.

"Sure. Let’s drown our trauma in caffeine," you say, clapping your hands once.

"Aki!" you yell across the room like a drunk girl at a party.

Alex's head snaps up from behind the bar, his expression pure chaos. "I KNOW you are not hollering at me from across the damn room at 9 AM!"

You press your palms together in mock prayer, batting your lashes at him.

He points a threatening finger your way, but he's already stomping toward the coffee machine. "You better be glad you're cute. And that you called me Aki. Otherwise? I'd be filing a noise complaint on your ass."

Jungkook cackles next to you, throwing his arm over the back of the booth lazily. "Don’t blame her. She’s been a menace since birth."

"And YOU!" Alex spins dramatically toward Jungkook. "Mr. Ex-Drummer-Wannabe over there—you even THINK about ordering like that and I’m dragging you out by your sad little hair bun."

"I cut my hair," Jungkook defends, laughing so hard he almost spills his cappuccino.

"Good. One less handle for me to grab when I throw hands," Alex fires back without missing a beat.

You’re crying with laughter now, doubled over in the booth as Alex aggressively slams the espresso shots into the machine like he’s personally offended by your existence.

"Two coffees! Extra espresso! And a prayer for your broken souls!" he yells over the sound of the steamer.

You wipe a tear from your eye. Jungkook’s cheeks are flushed pink from laughing.

The tension between you? Gone. Completely obliterated by the unholy spirit of Alex at 9 in the morning.

When Alex brings over your coffees, he doesn’t just drop them off and head back to the bar like a normal person. No, of course not. Alex being Alex means he slams the mugs down with a dramatic flourish, making a few drops slosh over the rims—and then, without so much as a warning, slides right into the booth beside you like he owns the damn place.

You blink at him. "Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, working?" you deadpan, scooting over an inch, not that it does anything to deter him.

"Babe, I am working," Alex says, fake-fanning himself like he’s starring in some bad soap opera. "Quality customer service. Mingling with the clientele. Boosting morale." He flashes you a smile so wide it’s practically criminal.

"You call this customer service?" you snort, narrowing your eyes.

"I call this excellence," he corrects, snapping his fingers in the air.

Jungkook leans back, grinning. "Remind me again why George hasn't kicked your ass to the curb yet?"

"Because," Alex says, stretching out his arms along the back of the booth like a king surveying his kingdom, "nobody else is stupid enough to work as a barista, bartender, waiter, and unofficial therapist at the same time."

"Unofficial therapist," you cough, laughing into your cup.

"I’ve seen things, alright?" Alex says gravely, glancing around the café like someone might overhear. "The shit people cry about at two in the morning over whiskey shots would make your hair fall out."

"You mean like that one girl who thought her cat was psychic and warning her about her cheating boyfriend?" Jungkook grins.

Alex gasps. "That girl was a treasure. And honestly, her cat probably was psychic. Men ain’t shit."

You and Jungkook crack up, nearly spilling your coffees.

"But seriously, why are you still here, Alex? You could probably have an actual desk job by now."

Alex sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "Because I love this place. And because I love the poor lost souls who stumble through that door looking like they need either a double shot of espresso or an exorcism."

"You saying you love us?" Jungkook teases, winking.

Alex points straight at you without missing a beat. "Yeah. But I love her more."

He leans his full weight against you, feigning a swoon.

You shove him half-heartedly, laughing. "Jesus Christ, get off me."

"Can’t," Alex hums. "We’re bonded for life now. Future spouses. Bar booth besties. Trauma buddies."

You shake your head, hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. No matter how loud or outrageous Alex could be, moments like this reminded you why you kept coming back to The House. Why it still felt like home, even when everything else around you had changed.

Jungkook watches the two of you with amusement flickering in his eyes. For a second, the weight on his shoulders seems lighter. His smile less forced. You catch the way he lingers, looking around at the chipped wood tables, the battered jukebox, the dusty light pouring through the windows—and you realize it’s not just you clinging to the past.

“So,” you start, drumming your nails against the scratched surface of the table, “anyone interesting playing tonight?”

Alex perks up immediately, a sly smile curling his lips. “Why, you guys thinking about stopping by?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question,” you groan, tossing your head back dramatically against the seat, earning a low chuckle from both Alex and Jungkook.

“Still so easy to rile you up,” Alex teases, nudging your arm with his elbow. "But fine. Yes, there’s someone playing tonight. Some high school senior band. New kids. Pretty decent."

He glances toward Jungkook, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his blue eyes. “You’d love them if you came to watch. Especially the drummer.”

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow, his mug pausing halfway to his mouth. “Yeah? They any good?” He phrases it like a question but there's a lightness there—something almost hopeful.

Alex leans back against the booth, arms crossed, grinning. “Real good. Their drummer reminds me a lot of you, actually. It’s crazy."

For a moment, something shifts in the air between them—some old memory or unspoken thing passing by. You catch it, the way Alex's voice softens at the edges, the way his posture straightens just slightly when he says it.

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. He just hums, a quiet sound, before taking a slow sip of his cappuccino. When he sets the cup down again, there’s a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You were amazing, you know," Alex says suddenly, voice lower, more serious now as he turns his head, eyes drifting toward the small stage at the front of the café. "Everyone loved seeing you up there."

"I was nothing special," Jungkook mutters, shrugging like he's trying to make himself smaller. He rolls his shoulders, like the memory sits a little too heavy on them.

"You were," Alex insists, almost stubbornly.

You stay quiet, just watching Jungkook carefully, feeling your chest tighten a little.

He was special. He is special. But you know he struggles to see it sometimes.

“Well," Jungkook says after a beat, laughing under his breath, "thank God we have new generations now. I’m way too rusty these days anyway."

"Rusty?" Alex scoffs like it's the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. "You could still kill it. I bet you could pick up a pair of sticks right now and blow everyone’s mind."

Jungkook laughs again, but this time it’s softer, almost bashful, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup. "Nah, man. Really. I can’t even remember the last time I touched a drum kit."

"Doesn’t matter," Alex shrugs. "Some things you don’t forget. It’s in you, y’know? Like breathing."

You smile a little into your coffee, feeling something warm bloom in your chest as you watch them.

Because you see it—that flicker of pride, of something almost childlike—lighting up behind Jungkook’s eyes.

No matter how much he tries to brush it off, no matter how much he plays it down…

There’s a part of him that still holds onto that love.

That part hasn’t rusted at all.

“Wanna bet?” Alex leans forward, elbows on the table, a wild grin spreading across his face. “If you come by tonight, get on that stage, and play like you used to, you owe me the fattest tip The House has ever seen. I’m talking, like, a thousand bucks.”

“A thousand?” you splutter, nearly choking on your coffee. Your eyes whip between Jungkook and Alex like you’re watching a live tennis match. “Are you insane?”

Alex just shrugs, looking completely unbothered, like he didn’t just casually ask for a month’s rent.

Jungkook’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, the way it always does when he's considering something reckless.

You can practically see it happening—the slow spark, the glint of mischief flickering to life behind his eyes.

“Yeah?” Jungkook says, voice low, teasing, almost daring. “And what if I suck? What if I’m absolutely terrible?”

Alex grins wider, if that’s even possible. “Then I’ll cover all your drinks. You, anyone you drag in here with you, free tabs for the next three months. No questions asked.”

Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “What if I’m bad on purpose?”

“You can’t be bad on purpose, Jungkook,” Alex says, voice almost affectionate, like he’s stating a universal truth. “You don’t know how. It’s not in your DNA.”

You laugh under your breath because, honestly, Alex isn’t wrong. Jungkook could try his absolute hardest to mess up and somehow still end up being stupidly good at it.

And now you see it happening, right there in front of you—the battle playing out in Jungkook’s head.

Because no matter how calm or grown-up he pretends to be these days, underneath it all, Jeon Jungkook has never met a challenge he didn’t want to destroy.

His fingers tap restlessly against the mug, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He’s thinking about it. Seriously thinking about it.

For a second, you think he might laugh it off.

For a second, you think he might shake his head and say, “Nah, not tonight.”

But there’s a part of you—quiet, selfish—that hopes he doesn’t.

Because seeing Jungkook now, here, with the stage in the background and the hum of The House around you, feels so strange it almost aches.

Like a part of your life that belonged to someone else entirely.

And yet, it did happen.

Right here, between these old walls and scratched tables and buzzing neon lights—Jungkook was alive once.

So alive, it made your chest hurt just watching him.

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, forcing a smile onto your lips.

You want to see that Jungkook again.

Just for one night.

Just for a song.

Maybe, just maybe… you’re not the only one who wants that too.

“Okay,” Jungkook says, crossing his arms lazily behind his head, his body slumping back into the booth like he couldn't care less.

You and Alex whip your heads toward him at the same time.

“Okay?” you both blurt out, voices overlapping in pure disbelief.

Alex’s jaw actually drops a little. His whole face lights up like someone just handed him front row tickets to his favorite band.

You swear you see sparkles in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says with a casual shrug, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just agree to revisit an entire part of himself he’s been quietly avoiding for years. “Game’s on. Don’t get too excited about it.”

You can’t help it.

You squeal.

Loud.

Like a literal teenager seeing her One Direction live.

“Oh my god, you’re really playing tonight?” you practically shout, bouncing in your seat.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow at you over the rim of his mug, hiding a small grin.

“Yeah. Only for the free drinks though. Because I know I’ll be terrible.”

Alex shoots you a look across the table—the look that screams I'm so winning this bet and you better remember this moment forever.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, pretty boy,” Alex sing-songs, leaning back with a smirk. “I’m getting that one grand tip tonight. You’re gonna play like an angel and you know it.”

Jungkook snorts, setting his coffee down with a loud clink. “Dream about it, Alex. I’m washed up. I’m bad.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night,” Alex says, waving him off. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m bathing in bills later.”

You shake your head, heart thudding against your ribs, still trying to wrap your mind around it.

Jungkook is playing tonight.

In this place.

On that stage.

The same one where he used to tear the house down with nothing but drumsticks and a grin.

You steal a glance at him—at the way he tries to act unfazed, too cool to care.

But you see it.

The way his fingers twitch slightly on the table.

The way his knee starts bouncing under it.

He’s excited.

Terrified maybe.

But excited.

And somehow, you feel like you're about to see a version of Jungkook tonight that’s been hiding for a long, long time.

You smile into your coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into your chest.

Tonight’s gonna be special.

You can feel it.

"Alright," Jungkook says, pulling out his wallet and flipping it open with a lazy flick of his wrist.

"You don’t have to pay me yet, you know," Alex grins, lounging back in his seat like he’s the king of the damn world. "Everyone knows I’m winning this anyway, but still—appreciate the enthusiasm."

"Bold of you to assume that," Jungkook mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes with a small smirk. He peels a few bills from his wallet and hands them over. "This is for the coffees. Nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up."

Alex whistles low under his breath, dramatically tucking the money into the pocket of his apron like it’s sacred treasure. "Coffees are on me, but I'm keeping this. Just so you know, when you lose tonight, this is going straight into my ‘Victory Drinks’ fund."

"Dream on," Jungkook says, already pushing his chair back.

You laugh, grabbing your jacket and slinging it over your shoulders. "We’re heading out before you two start slapping each other with money."

"Already?!" Alex pouts dramatically, sticking out his bottom lip like a child about to throw a tantrum. "But this was just starting to get fun!"

"We’ll see you tonight, babe," you tease, leaning in slightly as you adjust your jacket. "Try not to miss us too much."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Alex calls after you, tossing a mock salute your way as he saunters back behind the bar, already chatting up a new group of customers like the social butterfly he is.

You glance over your shoulder once before stepping outside, the cold air nipping at your cheeks.

The door swings shut behind you, cutting off the warm hum of The House.

And as you and Jungkook walk down the sidewalk, shoulders brushing every few steps, you can’t help but smile to yourself.

"I can’t believe I’ll see you on the stage tonight," you say, your voice soft, almost quiet.

The city moves around you — the low chatter of couples at outdoor tables, the distant barking of a dog, the steady thrum of cars in the background — but right now, it feels like it's just you and Jungkook, walking side by side.

