#mints hints 2 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bubblyi3 · 11 days ago

Text

Residuals PART 2 | JJK

"when trust is the currency, betrayal is the gamble."

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre: childhood best friends, lovers to enemies to strangers, fratboy!jungkook, heartbreak, uni!au

word count: 13.4k

content warning: angst, mild smut, mild languages

summary: jungkook used to be your everything. your best friend, your first love. but you both grew up and grew apart. he’s now the campus heartbreaker, a cocky frat boy who runs with the worst crowd. when a cruel dare asks him to destroy you just for the fun of it. everything shatters. trust. hearts. and maybe the chance to ever put it back together.

author's note: the anticipation for the next part is so real 😭🔥 i’m seriously blown away by all your feedback and opinions. i read every single one and love them so much 💌🫶🏼 the taglist is still open for a little while longer, so if you want to be added, now’s your chance before i close it! 📝⏳ hope you enjoy this update, and i’m honestly so curious to hear what you think! 👀💭💗

about part 3… i’m planning to work on it a little later, but i’m not exactly sure when since i’ll be pretty busy in the next few days. and plus i want a little writing break lol. anyway, happy reading! so again please feel free to share your thoughts or what you’d like to see happen. though, i do have it mostly planned already 👀

PROLOGUE || PART 1

🏷️ taglist: @whoa-jo / @username23345 / @kelsyx33 / @toosweetforyall / @junniesoleilkth / @literallyjimin / @jeeykey / @stars4kooo / @delulutofr / @smoljimjim / @elithenium / @mysoulherofriend / @ukndtwme / @somehowukook / @songbyeonkim / @miakay98 / @sundains / @bjoriis / @kooever / @dragonflygurl4 / @labbbaaa / @cherricherryy / @jeongguks-posts / @rexana19 / @ppeachyttae / @ssbb-22

The soft rustle of your dress echoed in your bedroom as you smoothed it down, your heart fluttering with nervous excitement. The mint green shimmered softly in the light, delicate beading catching the golden hour like morning dew. The dress hugged your figure gently, its cowl neckline and flowing ruffled hem giving you the look of something out of a vintage daydream.

A sheer sash tied at your shoulder swayed lightly as you moved. A soft pink shimmer clung to your eyelids, paired with champagne highlighter dusted across your cheekbones and hint of moss green in the crease of your eyes. Your lip gloss, rosy and light. You were almost ready. Your heels sat neatly by your bed, and you carefully clipped on your earrings, taking one last look at yourself in the mirror. Tonight, you didn't just feel beautiful. You felt like you belonged in a fairytale.

Your phone buzzed. A message from your date. Your boyfriend.

[Yeonjun]: Be there in 15 minutes. Can't wait to see you :)

You smiled, though your stomach flipped in a way that felt more anxious that excited. It was prom. It was supposed to feel like magic. Perfect. Like in the movies.

Next door, Jungkook stood in front of his mirror, pulling on his black suit, with a crisp white pocket, and slim black tie. He looked sharp, older somehow. Mature in a way that would've made you blink if you thought about it for too long. His mom had popped her head into the hallway and gasped.

"You look so grown up, Jungkook!"

He chuckled as he adjusted his tie. "It's just prom."

"And I'm only sixteen, Mom. Not grown yet."

Still, something flickered behind his eyes as he picked up the corsage for Sohee. The girl who had caught his attention during PE, who giggled at his jokes and flipped her hair just enough to make his ears turn pink.

You didn’t see him leave, but you heard the soft slam of a car door, and when you peeked out your window. There he was… serious, collected, driving off with a sharpness that made your chest feel tight.

About five minutes had quietly slipped by. You’d gone over everything twice. Your phone tucked securely in your clutch, heels slipped on with practiced ease. One last glance in the mirror as you dabbed a fresh coat of gloss onto your lips, a small exhale steadying your nerves. Smoothing down the fabric of your outfit.

Then came the sound. Sharp and unmistakable, it was the doorbell chimed from downstairs, slicing through the silence like a signal that the night was finally beginning. You made your way downstairs, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet once you've hit the floorboard.

Yeonjun stood at the entrance, his tux well-fitted and a bouquet in hand that perfectly matched your dress. Your parents welcomed him with warm smiles and watchful eyes. There were polite exchanges, awkward laughs, and a few snaps of the two of you posing at the foot of the stairs. You pinned the boutonniere to his suit, your fingers brushing his chest, and he gently fastened the corsage around your wrist.

He looked at you. “You look beautiful.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

It was… sweet. Not magical, but nice.

The drive to the venue passed in a blur. Streetlights flickering in the windows like fireflies, the buzz of the night ahead humming beneath your skin.