He kicks a small pebble along the sidewalk with the toe of his boot, the rhythm of his steps syncing perfectly with yours.

"Me either," he says, chuckling under his breath. "I’m gonna suck."

He tries to brush it off with a joke, but you catch it — that slight dip in his voice, the way his shoulders curl inward, the way his teeth sink into his lower lip like he’s trying to keep the doubt from slipping out louder.

"Kook," you whisper, reaching out without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his elbow, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. "There’s no way in hell you’re gonna suck."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s searching for something — maybe faith, maybe reassurance, maybe just a familiar face who remembers who he used to be.

"I literally bet against myself," he mutters, half-laughing, half-defeated. "I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming."

You shake your head, smiling so much it almost hurts. "I’m with Alex on this one. You’ll be great. You’ll be better than great."

Jungkook scoffs, looking away as a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks. "I’ll embarrass myself," he says, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket.

"You could trip and fall flat on your face and people would still cheer for you," you say, bumping your shoulder against his lightly. "You have that thing, you know? That... energy. People just wanna root for you."

He laughs — a real one this time, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep, somewhere maybe he thought he buried a long time ago.

"You’re dangerous," he says, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips now, one he can’t quite hide. "You’re making me think I can actually do this."

"You can actually do this," you say simply.

For a moment, he just stares ahead, the sunlight catching in his hair, painting gold into the brown strands.

And you realize — he’s not scared of being bad.

He’s scared of remembering how much he loved it.

And maybe, deep down, he's scared of wanting it again.

"C'mon, let's go eat something," you say, grabbing a fistful of Jungkook’s jacket like a child dragging their favorite toy behind them.

Your steps turn rushed, half-skipping across the street, and you hear him laugh behind you — that soft, warm laugh that makes your chest bloom.

"Okay, okay, you don’t have to pull me," he chuckles, letting himself be tugged along, the heels of his boots scraping the sidewalk.

"You’re too slow and I’m too hungry," you shoot back, ignoring the string of playful complaints he tosses about you destroying his ‘new, very expensive, limited edition jacket.’

He doesn't actually try to break free though. He just follows, like he always does when it’s you.

You pull him into a small, tucked-away restaurant, the kind where the air smells like fresh bread and melted cheese, where the noise is low and comfortable.

Without even asking, Jungkook lets you choose the table — a cozy little booth by the window.

And somehow, as you both sit down, flipping open the greasy menus, it feels like nothing ever changed.

Not the years that passed. Not the hard things you both carried inside your chests.

Sitting across from him now feels exactly like it did when you were both younger, less guarded, less afraid.

The food comes quickly — baskets of fries and sandwiches stacked high — and you both agree without saying it that tonight's performance is off-limits, at least for now.

It’s a silent pact sealed with the clink of your water glasses.

"So you’re working tomorrow, and what after that?" Jungkook asks, stuffing a fistful of fries into his mouth, looking so casual you almost forget how his nerves had been rattling earlier.

"I think I’m gonna go to the cemetery after," you say lightly, twirling a fry between your fingers.

You don’t say it like it’s heavy.

Because it isn’t anymore.

It’s a routine. Like brushing your teeth. Like calling your mom.

It’s just something you do.

His chewing slows a little. "Nana?" he asks gently, voice dipping lower like he’s trying not to make the air around you heavier.

"Yeah," you smile a little, taking a sip of your drink. "Tomorrow’s the 15-year anniversary. Gotta go and visit her."

You joke about it, the same way you always do when you talk about it out loud. Not because it’s funny.

But because if you don’t laugh about it, it might feel too real. Too much.

Jungkook doesn’t prod.

Doesn’t tilt his head and give you the pity look.

Doesn’t say I’m sorry like everyone else does.

He just nods, tearing off a piece of his sandwich.

Because he knows.

He knows you visit her grave every month like clockwork. Knows you sit by the little marble headstone and tell her everything you can’t tell anyone else.

Knows that, as weird as it sounds, it’s almost comforting now.

Like a monthly check-in with someone who’s still somehow listening.

"It’s weird," you say suddenly, voice quieter, like you’re not sure why you’re even saying it. "Fifteen years sounds like forever. But it still feels like she’s... close. Sometimes."

Jungkook’s eyes lift to meet yours, soft and full of understanding.

"That’s because she is," he says simply.

You just smile, a real one this time. One that makes your nose crinkle.

And Jungkook smiles back, pushing the basket of fries toward you like he’s offering something bigger than food — like he’s offering comfort without making a big deal out of it.

And in that small, simple moment, you’re grateful.

Grateful that some people in your life — no matter how much time passes, no matter how much hurt sneaks in around the edges — always just get it.

"You know," you say, a small smirk playing on your lips, "I think I’m gonna bring her a pack of ciggies tomorrow. She’d be happy."

Jungkook laughs under his breath. "She’d be thrilled. I can already picture her up there in the sky, chanting, 'Smoke one for me!'"

"Literally," you snort, "that’s so her."

"Bring her some coffee too," he adds, nudging your foot gently under the table. "She only ever smoked when she had coffee."

"Maybe you can bring her the coffee," you tease.

His face softens, the teasing moment slipping into something gentler.

"You’d want me to come with you?"

You glance down, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

"Yeah... Only if you want to. No pressure."

"Of course I would," he says instantly. Then his smile fades just a little. "I just didn’t think you’d be comfortable with that. We haven’t gone there together in... ages."

"Yeah..." you trail off, the memory of old visits brushing against your mind like a ghost. Then you pause, the realization creeping up your spine. You lift your head slowly.

"Wait," you say, squinting at him, "are you saying you’ve gone to visit my Nana’s grave... alone?"

The air between you shifts — heavier, thicker.

He gulps. His shoulders tense slightly, but he doesn't back down.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, voice smaller than before. "Whenever I came back here to visit... I’d stop by and see her too."

You blink at him, stunned.

Your heartbeat violently pulses in your ribcage — not from anger, not even from sadness, but from a fierce, overwhelming surprise.

"You..." you start, then falter. "Why?"

He fiddles with a paper napkin, his fingers slow, deliberate.

His voice is rough when he answers.

"Because you loved her so much. And because she’s the only one I ever trusted to keep an eye on you when..."

There’s a crack in his voice that he doesn’t bother hiding.

It splinters something deep inside you.

"And because..." he clears his throat, like the words are caught there, too heavy to say. "Because I miss her too, you know."

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs and a tear slides down your cheek.

You wipe it away quickly, embarrassed, but Jungkook just gives you the softest look — patient and understanding — like he knew you would.

"I think," you say, voice shaking despite yourself, "I think she'd be really happy you still visit her."

Jungkook lifts his eyes to meet yours — and for a moment, the busy restaurant, the cold food between you, the people outside — all of it disappears.

"I think she'd be happy about a lot of things," he says quietly.

You don't ask what he means.

You don’t have to.

Instead, you reach across the table and brush your pinky against his — tentative, testing.

He smiles and hooks his pinky around yours without hesitation.

It’s small.

It’s quiet.

But it feels like something sacred.

"Then let’s make her happy tomorrow," you whisper.

"Deal," Jungkook smiles, and you feel a rush of emotions flooding you all at once — a tidal wave you don't even try to fight.

"You know..." you start, gently smiling at him, "I never got to thank you."

His smile falters just a little, confusion slipping onto his face. His eyes lock onto yours — steady, unwavering — and you feel yourself shrink a little under the weight of his gaze.

"For what?" he asks, voice low.

"For being there for me," you say, heart pounding, "when she died."

He shakes his head immediately, brows knitting together.

"Nonsense. You don't thank me for that. Ever."

"I have to, Kook," you whisper, feeling the lump build in your throat.

"No," he insists, voice firm but gentle. "You don't."

But you remember that day like it was yesterday.

You were still in middle school. Barely thirteen.

It was lunchtime, and you sat with your friends, Jungkook included — laughing, pretending everything was normal.

You'd told them how your Nana was sick. How you’d overheard your parents whispering late at night that the doctor said she didn’t have much time left. That it was only a matter of days.

You remembered the way everyone had reassured you.

How they promised she’d pull through.

How they smiled too big and said she was strong. That she would be fine.

You remembered coming home from school that day.

The house had felt... too quiet.

Only Leah and Vicky were there, small and scared, faces pale with something they didn’t fully understand.

Your youngest brother was at the neighbor’s house.

You remembered asking them — what's going on?

You remembered how tiny Vicky’s voice was when she said it.

"Mom said... Nana died."

You remembered standing there, rooted to the floor, unable to breathe.

You remembered the way the world cracked open under your feet.

And you remembered calling Jungkook.

Hands shaking. Voice breaking.

The only person you could think of to call.

He had answered before the first ring even finished.

And he had come over immediately, sneakers barely tied, hair a mess, face open with worry.

No questions. No hesitations.

Just him.

Just Jungkook.

Sitting with you on the cold kitchen floor.

Letting you cry into his chest until your sobs turned into hiccups.

Until your whole body hurt from it.

Until it hurt a little less.

You remember Jungkook holding you, Leah, and Vicky — small arms trying to wrap around all three of you at once.

He was just a kid too.

He loved Nana just as much.

You remember him hiding his own tears, trying so hard to be strong for you.

You remember him picking up your little brother from the neighbor’s house, walking all of you to the corner store, and buying you ice cream — like it could somehow patch up the hole inside your chest.

You remember falling asleep that night with your face buried in his shirt, your sobs wrecking your body until you were too exhausted to cry anymore — and him just holding you through it.

You remember the funeral, too.

How your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

How the world felt too big and too loud and too empty without her.

And how, without saying a single word, Jungkook hooked his pinky around yours — small and trembling — and didn’t let go the entire time.

Back then, it felt like a promise.

Like even when everything else disappeared, he wouldn't.

Now, sitting here with him years later, pinkies still finding each other without thinking, it feels like the same thing.

Maybe it was always the same thing.

"As I said," Jungkook’s voice cuts through your memories, pulling you gently back to him, "nonsense."

His tone is soft but steady, his eyes kind.

"We’re family. I’d always do that."

And without thinking, without meaning to, you tighten your pinky just a little around his.

Just to make sure he’s still there.

"I remember everything, Kook," you whisper, voice shaking.

"And you don’t even realize how much that meant to me."

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you, the softness in his eyes enough to pull the air from your lungs.

"I’m glad I was there," he finally says, voice thick. "I’m glad you called me."

You smile, watery but real.

"Me too.”

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7 @minghaosimp @cerulean1riz @anumita-2007 @vantelover1306 @vynmin @nadzzzblog @jnghs @lachimolalajeon @joonwater @choijay-07 @notsevenwithyou @mononoaware16 @sky-23s-world @auroresce @sadgirlroo @arcadiaem @kokoandkookie @nakyra2 @kissyfacekoo @butterymin

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cloudyluun · 2 months ago

Text

Press play (p2) | boyfriend!harry

Summary: The first tape wasn’t enough. Harry’s obsessed. One camera? Not enough angles. One location? Not enough variety. One night? Not enough time. This time, he films her in every room, in every position, with every toy he owns—and makes sure she begs for more. Because this isn’t just about recording anymore. This is about pushing her to her absolute limit while the cameras catch every second.

A/N: So… if the first fic was a little spicy, this one is hellfire levels of unholy. 🫠 Writing this felt like a crime, but a crime I would absolutely commit again. 🔥 Hope you’re hydrated and emotionally stable because this is a lot—and yes, before you ask, there will be a part tree. 😈

Also, if anyone asks why my search history includes “best high-sensitivity microphones for ASMR,” no, you don’t.

Word Count: 7,8k

Warnings:

Heavy BDSM elements – Bondage, impact play, restraints, gagging, plugs, edging, overstimulation… Basically, if it belongs in a locked drawer, it’s in here.

Spit, deep-throating, gagging, face-fucking – Hydration is important, folks.

Filming/recording during sex (consensual) – Harry’s got a passion for cinematography. Scorsese could never.

Public teasing & humiliation – Sex shop, car ride, open windows… Someone revoke this man’s driver’s license and curtain privileges.

Rough sex – Choking, spanking, forced orgasms… the usual scheduled programming.

Dirty talk, degradation, praise kink – A poetic balance of “good girl” and “filthy little slut.”

Multiple orgasms, overstimulation, breath play – Hope you weren’t planning on walking after this.

Aftercare – Because Harry’s only a menace 98% of the time. The other 2%? He’s feeding you water and telling you how proud he is.

(if i missed any, dm me please!)

[part 1]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You can feel his eyes on you again.

It’s been happening for days—catching him watching you, smirking like he knows something you don’t. He isn’t even subtle about it. He’ll stretch out on the couch, legs spread wide, fingers lazily tapping against his thigh as the screen flickers, bathing his face in dim light. He watches you on repeat. Watches the way you fell apart for him the first time. The way you begged, the way you shook. He knows every second by heart, every moan, every filthy plea.

And the worst part? You don’t even blame him.

Because the few times you’ve dared to look—just a peek—you were just as wrecked as he claimed. Eyes glassy, mouth parted, body trembling under his touch. A perfect mess. His.

So when you catch him again, he doesn’t look guilty. Not even a little.

“Can’t help it, angel.” His voice is rough, thick with something dark. “You look so fucking good coming apart for me.”

Heat licks up your spine, your thighs pressing together on instinct. But he notices. Of course he notices.

He cocks his head, dragging his gaze over you, slow and heavy. Then, as if deciding something, he stands and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

“We’re going out.”

He doesn’t give you a choice.

The electronics store is bright, all sleek displays and humming screens. It smells faintly of new plastic, and if you weren’t so hyper-aware of the man next to you—the way his hand rests low on your back, the way his thumb strokes slow circles against your hip—you might have actually paid attention to the endless rows of cameras.

But Harry is focused.

Not just on you—though you can feel the weight of his gaze every time you shift—but on the equipment. He moves with purpose, eyes scanning through specs, occasionally nodding like he’s mentally checking things off a list you aren’t privy to.

You watch as he picks up a high-end camera, testing the weight in his palm.

“This one?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, tilting it slightly, examining the lens. “Good quality, but not enough angles.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip.

You know what he’s planning. Know this isn’t just about upgrading. It’s about more. More angles, more footage, more ways to capture exactly how wrecked he can make you.

Your breath catches as he moves onto something else—a small, discreet device.

“Is that—”

“A hidden camera?” He smirks. “Yeah. Could put it anywhere. Get a nice little collection going.”

You swallow hard.

He keeps going. A high-sensitivity microphone. A ring light. A sleek little tripod. He handles them with the kind of ease that makes your knees weak, like he’s already imagining exactly where he’ll set them up.

The sales clerk approaches then, offering a polite, professional smile.

“Can I help you with anything?”

You barely hear the question before Harry shifts behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his lips grazing your ear. His voice is low, for you and only you.

“Could fuck you right here.”

Your entire body goes rigid.

“Harry—”

“Bend you over the counter,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. His fingers ghost up your thigh, barely there, but your skin burns all the same. “Let the security cameras catch everything.”

Your breath stutters, a choked gasp slipping out before you can stop it.

The sales clerk clears his throat. “Uh… I can walk you through some of the settings if you’d like?”

You try to nod, try to play it off, but Harry doesn’t move. He stays pressed against you as the clerk launches into a dry explanation, and it takes everything in you to stand still. To keep your composure while Harry’s fingers tease the hem of your skirt, inching higher, higher—

You nearly jump when the touch disappears.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry says smoothly, stepping back like nothing just happened. “We’ll take all of these.”

Your head spins.

All of them.

Three cameras, a microphone, a ring light. Enough to film you in every angle he wants, from every perspective, with every sound recorded crystal clear.

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until Harry’s fingers brush over your wrist, grounding you.

“One more stop, angel.” His voice is warm, teasing.

Your stomach twists.

You already know where he’s taking you.

The sex shop is discreet, tucked between two high-end boutiques. The windows are dark, the sign subtle, but the moment you step inside, you feel the shift—the heavy hush, the intimate displays, the slow thrum of something low and pulsing over the speakers.

Harry walks in like he’s been here before. Like he owns the place.

And in a way, he does.

You can feel it in the way he moves, the way his fingers trail along the shelves, occasionally plucking something up, rolling it between his fingers, considering. You barely have time to register what he’s holding before he makes a quiet noise of approval and adds it to the growing collection in his arms.

Nipple clamps. A flogger. Silk restraints. A plug set.

Your face burns as he turns to you, offering one of the smaller plugs in his palm.

“Go to the bathroom.”

You freeze.

His eyes don’t waver.

“Put them in.” His voice is calm, steady. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second—just long enough to see the flicker of warning cross his features.

And then you obey.

The moment the door shuts behind you, your hands shake as you follow his command. The plug is smooth, easy, but it’s the panties that make you squirm—just the thought of them in public, the knowledge that Harry could turn them on at any moment.

When you return, he’s waiting.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches. Then, after a long pause—long enough for you to start fidgeting under his stare—he steps closer, brushing his lips over your temple.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your knees nearly buckle.

He smirks. “Let’s go.”

The drive home is torture.

You should have known it would be.

Because the second Harry starts the car, his fingers flick something on his phone, and suddenly—

“Oh,” you gasp, your back arching slightly.

The vibrations are low, teasing, barely enough to do anything but make you ache.

Harry hums, casual. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn, but you nod, breathless.

He turns the setting up. Just a little. Just enough to make you squirm.

Red light.

The car slows.

His hand drifts over your thigh.

“You can hold it, can’t you?”

You bite your lip, nodding again, your thighs pressing together.

Green light.

The vibrations ease slightly, but the pattern shifts, unpredictable.

It continues like this—slow torture, relentless teasing, each stoplight an opportunity for him to push you closer and closer to the edge.

By the time you pull into the garage, you’re shaking. Your fingers dig into the seat, your breathing uneven.

Harry watches, amused.

Then, just as he parks, he leans in, his voice silk-smooth against your ear.

“Come.”

Your breath stutters.

“Now,” he murmurs. “And don’t make a sound.”

The vibrations increase, sudden and sharp, and it takes everything in you not to cry out. Your entire body trembles as the orgasm washes over you, your fingers clutching the seat, your lips parted in a silent whimper.

Harry watches it all.

When it finally fades, your body slumping back against the leather, he exhales, slow and satisfied.

“That’s one, angel.”

His fingers trace your thigh, teasing.

“Hope you didn’t think we were done.”

His voice is warm, teasing, dripping with amusement, but there’s something darker beneath it. Something that makes your stomach tighten and your breath stutter. That look in his eyes—the one that tells you he’s not even close to satisfied.

Your skin is still buzzing, oversensitive from what he did to you in the car, but he doesn’t care.

He’s already moving.

He steps out, rounding the car without urgency, and when he opens your door, he doesn’t say a word—just waits. Expecting.

You step out on shaky legs.

The air outside is thick and warm, but the heat that lingers between your thighs is worse. You can still feel the echoes of pleasure from the first orgasm he ripped out of you, still feel the way your body clenched around nothing when he left you empty.

He knows it, too.

He watches you carefully, fingers ghosting over your hip as he leads you inside, through the dimly lit hallway, past the living room where you’ve already let him ruin you so many times before.

The moment the bedroom door shuts behind you, the shift is immediate.

Harry rolls his shoulders, tilting his head slightly, studying you.

Assessing.

Your pulse spikes.

The room is different.

You notice it instantly—the small but deliberate changes.

The cameras.

One on a tripod at the foot of the bed. Another placed carefully on the nightstand, positioned just right. The third—mounted directly above the mattress. Overhead shots.

Your stomach twists.

Then your eyes catch on the microphone.

It’s clipped beside the camera on the nightstand, small but powerful, capable of picking up every gasp, every moan, every tiny, desperate sound you make for him.

Your thighs squeeze together.

And on the sheets?

Silk.

Black silk ties, draped neatly across the mattress. Waiting.

Your breath catches.

He planned this.

Your skin prickles as you turn back toward him, but he’s already watching you, already smirking like he can hear the way your thoughts are racing.

His hand lifts, his fingers brushing along your jaw.

“Strip.”

One word.

No room for hesitation.

A slow, creeping shiver spreads down your spine, and your hands move before you can even think.

You reach for the hem of your dress, slipping it over your head in one slow motion. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you bare—except for the lace panties he forced you into earlier and the plug still nestled between your cheeks.

Harry’s gaze darkens.

His tongue drags along his bottom lip, and he exhales slow, controlled, fingers flexing at his sides.

“On the bed.”

You shudder.

It’s not just a command—it’s a promise.

Your heart pounds as you move toward the mattress, sinking onto the soft sheets. The moment you do, Harry follows, climbing onto the bed with deliberate slowness, his toned body flexing as he hovers over you.

The silk restraints are still lying there. Waiting.

He picks one up, twirling it lazily between his fingers before tilting his head, green eyes locking onto yours.

“Let me tie you up, angel.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a test.

You swallow hard, feeling the last shred of control slipping away, and nod.

But he doesn’t move.

His smirk deepens.

“Say it.”

Your breath stutters. The words feel thick in your throat, but when they finally come, they’re barely more than a whisper.

“Tie me up, Harry.”

Something flickers in his eyes. A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips, and then—

He moves.

Swift. Effortless. Expert.

He grabs your wrist, looping the silk around it, securing it to the headboard with a practiced ease that makes your stomach tighten. Then the other wrist—soft but firm, tight but not painful. You test the restraints. No give.

Your breathing is already uneven.

He shifts down, grabbing your ankle next.

You jerk instinctively, but it’s useless.

Harry likes you like this—helpless beneath him, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

By the time he secures your other ankle, your body is already trembling. Spread wide. Exposed. Completely at his mercy.

You test the restraints again.

You can’t move.

The realization sends a sharp, dizzying pulse of heat straight between your legs.

Harry notices.

He always does.

He hums, pleased, dragging his knuckles along your inner thigh. His touch is featherlight, teasing, barely even there.

And then—

He reaches into his pocket.

Your breath hitches.

The remote.

Your stomach drops.

The plug.

He clicks it on.

The vibration is instant.

Low at first—deep, pulsing, sending sharp, concentrated pleasure straight through your core. Right where you need it most.

A helpless whimper rips from your throat. Your hips jerk automatically, body arching against the restraints, but there’s nowhere to go, no way to escape the relentless stimulation.

Harry watches every second of it.

The way your thighs tremble, the way your lips part in desperate little gasps, the way your stomach tightens.

And then—

He turns on the camera.

You freeze.

The red light blinks.

Recording.

Your stomach clenches, heat flooding your skin, because this moment—your wrists tied, your legs spread, your body already writhing from the toy still pulsing inside you—is being captured.

For him.

Forever.

Harry tilts his head, smirking.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertips along your trembling thigh. His voice is low, smooth, hypnotic. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You let out a broken whimper.

His hand slides higher, teasing along the waistband of your panties. Not touching you where you need it most.

Not yet.

He licks his lips, watching you squirm.

“Think you can come like this, angel?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly. You don’t answer. You can’t.

But Harry doesn’t need one.

He just turns up the vibration.

And watches.

The vibrations deepened.

Your breath hitched—sharp, desperate, a ragged little sound that barely even made it past your lips. The plug was already relentless, pulsing deep inside you, the sensation twisting tight in your stomach, coiling lower with each slow, calculated increase of the setting.

You were already trembling. Already aching. Already so close.

And Harry hadn’t even touched you yet.

He watched you squirm, wrists and ankles straining against the silk restraints, body arching involuntarily.

Completely at his mercy.

Completely his.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his voice slow, measured, but dripping with hunger. His knuckles skimmed along your inner thigh, grazing just close enough to where you needed him—but never quite there. Just teasing. Just watching.

And the camera?

Still rolling.

Still capturing every little gasp, every tremor, every desperate little attempt to chase the pleasure he was holding just out of reach.

The red light blinked.

Recording.

His smirk deepened.

“Such a pretty mess, angel.” His voice was low, approving, hypnotic.