Prom was beautiful.

The gymnasium had been transformed with fairy lights strung across the ceiling, casting a soft golden glow. Music pulsed through the air, bass vibrating under your heels. Waiters in black and white attire circled with trays of finger food, and girls in shimmering dresses laughed beneath the glitter of a mirrored disco ball.

And then, you spotted them.

Kelsy and Linda, your two friends that you managed to make at the start of high school, already sitting at a round table near the back, waving excitedly when they saw you. Kelsy practically jumped up and hurried over in a cloud of lilac tulle, with Linda following closely behind, her champagne-colored gown hugging her like it was made for her.

“Oh my god, you look stunning!” Kelsy said, grabbing your hands as if she hadn’t just seen you yesterday.

“Seriously,” Linda added, eyes wide. “You’re glowing. Like you walked out of a magazine.”

You laughed, hugging them both. “You two are unreal. I was just thinking the same thing.”

Their dates trailed behind them. Kelsy's was Mark, your go-to group project MVP, awkward in a cute way. Linda had brought Kyungsoo, who gave you a polite nod and a compliment about your earrings.

Then Yeonjun stepped beside you and draped an arm around your shoulder, a bit stiff, his smile too practiced. “Hey.”

They greeted him politely, shared quick small talk, and then ushered you all back to the table for a few candid photos. For a while, it felt okay. Comfortable.

But something didn’t sit right. Yeonjun wasn’t quite present. His hand slipped from yours during conversations. He laughed more with the boys from the next table than he did with you. Scrolling his phone under the table. Texting.

You felt your eyes wander, scanning the room, drawn to something. Or someone.

And there he was.

Sitting across the venue at a table decorated with gold accents, next to Sohee in a flowy white dress that made her look angelic. Her hand was on his arm as she leaned in to whisper something. He smiled, laughed but it didn’t reach his eyes. Jungkook gradually looked up and saw you.

You both froze for a breath. He flashes a small, quiet, real kind of smile. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, motioning you over like you were still those two kids from next door, still sneaking out in the late afternoon to race bikes and fight over which Marvel movie was best.

You made a move.

But Yeonjun caught your wrist gently. “Hey, my friends are over there. They got us a table.”

You hesitated for a second.

Then you gave Jungkook the softest smile and nodded at Yeonjun. “Sure. Let’s go.”

The rest of the night unraveled like a slow unraveling thread.

You danced once, maybe twice with Yeonjun. The second time he barely looked at you. His hands weren’t on your waist like they used to be. His smile, when it came, was tired.

You went to grab a drink. He didn’t come with you.

And then, under the warm buzz of fairy lights and pop music, it happened.

Yeonjun pulled you aside near the edge of the dance floor, his voice casual like this wasn’t about to wreck your night.

“Look,” he said, hands in his pockets. “I think we should just be friends after tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We’re still so young,” he went on, eyes darting around. “And I know you want something serious. But you’re… kind of clingy. I just… don’t feel it anymore.”

It wasn’t loud. No shouting. No tears on his end.

Just a quiet, casual betrayal wrapped in cologne and a neatly tied tie.

You stood frozen. Your mouth parted, your heart thudding. The music continued. Laughter, the sound of heels clicking against the polished floor, camera shutters snapping memories.

You turned before the tears could fall. Instinctively scanning the room and finding him.

Jungkook was already looking at you. His expression changed instantly. Concern replacing laughter, Sohee beside him chatting with her friends, unaware.

And in that moment, even across a crowded room, it was like he knew.

You were hurting.

And the boy who once raced you down the hill on bikes and always let you win… wouldn’t let you fall now.

You slipped past the dance floor, through the crowd of glittering gowns and tailored suits, your vision blurring. The hallway outside was dimly lit and quiet. Just the soft thud of bass vibrating through the walls and the occasional distant laugh echoing from behind the closed gym doors.

You leaned against the wall, pulling in shaky breaths, willing yourself not to cry. Not here. Not in heels and highlighter and all this effort.

But the lump in your throat wouldn’t move.

And then... footsteps.

You didn’t look up at first. Not until you heard his voice.

“Hey…”

He stood there, just a few steps away, his dress shirt slightly unbuttoned now, hair a little messier than earlier, like he’d run his fingers through it on the way out.

You straightened a little. “Did you follow me?”

His lips curved into a soft smile. “Kelsy told me to.”

Of course she did. She always loved him. Saw him as more than just your bestfriend. Even if you tried not to.

He stepped closer, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

You almost laughed, but it caught in your throat. “Do I look okay?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I thought maybe… I could change that.”

Your brows lifted. “By doing what? Giving me a lecture? A joke?”