You whimpered, hips twitching, but the restraints left you helpless—spread wide, open, exposed, your body reacting instinctively to the overstimulation.

But Harry?

Harry was calm.

Patient.

He sat back, admiring his work—admiring you—as if he had all the time in the world.

And then, finally—finally—

His fingers traced over your panties.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips, your entire body jolting at the sudden touch. Even through the soaked lace, the warmth of his fingertips sent electricity crackling through your veins.

Harry hummed, pleased.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” His fingers pressed lightly, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the fabric. “Been like this all day, haven’t you?”

You nodded frantically, swallowing back a sob. “Y-Yes.”

He chuckled, dark and satisfied, rubbing just a little harder.

“Good girl.”

Your thighs quivered, muscles tensing, your wrists tugging at the restraints again. Every little movement sent shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body.

And then—

He ripped your panties.

A sharp tear, the lace splitting effortlessly beneath his fingers. The fabric vanished in an instant, and suddenly, there was nothing between you and him.

Nothing stopping him from touching you—truly touching you.

And he did.

Slow. Gentle at first. Just his fingertips, gliding over your drenched folds, exploring.

Spreading you open.

His thumb circled your clit, barely any pressure at all—but after everything? After the teasing, the buildup, the vibrations inside you?

It was too much.

A strangled, helpless sob ripped from your throat, your back arching clean off the mattress.

Harry’s breath caught.

He groaned—actually groaned—watching you break for him.

“Fuck. That sensitive, angel?” His tone was teasing, but there was something else there. Something hungry.

He dragged his fingers through your slick, slow, deliberate.

“Bet you could come just from this.” His voice was silk and sin, completely entranced by the way your body shuddered, twitched, begged.

Your head jerked frantically, desperate, pleading, already teetering on the edge.

“P-Please—”

But before you could even finish the sentence—

He slid two fingers inside you.

Your vision blurred.

The stretch—the depth—the angle—all of it was perfect.

The moment he curled his fingers, you screamed.

The sound punched out of your lungs, raw and wrecked, as he pressed against that perfect, devastating spot.

Harry cursed under his breath, watching every second of it.

The way your body clenched around his fingers, the way you writhed against the restraints, the way your chest heaved, nipples peaked and sensitive beneath the cool air—

Every. Little. Detail.

Captured.

The red light blinking.

Recording.

He moved faster, fingers stroking deep, precise, thumb circling your clit in tight, merciless patterns.

“Come for me,” he growled.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

And you had no choice.

The pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave, tearing through every nerve ending in your body. You came with a sob, a scream, a desperate, shattered cry, your body convulsing, legs shaking, clenching so hard around his fingers it was almost unbearable.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, fingers relentless, dragging out every last tremor, milking every last drop of pleasure until you were shaking, sobbing, gasping for air.

And only then—

Only then—

Did he finally slow.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your wrists trembling against the silk. Your whole body felt like static—shattered, floating, buzzing.

And Harry?

Harry was grinning.

He kissed your knee, slow and lazy, as he finally pulled his fingers out of you.

“Such a good girl.”

Your lashes fluttered, vision still hazy, but you could barely even register his words. Your body was spent, ruined, completely undone.

But Harry wasn’t finished.

Because then—

He licked his fingers.

Your stomach plummeted.

He hummed low in his throat, savoring, before grinning.

And then—

He reached for the camera.

Still rolling.

Still capturing everything.

And he smirked.

“Hope you didn’t think we were done.”

Your pulse was still pounding in your ears.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, every nerve ending overstimulated and raw from the orgasm that had just torn through you.

And yet—

Harry still wasn’t done.

He loomed over you, tall, broad, completely in control, the red recording light casting a soft glow over the sharp lines of his jaw. His eyes devoured you, taking in every little detail—

The way your chest heaved. The way your thighs still trembled against the sheets. The way your wrists flexed instinctively against the silk, as if you could stop him.

You couldn’t.

And you didn’t want to.

The bed dipped as he climbed over you, the heat of his bare skin searing against yours.

His cock—hard, leaking, thick and aching—dragged against your swollen folds, notching at your entrance, but not pushing in.

Not yet.

You whimpered, body arching instinctively, desperate for him, but he just chuckled—low, deep, indulgent.

“Mm. Look at you.” His voice was warm honey, slow and deliberate, each word sinking deep into your bones. “So pretty when you beg, angel.”

You bit your lip, hips shifting, trying to chase him.

He smirked.

And then—

The first inch.

You gasped, eyes flying open, head tilting back against the pillows.

He was thick, stretching you open so slowly that it almost burned.

But Harry didn’t give you time to adjust.

Didn’t give you time to think.

Because then—

Another inch.

And another.

Until he was halfway inside you, filling you, the intrusion both devastating and perfect.

Your nails dug into your palms, your body trying to take more—needing more.

And then, Harry reached for the camera.

Still recording.

He angled it down, making sure to capture the way your body was taking him, stretching around him.

His cock twitched.

And then, his voice—low, thick, wrecked:

“Fuck, angel. Look at this.”

You tried to, tried to open your eyes, tried to focus, but then—

He pushed all the way in.

The breath punched out of your lungs.

A sharp, desperate gasp—loud, needy, broken—tore from your throat as he bottomed out, pressing so deep you could feel him everywhere.

Your body clenched around him, still too sensitive, still feeling everything from before.

But Harry just groaned, deep and guttural, hips rolling in the slowest, most devastating grind.

Your toes curled, pleasure sparking white-hot under your skin.

You were still tied up. Still helpless. Still completely his.

And now, you were full.

So full you could barely breathe.

Harry pulled out—slow, deliberate—before thrusting back in just as slow, pushing you open all over again.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, watching you, watching the camera, watching everything.

Your body twitched, squirmed, begged.

He just smirked.

And then—

He set the pace.

Deep, slow strokes, hitting every spot just right, dragging against the oversensitive nerves he’d already ruined.

Your mouth fell open, pleasure crashing over you with every slow thrust.

Every inch of him pressing deep, stretching you so perfectly it hurt.

The camera blinked.

Recording.

Capturing the way your body was shuddering, the way your fists clenched the silk, the way your lips trembled around the moans he was pulling from you.

He leaned down, breath hot against your ear.

“Gonna give me another one, angel?” His voice was taunting, dripping with amusement. “Think you can come for me again?”

You shook your head wildly, chest heaving, eyes glazed over.

“I— I can’t—”

Harry just hummed, lips brushing your temple.

“Yes, you can.”

And then—

He fucked you deeper.

Your back arched instantly, wrists straining, a sob ripping through your throat.

The pleasure was blinding, white-hot, unbearable.

“Harry—”

His teeth scraped against your jaw, his voice gravel and smoke.

“Say it.”

Your breath hitched, nails digging into your palms, body trembling from the sheer force of it.

“Y-Yours,” you gasped.

His hips snapped harder, cock grinding against that devastating spot over and over—relentless, unforgiving.

“Again.”

A strangled sob.

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours.”

His groan was low, wrecked, dangerous.

“Good girl.”

And then—

His hand dropped to your clit.

Your vision blurred.

A sharp, overwhelming cry ripped from your chest, your body jerking violently, pleasure spiraling out of control.

You were gonna come. You were gonna fall apart for him again. You couldn’t stop it.

Harry knew it.

He wanted it.

He fucking needed it.

His fingers worked your clit in tight, ruthless circles, hips grinding deep, pushing you further, further, further—

And then he stopped.

Your body shuddered violently, the cruel absence of release ripping through you in an aching pulse. Your wrists strained against the restraints, fingers curling into fists as if grasping at the pleasure he had just stolen from you.

“No—Harry, please—” Your voice was wrecked, trembling, broken.

He only chuckled, slow and dark, as he withdrew from you completely, leaving you empty and throbbing.

“You were about to come, weren’t you?” he murmured, running a single finger up the slick seam of your cunt.

Your thighs twitched, trying to chase the friction, but the spreader bar kept you locked open, helpless. A desperate whimper crawled up your throat.

“Y-yes, I was—”

Harry tsked, tracing idle circles around your entrance, not giving you what you needed. “Shouldn’t have done that, angel. Didn’t I tell you? You come when I say.”

Tears of frustration burned behind your blindfold. “I c-can’t take anymore—”

A sharp slap landed between your legs, a quick sting against your soaked, sensitive cunt. You gasped, jerking at the impact.

“Oh, you can take more,” Harry said smoothly, rubbing the heated skin where he had just spanked you. “And you will.”

Your whole body quivered as he slid his fingers down, pressing them against the plug still nestled inside you. A strangled sound escaped your lips when he pushed it deeper, rocking it in place.

“Wanna stretch you out properly, baby,” he mused, voice thick with something dangerous. “But first—”

You heard the rustling of fabric, the creak of leather as he stood from the bed.

“Up.”

You barely had the strength to move, but you forced yourself to obey, arms shaking as you struggled against the restraints. The blindfold remained in place, leaving you vulnerable as you listened to him unbuckle something, the unmistakable sound of a belt sliding free from its loops.

Then—his hands were on you again, untying your wrists, removing the spreader bar. Your legs instantly trembled, weak from the overwhelming denial.

“Good girl,” Harry murmured, massaging the sore skin where the restraints had been. “Now, come with me.”

He grasped your chin, tilting your face up as he pulled the blindfold away. Your eyes blinked open, pupils blown wide as you took in the wicked smirk on his lips, the lust-darkened green of his gaze.

Before you could catch your breath, he scooped you into his arms. You barely had time to register the movement before he was carrying you out of the bedroom, past the cameras still recording every second.

The bathroom door swung open. Steam clung to the air as he stepped inside, turning the shower knob until hot water cascaded down, filling the room with a thick, humid heat.

Your back hit the cold tile a second later. You barely had time to react before he pressed his palm against your sternum, urging you down, down, down until your knees met the wet floor.

He grabbed the camera from the counter, flipping the screen toward him. The red recording light glowed as he aimed the lens at you, already kneeling and dripping with arousal.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, his voice a slow drag of filth.

Your breath hitched.

You obeyed.

The second your lips parted, Harry’s smirk deepened. He took his time, letting the camera capture every little detail—the way your tongue flicked out, the way your breath came in short, desperate little pants, the way your lips glistened from the mix of your own arousal and the steam filling the room.

“Fuck, angel,” he murmured, palming his cock, stroking himself right in front of you. “You look so pretty like this.”

He tilted the camera slightly, making sure it caught the way you were already trembling, still wrecked from everything he’d put you through in the bedroom. He hadn’t even touched you yet, but your body was still in pieces, still aching, still on the brink.

He tapped the head of his cock against your bottom lip. “Go on. Take it.”

You leaned forward instantly, eager, desperate to please, desperate to have some part of him back inside you. Your tongue darted out, licking the swollen tip before wrapping your lips around it.

The deep groan he let out sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he praised, one hand still holding the camera, the other coming to the back of your head. “Messy, baby. I want to see spit dripping all over that pretty face.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him in deeper, bobbing your head as your hands found purchase on his thighs. The hot water pounded against your skin, the steam thick, making the whole room feel like a fever dream.

The camera shifted in his grip, the angle catching the way your lips stretched wide around him, the way your throat fluttered as he pushed deeper.

“Shit—” He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening in your hair. “Keep going, angel. Take it all.”

You did. You let him guide you, let him control the pace, let him push further and further until the tip of his cock nudged against the back of your throat. You gagged around him, eyes watering, but you didn’t stop.

Harry groaned, low and wrecked. “Fuck, you’re so good for me.”

He pulled back, just enough to let you breathe, before pushing in again—this time rougher, faster, with more force. You moaned around him, the vibrations making his hips jerk forward. Spit dribbled down your chin, mixing with the hot water that streamed over your face, but you didn’t care.

“That’s it, baby. Get it all wet for me.”

He adjusted the camera again, angling it downward, capturing the way your lips were red and swollen, the way his cock disappeared between them over and over again. He licked his lips, voice dropping to something even darker.

“Gonna fuck your throat now, angel. You ready for that?”

You could barely nod, but you did, blinking up at him with big, watery eyes.

Harry growled.

“Good girl.”

Then he snapped his hips forward, holding your head in place as he started fucking your mouth.

The force made your throat tighten, made your gag reflex threaten to fight back, but you took it. His cock dragged against the back of your tongue, thick and heavy, every thrust sending you further into the haze of pleasure and submission.

Tears spilled down your cheeks. Drool dripped from the corners of your mouth. Your nails dug into his thighs as he used you, each thrust more relentless than the last.

“Fuck—look at you.” His voice was wrecked, barely holding on. “Gonna come down your throat, angel. Gonna fill you up nice and fucking full.”

You moaned, the sound muffled around him, but he understood.

“Yeah? You want that?”

You nodded desperately, tears spilling freely now.

Harry cursed, deep and rough, before pulling out just enough to let you breathe—then pushing in one last time, shoving himself as deep as you could take.

With a low, guttural groan, he came, hot and thick down your throat.

“Don’t swallow,” he panted, pulling back just enough to see the mess he’d left on your tongue. He angled the camera, zooming in on your wrecked, ruined expression.

“Show the camera, baby.”

You opened your mouth wider, letting him see everything—the cum pooling on your tongue, the spit clinging to your lips, the way you were completely, utterly wrecked for him.

Harry groaned. “Fuck.”

He smirked down at you, lowering the camera slightly, his thumb tracing the edge of your mouth.

“Now swallow.”

You did.

His gaze darkened even more.

“Good girl.”

The moment your lips closed around the last drop, Harry grabbed your chin, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb swiped over the corner of your mouth, catching the mix of spit and cum before pressing it back against your tongue.

“Still so fucking messy, angel,” he murmured, his voice rough, raw. “I should make you lick it off my fingers.”

Your tongue flicked out before he could even tell you to, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking obediently. Harry groaned, his free hand fisting in your damp hair as he tilted the camera, capturing the way you looked up at him—wrecked, desperate, willing.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth with a pop, gripping your jaw tight before hauling you to your feet.

“Not done with you yet,” he muttered, voice dripping with something dangerous. “C’mon.”

He dragged you out of the bathroom, still naked, your legs barely steady after everything he’d put you through. The cameras in the bedroom were still recording, red lights blinking as he led you straight through and into the living room.

The moment your bare feet hit the cool hardwood floor, your stomach flipped.

The windows.

The massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, wide open, stretching across the entire room.

Anyone could see.

Your breath caught as Harry maneuvered you toward the couch, his grip firm, unyielding. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even give you a moment to protest before pushing you down, bending you over the armrest, pressing your chest into the soft fabric.

“Stay.”

A shiver rolled through you.

You didn’t dare move.

Behind you, you heard him shifting, placing the camera down, adjusting it for the best angle. Then—his hands. Rough and warm as they skimmed over your hips, down the backs of your thighs. His palms kneaded your ass before spreading you open, exposing every inch of you to both him and the camera.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”

Heat flooded your body. You squirmed under his touch, your thighs already sticky, already aching.

He didn’t like that.

His palm cracked against your ass, sharp and sudden.

You gasped, jolting forward.

“Be still,” he ordered. “Wanna make sure the camera gets a good look.”

You bit your lip, your body thrumming with anticipation as his fingers slid between your legs, teasing, testing. You were still soaked—already wrecked from the way he’d used you in the bedroom, the bathroom, every fucking room he wanted.

And yet, you still wanted more.

He chuckled darkly.

“So fucking needy,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles against your clit before pulling away.

You whined softly.

“Patience, angel,” he said, his tone taunting.

He reached for something—a bottle of lube, cold as he drizzled it between your cheeks. His fingers smoothed it over your skin, teasing your hole, making you twitch beneath him.

“One day,” he murmured, leaning in, voice just for you. “One day, baby, I’m gonna fuck you here too. Gonna stretch you out nice and slow.”

You whimpered, fingers curling into the couch.

“But not tonight.”

Instead, he pushed inside your pussy in one hard, punishing thrust.

You cried out, your body arching at the overwhelming sensation. He was still thick, still hard, still relentless. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust—his hands gripped your hips, holding you still as he set a brutal pace.

The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with your gasps, your whimpers, the deep groans spilling from his lips.

The camera was still recording.

Harry reached for it, lifting it with one hand, angling it down to catch everything—the way he filled you, the way you took him so fucking well, the way your body trembled beneath him.

He smirked, never slowing down.

“Wave, baby,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “Let them see how good you take it.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, a sharp spike of humiliation cutting through the pleasure. You could feel the heat of the camera on you, the weight of his stare, the way he watched you through the lens, utterly transfixed.

Your fingers gripped the couch tighter, your body burning with the mix of overstimulation and the sheer, undeniable thrill of it all.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr. “Be good for me.”

Shame curled in your chest, but the need to obey—to give him exactly what he wanted—was so much stronger.

You lifted one trembling hand from the couch and waved.

Harry groaned. “Fuck, look at you.”

He rewarded you with a brutal thrust, his cock slamming so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs. Your arm dropped, a broken sound slipping from your lips as he kept going, his grip tightening on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin.

The angle was devastating—his cock hitting deep, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside you, his pace merciless. The obscene sound of your slick filled the space, your body taking everything he gave without resistance, already so fucking ruined for him.

The camera was still rolling.

He moved it slightly, shifting to get a better angle, then pressed it close to where your bodies met, capturing the way he disappeared inside you over and over again.

“See that, angel?” he taunted. “See how fucking good you take me?”

You couldn’t even form words, your forehead pressing into the couch, your entire body trembling.

He leaned down, his chest flush against your back, the camera still in his hand. His breath was hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You were made for this,” he whispered. “Made for me.”

Your walls clenched at the words, your body betraying you completely.

Harry groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second before he caught himself, before he pulled back and gave you a particularly sharp thrust—one that had you gasping, your hands gripping the couch for dear life.

His free hand snaked between your legs, finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.

Your whole body tensed, the pressure inside you coiling tighter, tighter, so close to snapping—

And then he stopped.

You sobbed, your body shaking, your walls fluttering helplessly around nothing as he pulled out of you completely.

You felt him shift behind you, setting the camera back down, letting it capture the way your body trembled, the way your thighs clenched, desperate for more.

Then his hands were on you again, flipping you over, pressing your back against the couch cushions. His weight caged you in, his gaze dark, predatory.

“Not done with you yet, angel,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across your swollen lips, watching the way you panted beneath him.

The camera was still rolling.

His hand slipped between your legs again, teasing your slick entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against your overstimulated clit just to watch you squirm.

“You want more?” he asked, voice rough, teasing.

You nodded frantically, too wrecked to form words.

He smirked.

“Then get on the counter.”

Your legs barely worked as you scrambled up, body still trembling, overstimulated and desperate as you obeyed his command. The moment your feet hit the floor, Harry grabbed you by the waist, guiding you toward the kitchen with effortless control.

The counter was cold against your burning skin as he lifted you onto it, positioning you exactly where he wanted. Your thighs fell open instinctively, the evidence of everything he’d done to you glistening between them, your body still slick, still aching.

Harry groaned at the sight.

“Fuck, angel. Look at you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he reached down, grabbing something from the bag on the counter. Your stomach flipped as he held it up.

The large plug.

Your breath hitched, anticipation and overstimulation clashing in a way that made you shiver.

“Color?” he murmured, his voice softer now, more serious.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe past the haze of it all. “Green.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he smirked, trailing his fingers up the inside of your thigh, teasing.

“That’s my girl.”

He kissed you then—hot and deep, his tongue sliding against yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His free hand worked between your legs, rubbing slow, lazy circles against your clit, making you whimper against his lips.

Then, without warning, he pressed the plug against your entrance, pushing it in.

Your whole body tensed, a broken gasp spilling from your lips as the stretch burned for just a second—before the pleasure hit. The fullness, the pressure, the way it made everything more intense.

Harry pulled back, watching your face, drinking in every reaction.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured. “Taking it so fucking well.”

The praise sent another shiver down your spine. You clenched around the plug instinctively, and Harry groaned at the sight, gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he taunted. “How much better it makes everything?”

You nodded weakly, barely able to breathe.

But he wasn’t done.

Reaching down, he clicked a button—and vibrations pulsed deep inside you.

A strangled moan tore from your throat, your body jolting against the counter as the sudden stimulation hit all at once.

Harry just chuckled, watching you squirm.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Already falling apart for me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust, to catch your breath—his hands were already on you again, pushing your legs wider, lining himself up.

“Just one more, angel,” he whispered. “Just one more.”

Then he thrust inside you.

You choked on a gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the sensations overwhelmed you. The vibrations, the stretch, the way his cock filled you so perfectly—

It was too much.

And yet, not enough.

Harry grunted, his grip on your hips bruising as he set a punishing pace, fucking into you deep, fast, relentless. His free hand shot up to your throat, his fingers curling around the column of your neck, squeezing just enough to make your pulse race.

Your vision blurred at the edges, your body trembling beneath him.

“S’this how you wanted it?” he growled. “Getting fucked so hard you can’t even think?”

Tears streamed down your face, your body wracked with pleasure, every nerve alight, every inch of you burning with overstimulation.

Harry groaned at the sight, leaning down to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss. His pace never faltered, his thrusts deep and brutal, fucking you through it, dragging it out.

Your walls clenched around him, the vibrations pushing you closer, closer—

And then you shattered.

Your entire body convulsed, pleasure slamming into you like a freight train, the orgasm ripping through you so violently you nearly sobbed. Your nails raked down his back, your thighs squeezing tight around his hips as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

Harry cursed under his breath, his movements growing erratic, rougher. He pulled out at the last second, groaning as he spilled across your stomach, his chest heaving, his body tense.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was your ragged breathing.

Then, slowly, Harry reached for the camera—lifting it, angling it down, capturing the absolute wreckage of you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, tracing a hand down your trembling thigh. “You look so pretty like this.”

The camera clicked off.

And then, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you straight back to bed.

The sheets were cool against your overheated skin as Harry laid you down, his grip still firm but gentle. Your body felt weightless, trembling, drained from everything he had put you through—but he wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

He reached for a towel, wiping the mess from your stomach, his touch softer now, deliberate, taking his time as he cleaned you up. You shivered under his hands, your body still sensitive, overstimulated beyond belief.

Harry hummed, low and satisfied. “You did so fucking good for me, angel.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he brushed damp hair from your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The shift in him was stark, a complete contrast from the dominant force he had been just minutes ago. Now, he was patient. Tender.

He grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand, twisting the cap off before bringing it to your lips. “Drink.”

You obeyed, swallowing the cool liquid, letting it soothe your raw throat. Harry watched you carefully, thumb stroking over your jaw.

“There you go,” he murmured. “That’s my good girl.”

Your heart squeezed at the praise, warmth curling in your chest. Even now, with your limbs weak and body wrecked, you craved it.

Harry must have seen it on your face, because he smirked, setting the bottle aside before slipping into bed beside you. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you in, pressing you flush against him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, running his palm up and down your back, soothing, grounding.

You sighed into the touch, relaxing against him, sinking into his warmth.

His lips ghosted along your shoulder, pressing soft kisses up your neck, along your jaw. He traced every mark he had left on you, his tongue flicking out to soothe the sensitive skin.

A deep, contented sound rumbled from his chest as he held you close, his fingers lazily tracing patterns along your hip. “Proud of you, angel. Took everything so well for me.”

A sleepy hum slipped past your lips. You barely had the energy to respond, too far gone, your body melting into his.

Harry chuckled, the sound low and raspy.

Then, you felt it—his fingers reaching for the remote, grabbing it from the nightstand.

A moment later, the TV flickered to life.

Your stomach flipped.

You didn’t need to look to know what he was playing.

Heat crept up your neck as the sounds of your own moans filled the room, the unmistakable echo of skin on skin, the filthy words he had murmured against your lips now playing back in crisp, high-definition audio.

Your breath hitched.

Harry smirked, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, hungry, still burning despite everything.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching the replay, his hand trailing down, fingertips ghosting over your still-sensitive core. “So fucking wrecked. So perfect.”

Your cheeks burned, embarrassment and arousal clashing, twisting deep in your stomach.

Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’re keeping all of this,” he whispered against your skin. “Our own little collection.”

You barely had the strength to respond, your body too heavy, your brain too foggy.

But just before sleep claimed you, you heard him murmur one last thing—

“Hope you know… there’s going to be a part three.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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527 notes · View notes

tojisun · 11 months ago

Note

Poor poor hockey! Simon :(

he lost and now the only thing to make him feel better is a good bj

this made me twitch so here u are my love !!!

!! comfort/smut - minors dni; hockey au; praises (in a tender way and but also in a kink way); D/s-ish; some semblance of plot ig // 2.4k words (LMAO)

the horn blows, marking the end of the game and, with that, the end of spec gru’s season.

it was heartbreaking to watch the way the boys' bodies slump, their loss descending onto them like heavy rain. the arena shakes, screams from the opposing team's fans piercing your ears, but you can't blame them, really—they won on home ice, against the leviathan of the league. it is a tremendous win for them, and a devastating loss for your side.

you feel your hand getting squeezed and you turn, looking at johnny's fiancee, seeing the way her own face is crumpled in her sadness.

"i guess that's that, huh?" she says, comforting, her voice a quiet whisper that was almost devoured by the loud cheers.

sometimes you forget that she's an athlete too; that she feels things a lot more intense than you do because she understands the grapple. the desperation. the way how everything you give and everything you put out is, at the end, not enough.

you sniffle, holding her hand tighter.

"i'm so proud of 'em," you say wetly, unable to compartmentalize your grief.

she laughs, the sound of it so empty of any humour but not any less kind.

“i am too.”

you both turn your gazes back to the rink and watch the teams shake hands with each other, the players finally amiable like they hadn’t just been tussling on ice, all sparked by the sharp tension that buzzed throughout their play.

you watch as simon takes a lap, patting the backs of his team members with his lips pursed, but otherwise he is put together. and yet here you are, shaking, lips wobbling, nose twitching because you are trying your best not to cry. it isn’t like you were the one who lost so you wonder why your heart twinges with so much pain; why is it that you are the one holding back the tears?

simon turns to the crowd, roving his eyes past bodies, until they finally lock on you. his lips twitch into a smile; you give him what you hope is a big one—the type of smile that will let him know how in awe you are of him, win or not.

they skate away and you all shuffle out, preparing for the flight back home.

it was expected for the players to fly back home together—a semblance of normalcy even amidst the staggering defeat. it was their last attempt at showing sportsmanship; at showing the hounding media that despite the abrupt end of their season, they remained close-knit.

simon understands it, of course. it was a media play, one that contends with the politics of the league, but it was difficult to act impartially, especially when they were making their way back, empty-handed, from the home ice of the team that had defeated them. it was difficult to not show the turmoil in their hearts, but they all managed to hold their heads up high during the exit and that was that.

they didn’t talk about it much, avoiding that last game as best as they could until the briefing, but hunger thrums in their jowls—no one was satisfied with being the second best.

the promise of a better next season hung above them, but it is still so unreachable.

simon feels angrier than usual, unable to stop himself from taking this loss personally. like what costed them their win were only his shortcomings; like this defeat was his sole failure because he did promise to lead his team on ice, with price unable to stand as their official captain during the games. he had promised to score the most, after all, and had promised to keep the opposing puck out of price’s net, but he failed in both and, well, here they are.

back home, anguished. defeated.

he–

simon's phone rings, a quiet trill that echoes in the empty locker room.

he shoots awake from the swirl of his thoughts, sluggish as he pulls it out of his bag. he expected it to be laswell or keller, or maybe their coach, but simon feels his world tilt when he sees your name flashing on his screen. and just like that, like he wasn’t even drowning in his self-doubt and self-hatred, simon feels like he can breathe again.

he feels lighter, his anguish seeping out of his pores, leaving him with nothing but his flesh and his heart and his love.

simon picks up the call, hears your voice, then he is up and running back home.

there is a sense of urgency in the way he finds you, his cold body folding into the warm touch of your own. you gasped out his name, surprised at how fast you have him back in your arms after a whole season of flying and leaving and pursuing his chance at the cup—

“i’m home, petal,” simon murmurs, his voice deep and beautiful and longing, and you giggle, your eyes watering, before you nuzzle into his chest.

he breathes you in, the faint smell of ozone and rain and something distinctly flowery fills his nose, and somehow this is what grounds him, his blood spiking as desire and need fill him up instead.

and it trickles into him like wafting smoke—soft, gentle, cascading like a warm kiss. it is still intense, hungry, but it is tender. quiet. like everything about simon’s buzzed energy had transformed into this careful folding. the anger, the desperation, all of it snuffed out for a vulnerable moment.

“baby,” you begin, voice muffled from where your head is still pressed on his chest. “love, you did so well.”

he shakes, his words failing him now.

you pull back just enough and he sees the glazed look in your eyes as you stare up at him, your lips curled in your smile. “i’m so proud of you, si.”

his heart stutters inside the cages of his ribs, jumping, before it lodges itself in his throat.

you giggle at his wordless tremors and press close again, your body melting onto his again, before you tip your head back to his chest but this time, instead of a nuzzle, you greet his beating heart with a kiss. one that is so light he barely feels it from his shirt, but simon feels so shaken.

he feels so raw.

you are holding him like he is the best thing in this world. like all his bulk and his size and his anger is still worth this softness.

“i need you,” he croaks out, unable to stop the way his feelings bloat and rage in the pit of his stomach.

“you have all of me,” you reply, breathless, your eyes still blown open, wide and full of wonder. then they shift, turning sharper, gaining edge; still careful, coaxing, but overwhelming. “tell me, my love. tell me how you need me.”

“fuck,” simon rasps out, feeling like he’s running out of air. his fingers twitch, digging deep into your skin, feeling it mould under his touch.

he’s missed this, alright. he’s—

“mouth,” he finally manages to bite out. “wan’ feel your mouth, love.”

“okay,” you croon, kissing his pec again. “sit f’me?”

simon doesn’t even have it in him to feel embarrassed about the way he falls to his ass on the plush mattress, bouncing a little bit because of the force, before he spreads his legs open, so, so desperate.

you have your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, canines dimpling the flesh, and simon feels like he is burning from the inside; doused with the fires of need, spark untamable, licking up, up, up.

“come on, firelily,” he rumbles, needy. “c’mere an’ kiss me.”

you huff, fond, and fall to your knees, scooting close to him.

it was silent as you fumble with his sweats, tugging at the drawstring and grumbling when the hem gets snugged on his hips. simon chuckles, pushing your hair out of your face before he juts up just enough to give you room to slide his sweats and his boxers down.

the cool air makes him tremble and you murmur something. it was so faint that he doesn’t get to catch what it was, but his curiosity sizzles at the sight of you licking your palm, shyly with how you refuse to meet his eyes. he almost teases you, his cheeks round with giddiness, but then you wrapped your fist around his half-chub, and his sanity is razed.

simon hisses, eyes fluttering close at the warm curl of pleasure.

jesus. he’s missed the feeling of this; your hand is softer, more supple, around his cock. it was so different from when it was his own fist rubbing himself, beating at his angrily flushed cock with desperation only for his peak to tip over mutedly, and not enough to truly satiate his hunger.

but this? fuck.

simon doesn’t even realize he’s whimpering, his head thrown back at the curious pace of your hand, not really jerking him off but mapping along his veins almost in quiet awe.

“‘m not gon’ last long if you–” he gasps at a particular twist. “if you keep doing that.”

“oh, no we can’t have that,” you tease, chuckling, and simon’s reply builds on the tip of his tongue, cheeky, but then you’re already moving, your back folding, your breath hitting his sensitive head.

his thighs tense in his anticipation, his stomach locking. you flit your eyes up at him, pupils blown wide in your own ragged need, before he jerks at the feeling of your tongue pressing on the underside of his cock, licking up, and teasing his leaking slit.

simon moans, guttural, his voice caught on the back of his throat. he drops his hands to his sides, fisting at the sheets as you keep licking, teasing his slit and tracing his veins, lapping at his cock so messily.

if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you’re inexperienced; all sloppy and curious, like you’re attempting things you’ve probably seen in porn, but then you close the ring of your mouth around the bulbed head, suckling like it’s a goddamn loli, while your hands drop to squeeze his balls, and simon’s gone.

“shit-!” he gasps out, battling air like he’s back on ice.

he bucks his hips forward, unable to help himself, and only stops at the warbled sound of your surprise.

“fuck,” he hisses, hand coming up to swipe the hair from your sweaty face. “i’m sorry, darlin’. didn’t mean t’force it down. s’just that y’r so good.”

he keeps petting your cheek, overtaken by his desires and no longer able to stop the string of words trickling from his heart. “missed you lots, swee’art. missed you so much—take me deeper?”

your cheeks hollow as you hum, so obedient for him.

“yeah, jus’ like that,” simon trills, his chest rising as he breathes in deeply. his stomach flexes at the feeling of you swallowing more of him, taking his thickness past your gummy cheeks and into the wet vice of your throat. “shit, baby. christ. y’feel so fuckin’ good ‘round me. so perfect an’ wet.” he giggles, drunken in his bliss. “such a messy baby y’are. so sloppy. y’wanted my cock that much, din’ya? so hungry f’r it.”

there’s a wet slurp when he hits the deepest you could allow him, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. you choke, your body lurching in protest, but simon is at the throes of his pleasure and his rational thoughts are devoured by his gluttonous need, and simon knows it is wrong to ask but—

“hold it in? can you do that f’r me, love?” he croons, his voice curling in his euphoria.

he knows this is playing dirty; to use your weakness—the deep rumble of his voice and the gentle beckoning—to make you weak, malleable. to make you just as desperate for him because he knows all you want to do is to be good for him even when it has you straining, your eyes filling up with tears. he knows it is wrong, but he can’t help it. he wants you this way.

and you want him like this too—his desires sharpening, shaping him to be mean and dangerous. his thickness fills you up, pressing at the roof of your mouth and trapping your tongue underneath the weight of his flesh. your larynx is stretched out, stuffed, but simon is looking at you so adoringly, his own ecstasy so dizzying, so addicting.

you nod, sniffling, finally replying to his question because you want him to feel good. because you want him to lose his restraints when it comes to you.

because you want him to use you until he’s truly relaxed, his body exhausted with something beyond his heartbreak. with something beyond his loss.

simon’s lips wobble like he knows what it is you are thinking of.

he fucks your throat that way, gentle and sometimes slipping into something so mean it makes you squirm on your knees, the muted throb of your strained legs finally turning into staticky numbness, but you don’t complain, your jaw relaxed as you let simon use you.

he growls out his praises, his words chewed on in his peaking euphoria—nose flaring, cheeks flushed red—or lilting as he teases you—pulling his cock out enough that all that is left is the head, and you whine because you want him in, please simon. wan’ more please—

“gonna cum, sweetheart. gonna cum—fuck!—gonna—”

simon throws his head back, a blinding white filling his eyes and his ears ringing. his body trembles at the intensity of his orgasm, immense pleasure overtaking every synapses in his body until all that he feels is the feverish wrap of your mouth on him.

he flicks his eyes down, panting, and twitches at the sight you make—jaw slack, eyes faraway, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

you look, fuck, you look angelic like this.

simon cups your cheek, his thumb swiping just underneath your teary eye. you focus back to him slowly, blinking owlishly.

“shh,” he croons, gentle. “i’ve got you, darlin’. i’ve got you.”

a whine builds from the back of your throat and simon hums, responding to your wordless babble, trying to ease you back down from the fog. he continues to hold you even amidst his oversensitivity, waiting so patiently so he can take care of you now.

yeah, he thinks to himself as he continues to return your unblinking stare. i’m glad to be back home.

hope this was good :'33 once again pls dont judge me for my blatant self-indulgence hhHHHHH oki oki mwah!!

#anon #hockey au #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley #hockey player simon #cod smut #ask #suns

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ivryne · 3 months ago

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MOMMENTS OF BLISS ⟢ caleb x fmr

warnings caleb, mdni, caleb n mc doing the boombayah lol

summary Caleb was determined to make you remember him before leaving for his mission tomorrow.

my first ever smut n fic abt l&ds PLS TELL ME UR OPINION ABT IT GUYS IM NEW TO THIS (im a raf main but srsly caleb is something else n i need him like NOW)

Radiant stars clung unto the night like specs of dust, covering the vast skies with seas of glitter. Today was Caleb's last night before returning to Skyhaven. Soon he would be conducting a long term mission that will delay any upcoming visits. So of course, he had to make you remember him in his future absence.

Creaking sound from the bed was echoing through concrete walls of your chambers. The Colonel pulses within you, moving with a rough and steady motion in the place where you were connected.

The flame igniting in the pit of your stomach was inextinguishable. Each stroke igniting the blaze of your carnal desires from within. Arms wrapped itself along Caleb's neck as scratches scarred the muscles in his back.

The Colonel hissed and his pace quickened in response, earning a sharp gasp from his beloved. "Like that, sweetheart?" His breath hot and heavy, sending a shiver down your arched back. Wet kisses trailed from your earlobe to the curve of your chest, before you feel a slight pressure on the supple skin.

The purple tinge was far from discreet. Caleb smirked at the little mark he created before aligning his vision upon your flushed visage. His sharpness was kissing your entrance like there was no tomorrow, dragging deeper and faster. It was overwhelming but you couldn't help but want more.

"Caleb..." The way you yearned his name unleashed something in him. His fingers grasp your chin, locking his gaze with yours as his tongue hovered over yours, dissipating any remaining space between the two bodies.

"So-" Kiss. "So-" Kiss. "Sweet." Kisses upon kisses, your lips swollen from his display of love that graced your flaming figure. "Can't let-" His grunt rang over your ear canals as you clenched underneath. You could tell that triggered a reaction out of him because the grasp he had on your waist tightened, leaving crescent moons on the epidermis of your skin.

He seeps into you deeper, but his pace was slowly dissipating. You knew he was close, and so were you. "Can't let anyone else have you." He moaned your name. "My-fuck-my princess." You pulled him even closer, your legs wrapped his waist, urging him more. "Ca-Caleb, mh-close."

"Right after you-fuck-you know what you're doing to me, baby ah-" His sentence was cut short as you sealed his words with your lips. Flesh on flesh, completely vulnerable before each other. Intimacy overflowed amidst the peak of twilight. Two lovers wrapped themselves with each other as they climbed down their highs in a sync melody.

The orange hue of the heavens was a reminder for them that their bliss were coming to an end. But for now, just for a few more hours, you ignore the demanding orders of day. Focusing on your Caleb in your arms, his head nuzzled on yours, leaving a chaste kiss on your lips before pulling you closer as he dozed on his last peaceful rest with his home.

#l&ds #lads x reader #caleb x reader #lads caleb #caleb x mc #caleb smut #caleb x you #love and deepspace #lnds caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb #lads #calebineedyou

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

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What a Mess 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: thick!Bucky Barnes

Summary: Your new job isn't all that you expect. (maid AU – short!reader)

Note: hate me, baby.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You punch the code into the keypad. The instructions are in the app, under the corresponding address. It took you sometime to find the building, then a little longer to figure out how to work the elevator. As it stopped on the right floor, the grated door struck you with a glimmer of panic.

Unlocked, you roll the door back to reveal the condo on the other side. Wow. It’s quite the place. Spacious. High ceilings, polished dark floors, tall counters. Well, everything is ‘big’ compared to you. The world is gargantuan in a way that makes you feel like a spec of dust.

You set down your kit and roll in your vacuum. It’s a haul and a half and you felt a bit silly dragging it all up the front steps of the building. You always feel a bit ridiculous. Like you don’t belong. Even in a city so big that you’re invisible.

You tap your earbud twice to turn the music up. You always keep one in to ward off the overstimulation of the New York chaos. It helps you through the hours of cleaning.

You check the notes in the app. It’s a long list. The work isn’t new, just the place. They chose to give some of your old clients to newer cleaners and you took on the more particular ones. Zuli said it’s because you know how to get in and out without any hint that you were ever there.

You start your cautious work. The client has included some very direct instructions. What you can and can’t touch. Alright, easy enough. You’re good with that. Details help.

You get to the spiral staircase that leads up to loft bedroom. The instructions say to dust the railings and sweep the steps. It doesn’t really look like they need it but it can’t hurt. You’re paid to do the job.

You start with the railings. Going top to bottom as you drag a microfibre cloth down the twisting ascent. You go back to the highest step with the broom, the task made awkward as the broom handle pokes through ceiling that would be the floor of the room above. It’s an interesting set up.

As you bring the bristles across the metal step, a shadow shifts over you. The windows are tall enough to let the sky in. You ignore it until a voice startles you from above. “Got an extra cloth?”

Your foot slips as a hand grabs the other end of the broom. You cling to the stick as another hand reaches to catch your arm. You squeak and look up at the man as he bends through the hatch door and keeps you from falling further.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” you whittle out of your tight throat.

“Careful,” he steadies you on the step until you get your balance. He lets go and steps back, standing above you as he looks down through the open hatch. “So, a cloth?”

You tap your earbud to pause the music. You nod and give a wide blink. You turn and scurry down the spiral steps, dizzy by the bottom. You search your kit and take both the roll of paper towels and a microfibre cloth. You go back to him and offer both.

You bat your lashes as you peer up at him. You know him. Well, you recognise him. The hair, the beard, the bright blue eyes. It's Bucky Barnes. What really gives him away are the metal fingers twiddling by his jeans. He bends to take the paper towel.

“Thanks,” he rasps and walks away without another word.

You don’t move for a moment. Then you set back to your work. You’re not there to ogle the famed super soldier. You have your list of tasks. You remember the underlined point on the list. Do not enter the loft.

You make a slow descent down with the broom and gather the small cluster of dust in the pan. You dump it and begin on the lower floor. You get about halfway around the front room of the open-concept condo before the silence smacks you across the face.

You hit play on your earbud. That’s better. You finish up with the sweep and start with the mop. You’re sure to use the gentle, unscented, all natural cleaner as specified in the app. You suppose a place this nice requires extra care.

You bob as you clean, the rhythm of the music soothing your nerves. You can’t help by keep replaying your near disaster in your head. Imagine if you’d fallen down those stairs. That would have been painful and just as torturously humiliating.

As you finish up, packing up your kit and tie up the trash bag to take out, you sense something behind you. You turn as you wait for the elevator to rise up and blanch at Bucky as he stands at the foot of the metal stairs. How hadn’t you heard him?

He looks at you then around the apartment. You squirm, too tongue tied to speak. Better off that you don’t. Was that on the list? You can’t remember.

“Looks good,” he says.

His eyes meet yours and you flinch. His irises are a blue so bold and deep that they threaten to swallow you up like the sea. And the way he stands. His posture. He’s intimidating without trying. Or maybe you are a bit of a wuss.

You press on your earbud, once more silencing the music. You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge.

You hesitate and face the elevator again. Tension roils at your back as you hear the glass tingle followed by the hiss of a cap popping free. You push your shoulders up and lift your kit, hanging on tightly to the hose of the vacuum.

He must deal with enough leers, he surely doesn’t need that from a cleaner. The elevator doors open and you step inside. You roll the vacuum into the corner and go to close the gate.

Bucky appears at the threshold as he pulls it across himself. The whole time, his gaze doesn’t leave you. He hits the keypad on his side and the lock clicks before the outer doors roll across and block him from sight. You stay there, frozen, even as the elevator jolts into motion.

Did you overstep? Miss a check on the list? You hope you didn’t mess this up already. You really hate starting all over again. You prefer to know what to expect than to have to keep guessing.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes #maid au #what a mess #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #captain america #avengers #au #drabble #series

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readychilledwine · 1 year ago

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Mine

Summary - Cassian always gets a little riled up when he gets to fight for your honor.

Warnings - Blood, smut, focus on reader and Cassian's differences physically, reader is thick because it felt right, oral (female receiving), Cassian going to pound town.

A/N - based on this post and our comments from @loneliestluvr I refuse to apologize for how quickly this became smut.

Being mated to the Lord of Bloodshed was never easy, especially as an illyrian female blessed to have found him before your wings were taken. “Sorry,” you whispered as he flinched. You had got to the cut on his eyebrow, wiping it down as gently as you could.

Cassian was covered in blood. A mix of his own and another male's who had not known you were claimed by the male sitting in front of you. “You okay?” He had his eyes shut as you took care of him, content under the feel of your soft hands.

“You're the one who ended up in a fight with 6 other males and walked away. I should be asking you that.” You gently reset and healed his nose, silently thanking the Mother for such a useful gift.

Everything about you two had been so perfectly planned. The skilled warrior. Loud, personable, quick on his feet. Then you, the talented healer. Intelligent, shy, soft spoken. You were balanced perfectly. A match truly made by the Gods. You continued wiping the blood from him, ensuring he would not have to change the water multiple times once you got him bathed and stepped away before offering him your hand.

It was another contrast between you two and Cassian's absolute favorite. Your soft manicured hands, his rough and calloused ones. He laced your fingers together, pretending to allow you to pull him up at he stood. “I'm fine, baby. You should see the other guys.” He smiled at his own joke, walking into the bathroom of the cabin. “Are you going to undress me too?”

“Absolutely.” You were graceful with buckle, each tie, gently pulling armor and fabric from his body until it sat on the vanity nearby. Habit took over as you folded it all, putting the clothing into baskets to be cleaned before turning back to the god in fae form behind you.

The moan Cassian released as he sunk into the warm water had your thighs clenching. You watched his head fall back as lavender scented steam came from the tub and as his shoulders fell in relaxation. “Can I wash your hair?” He groaned again at the thought, smiling as you sat behind him with the soap. “Need to show you my love and appreciation for protecting me.”

He gave a breathy laugh, shutting his eyes in bliss as you began massaging shampoo into his wavy locks. “I will always protect you, y/n. Always. You are mine.”

“I am,” he growled at your agreement, his need to possess you was high. Illyrians had always been more feral with their bonds, and you absolutely allowed him to enjoy the primal tendencies that came with it. “I will always be yours. In this life and the next.” You began rinsing his hair, ensuring every spec of blood and dirt was out before applying a deep conditioner.

“Lean forward so I can wash your back, Cassian.”

“I don't deserve you,” he was drifting off under your touch, enjoying the feeling of you kneading sore muscles as you lathered his scarred skin with a soft scented soap. “Could you get my wings?”

You leaned in, whispering in his ear. “I planned on getting them once I got you fully cleaned and the water changed.”

“Fuck that,” Cassian forced you over, pulling you in thin night gown and all before ripping it off of you. His lips were on yours and hungry. He was grabbing your hips, loving their plushy feel. “Want you now.”

“Cass, this water is disgusting.”

His head hit the tub with a thud. “Fine. Fine. It's fine.” He was, in fact, not fine. You could feel how hard he was. His length was pressing into your stomach. “I just need you. You know how I get when you take care of me.”

You were washing him again. Cleaning off his chest and face, scrubbing his arms. He was memorized by you by your body. He remembered learning about the Gods of old from Rhysand's mother, and you had to have been crafted by the goddess of love. It was another contrast. His rock-hard body, toned and cut from years of training. Your soft body, curves landing in all the right places, thighs so thick you genuinely worried when you sat on his face.

He lifted you with little effort when he knew he was clean, climbing out of the water with his lips attached to the point on your neck that drove you wild. “Done waiting,” he carried you to the bedroom, sucking that spot until he knew a deep purple mark would form.

He threw you down on the bed, not caring that it would soak the sheets and mattress as he watched your full breasts bounce. When he was like this, you knew you were in for a ride. Knew that headboard wouldn't be enough to keep you in place as he pounded into you over and over again, only content when he had ensured you were filled and would smell like him and sex for weeks. He was studying you like you were his prey, waiting to pounce at just the right time.

He found it as you shifted, laying down more on the pillows like the queen he knew you were. He did not bother kissing your lips again. Instead, it was him instantly pulling your legs over his shoulders and licking your already soaked core. Your hands shot to his hair, moans ripping through your throat. He was eager tonight. So damn eager.

“Cassian,” he hummed against you, looking up through hooded lust filled eyes. “Slow down.”

He shook his head, not even letting your clit out of his mouth as he did. “Baby, I'm going to cum if you don't go slower.” His brows shot up and a smirk formed. It spoke of every intention he had, you would not leave this bed, not without him carrying you.

Every flick of his tongue, every long drag, the soft kisses all had you melting further Into the mattress as your nerves came to life. Cassian was as calculated in bed as he was on a battlefield. Everything was precise, done with intention, and meant to fulfill his goal. His forearm went against your hips, locking you in place at his mercy.

He could feel every wave of pleasure from you shooting down that sacred and special bond. He could sense the moment you fell. Your fingers tightened on the sheets, your back arched, it was silence before the scream. Between your own pleasure, you could feel his pride leaking down the bond. Pride with how easily he could pull you apart with nothing more than his tongue. Pride over the way your body was so easily his.

He only pulled away when you began to whimper and push, but he was instantly crashing his lips on yours as he kicked off his pants. His forehead went to yours once you were both breathless. Those Hazel eyes you melted in the gaze of were feral and dark with desire. In one smooth motion with no warning, Cassian was inside of you with one single word, “Mine.”

There was no split second of calm before the storm, no moment to catch your breath after he took it from you. Cassian began to pound into you, hitting that perfect spot and making you see stars. Your nails dug into his chest, leaving small marks to join the littering scars and cuts from his earlier fight. “Mine,” the growl was deep, an ancient part of him almost begging for affirmation of the word.

“Yours,” you moaned out for him, back arching as your stomach tightened. “All yours.” Cassian's arm went across your back, hand roughly gripping your hips he could force you to move exactly how he wanted.

You could hardly breathe, mind lost to anything but Cassian. Your mate. Your everything. You could feel him down the bond, feel him getting closer with each squeeze and twitch of your walls. The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sound of his groans and you whispering and moaning his name like a prayer to some long forgotten God. “So fucking beautiful,” his free hand forced your head up, forcing you to watch as his cock slid in and out of your core, soaked in your essence. “Watch me fuck you. Watch me mark this pretty perfect pussy as mine.”

You couldn't help but to moan, feeling that edge approaching faster and faster with his. “Cassie.”

“Do it. Cum on my cock, baby.” He let you go limp below him, placing your head back on the pillows gently as he did. Wave after wave of need and pleasure washed over you, blinding your senses to anything but the feel of Cassian filling you as you Came around him. He fucked you through the high before finally finishing, not even bothering to pull out and opting to instead hold your hips so close to his you could not even tell where he began and you ended.

When he finally let you go, he barely caught himself before collapsing on top of you as his exhaustion hit him. You could help but place soft kissed along his face. His scarred brow and lip, his nose that you'd reset and healed so many times, his jaw. You finally sighed with one last lingering kiss directly on his full lips as he smiled. “That was faster than I hoped it would be.”

“Always is when you fuck me after fighting.”

“Always yours.”

He kissed your neck softly on the mark he made, whispering one last time. “Mine.”

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects

#acotar #acotar x reader #cassian acotar #cassian x you #cassian x reader #cassian x y/n #cassian fic #cassian smut #cassian of illyria #lord of bloodshed

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rene-spade · 1 year ago

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miss louisiana i | c. leclerc, a. saint mleux | chase landry

poly! | fem! reader x obsessive! exes! charles leclerc, alexandra saint mleux (+chase landry and f1 grid)

synopsis. your obsessive exes refuse to accept your new relationship with a man completely different from them. maybe they should move to louisiana? jk!. . . unless?

note. ok so reader is from louisiana and has cajun roots for context. chase landry is from swamp people 😭✌️ I loved that show when I was younger & I rewatched some recently and it reignited my crush on him sorry

WARNING(s); obsessive/possessive behavior, toxic/creepy exes (I make is as fluffy as I can tho trust), ooc Alex and Charles being a rich and out of touch, a spec of classism, stalking oops, (everyone Loves you)

miss.y/n📍belle river, la

liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, jacoblandry, carlossainz55, and 1,006,349 others

miss.y/n back where I belong ☀️🌷🐊🐝🐍🌿🐠

view comments

mariene.y/l/n be safe in the water my baby 🤗

miss.y/n yes maman 🤞😊 you know I’m protected

user oop who’s protecting you miss ma’am

user omgggg how did Charles n Alex fumble so baddd 😩😩🙏 I’ve needed y/n’s cajun french baddie ass since DAY ONE 🗣️

charles_leclerc so beautiful mon ange 😍 but that water is dark and might be dangerous. ta maman a raison!

see translation | your mom is right

user stopp didn’t y/n break things off with them???

user2 currently losing it my fav throuple might be back 💪🗣️

carlossainz55 hope you’re doing well mi dulce ❤️

alexandrasaintmleux yeah no this isn’t happening

user carlos sweetie delete this comment while you still have hands <3

user SHE’S BACK IN LOUISIANA RAHH

user2 how did I not know she was from the middle of nowhere 😭 what is pierre part??

user3 how didn’t you know!!! her dad literally used to hunt alligator before he died and her mom remarried and moved back to France . Her dad was cajun

user this might be a reach but y’all think she knows anybody from swamp people? Love that show 🤣🤣

liked by miss.y/n

♤ ♤ ♤

Alex’s leg bounced up and down nervously as her call went to voicemail for the 7th time in a row. She’d been calling your phone nonstop since hearing the news, anxious to know if it was true or not. It was always something that ate at her; her and Charles’ inability to relate to your childhood in Louisiana. They’d grown up among a higher class than you and in foreign countries. You would just giggle and wave off her concerns, insisting that even though they couldn’t understand your upbringing, that at least you could understand theirs.

“No answer.” She muttered, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. It was a habit she’d had as a child, one that you disapproved of and had trained out of her before you left them.

“She left us for a swamp man.” Charles pathetically finished Alex’s thought as they sat in his car, waiting to meet some other drivers and wags at the high-end restaurant Carlos chose.

“Don’t say it like that!” Alexandra turned her body towards the passenger window, “She didn’t leave us— not in that way! I told you she was homesick!”

Your father was a Cajun man who definitely took his culture to heart, doing a lot of hunting and fishing before he passed away suddenly when you were 12. Your mother was from France originally, and she remarried a rich Frenchman who’d ended up funding your modeling career after your success in pageantry. You moved straight to France at age 14 and found yourself in a completely different culture from how you grew up. You’d visited France before during summers with your mother, but it wasn’t home to you like Louisiana. You’d met Alexandra when the two of you were 19, and instantly bonded. Despite only really meeting briefly, it was love at first sight on Alex’s part and she supported you all the way to when you won Miss Universe after starting out Miss Louisiana.

When Charles had come along and had the same feelings that she did for you, it felt perfect, like everything had finally come together.

“With us is her home.” Charles replied, sucking his teeth.

“I can’t even—” Alex didn’t have to finish, the two had the same thought. They can’t even fathom the idea that you were with someone else.

Daniel was practically cackling in joy while Carlos at least tried to hide his amusement by covering his face. It was no secret that most of the f1 grid was praying for you to leave Charles/Alex so they could get a chance— but this wasn’t what they were expecting.

Bickering around the table ensued, only a few seconds before Alex was rolling her eyes with a groan and putting her face in her hands, “He doesn’t have any recent social media so I can’t even stalk him.”

“So we will just go there!”

“And what? Become swamp people?” Daniel was laughing so hard he was tearing up.

“Cha, that’s so ridiculous.” Alex mumbled.

“It is—!” Kika agreed suspiciously fast, “I just mean the split was recent, so maybe me and Pierre should visit her before you guys?” It’d only been a few months, but that had been enough to drive Charles and Alex a bit off the rails.

They’d only ever been apart from you for just over two days in the last year, up until you ghosted them. Well— it wasn’t technically ghosting when you left a note; a very brief letter in your familiar handwriting that told them you needed some space. They didn’t take it as a break up, although they did panic. Their numbers weren’t blocked, so they naturally took that as a good sign. This was probably because you wanted their attention since all their calls and messages were going through. The finality of it didn’t hit until it reached two weeks of no-contact from you and their photos were removed from your Instagram. The public noticed and so did the rest of the grid despite Alex and Charles’ now 3-month-long denial stage.

“le lieu s'appelle Pierre Part, yeah?” Pierre grinned and Charles sneered at him. (the place is called pierre part)

“They might have a point,” Daniel winced with a wide grin, “I think you’ll just look crazy if you show up. At least, one of us would just look like a friend who misses her, ya know?”

“None of you are visiting our girlfriend!” Alex frowned.

“Ex,” Carlos gently corrected into his fist with a cough before straightening up, “She jus’ is homesick maybe so give her some space and she will come back in no time.”

“I knew this would happen.” Alex slumped with her chin in her hand, “cet endroit est sa maison.” (that place is her home)

“You’ve never heard ‘if you love something, let it go’? If it’s meant to be, she’ll come back.” Daniel tried to reassure, but his face was almost a wince.

“We just wanted her close to us is all! We travel so much, we didn’t mean to take her away from her home—”

But Daniel gave them a look, knowing about their behavior with you. As in love with you as they are, Alex and Charles are intense about it. Endearing on one hand for awhile, but then the jealousy got worse and they were pretty delusional about their tendencies. He could understand it honestly— you were lovely. He imagined he’d be in the same state as Alex and Charles if you were his and you left him. Which is why he cut them so much slack, the rest of the table too.

“I don’t understand why she ran away like that!” Charles finished with a huff, running his fingers through his hair. He was starting to sweat. This felt like a cruel joke on your part— a mean way to get their attention.

“His ears are a little big.” Alex whispered, staring into her phone with a pout.

“et cela! regarde nos oreilles!” (and that! look at our ears!)

Pierre lost it at that; Charles pulling at his ears to make a point, “Maybe he’s just a nice guy, man!”

“We are nice!”

“Let me see.” Carlos walked around the table to see Alex’s phone.

She’d googled the name of your alleged new boyfriend— Chase Landry. He had starred on some Southern US reality show ‘Swamp People’; it mainly surrounded cajun alligator hunters in Louisiana. They had known you liked the show, but had never seen it themselves.

“Eh,” Carlos shrugged, “his ears aren’t that big. He is a little old for her though, no? 34?”

“Exactly! He is a pervert! I’m calling her again, actually.”

♤ ♤ ♤

miss.y/n 📍pierre part, la

liked by jacoblandry, carlossainz55, francisca.cgomes, danielricciardo, and 1,014,108 others

miss.y/n me and my dirty swamp man foreva 🤞💛🌷🦆

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user STOPPP SHE SAID THAT’S MY MAN N IMMA STICK BY HIMMMM

user2 stfu 😭✋ the fact that this man most likely has no idea that this is going on

user3 his brother liking her posts and filling him in

miss.y/n jokes on y’all Jacob doesn’t know what’s going on either

bellahadid beautiful lily faery and her dirty swamp bf <3

miss.y/n <3 literally

user BELLA⁉️

arthur_leclerc beautiful view of the water, ma sœur!

see translation | my sister

user THEY SENT Y/NS FAVORITE LECLERC BROTHER IN TO PLAY DAMAGE CONTROL

user2 not “my sister” 😭😭😭 leclercs let her go challenge

user y/n’s harem coming to her defense like the mighty morphin power rangers 😭😂🤣

this is part 1 of perhaps 3. I plan on making part 2 much longer and more writing than social media like this one, just for some balanceee

taglist; @alliwantisadonut @splaterparty0-0 @charizznorizz

Ren

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #dark! f1 #f1 grid x reader #obsessive f1 #charles leclerc x reader #poly f1 #f1 oc #obsessive charles leclerc #ex! charles leclerc #Charles leclerc fic #carlos sainz x reader #alex saint mleux x reader #alexandra saint mleux #f1 reverse harem #swamp people x reader #chase landry x reader

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