He smiled again, a little sheepish this time. “No. By dancing with you.”

You blinked. “Jungkook-”

“I already asked Sohee,” he added, looking away for a second. “Told her I wanted... needed to check on you. Asked if she was okay with me dancing with you.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“She was confused,” he admitted, a little breathless, “but I didn’t wait for her answer.”

You let out a small breath. “What if she’s mad?”

He shrugged, stepping even closer. “Then she’s mad. But I’m not going back in there if you’re out here crying.”

You stared at him. At this boy you’d known since you were practically in diapers. The boy who used to braid your friendship bracelets wrong and race you up the hill just to lose on purpose. The boy who now stood in a black suit under low hallway lights, asking you to dance like it meant something.

And it did.

He held out his hand.

You hesitated only a second and then placed yours in his.

He led you back in.

And when the doors opened again, the lights felt warmer. The noise dulled to a hum. The world stopped spinning.

At first, you thought Jungkook was leading you straight to the dance floor. But instead, he veered slightly. Eyes sharp, posture tense. You followed his gaze.

Yeonjun.

Still near the drinks table, laughing like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just shattered your night and walked away without a care. He was surrounded by his friends, sipping from his cup with that same careless grin.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

"Yeonjun," he said, voice low and cool. Like a storm on the verge of breaking.

Yeonjun looked up, squinting slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe Jungkook was talking to him. “Uh… hey?”

But Jungkook didn’t waste time.

“You’re a real piece of work.”

Yeonjun raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You dumped her. On prom night,” Jungkook said, his jaw clenching. “Didn’t even have the decency to wait until the end?”

Yeonjun scoffed. “Relax. It was mutual.”

Jungkook took a step closer, voice dipping lower, colder. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t ditch someone who gave you her time, her trust... and leave her to cry alone in a hallway like she didn’t matter.”

Yeonjun blinked, caught off guard. “This really isn’t your business-”

“It is when it’s her,” Jungkook snapped. His tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was laced with something heavier. Protective. Dangerous.

He leaned in close, his next words meant for Yeonjun alone. “Make her cry again… and I’ll knock you out. I won't think twice about it."

Yeonjun’s mouth parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. Just a nervous swallow and the flush draining from his face.

And then Jungkook turned.

You were there, a few steps behind. Frozen. Wide-eyed. You couldn’t hear what exactly he had said. Only that it had left Yeonjun pale and speechless.

But somehow, you didn’t care. Yeonjun wasn’t yours anymore.

Jungkook reached for your hand again, slipping his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then, without another word, he finally led you to the dance floor.

The slow song wrapped around the two of you like a lullaby. You swayed gently in his arms, your cheek brushing the soft fabric of his suit jacket, heart settling into a rhythm that finally made sense. Every now and then, Jungkook would look down at you. Not saying anything, just being there, and it was enough.

You could’ve stayed like that all night.

But the next track kicked in and it was not another slow song.

Suddenly, synths pulsed through the speakers, that dreamy electronic beat rising like a wave through the ballroom. You recognized it instantly. It was “Walking on a Dream” by Empire of the Sun. One of your old favorites. You and Jungkook used to blast it riding your bikes through the suburbs when the streetlights just started flickering on.

Your head popped up, and you glanced at him.

His brows raised in recognition, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “No way.”

You laughed. “They actually played it.”

He pulled back just enough to grab both your hands and, with no warning at all, spun you.

You stumbled a little in your heels but laughed so hard you barely cared. The dreamy beat picked up, and suddenly the dance floor, which had thinned out for the slow song, started coming back to life. Couples broke apart, laughing, moving, jumping, spinning.

Jungkook didn’t let go of your hand once.

“Come on, show me those moves from eighth grade!” he teased, raising an eyebrow.

You gasped, smacking his arm. “You promised to never bring that up!”

“Nope,” he laughed. “This is payback for when you made me do the dougie in front of your parents."

“Oh, that again-” You burst out laughing.

Then the chorus hit, and you both jumped in. Wild, messy, carefree. He twirled you again, and you threw your hands up, hair flying, dress swaying, heart light.

The stares from earlier faded into the background. You didn’t care who saw. You didn’t care who whispered. In that moment, it was just you and Jungkook, dancing like you were twelve again, like nothing had ever changed.

Sohee was still standing at the edge of the floor with her friends, watching. And maybe part of you noticed that. Maybe part of you even enjoyed it, not to be cruel, but because for once, the roles were reversed.

Jungkook caught your eye and leaned in, slightly breathless, his hair falling over his forehead. “You look like you're actually having fun again.”

You nodded, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “Because I am.”

He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, holding your gaze just a second longer than necessary.

And under the flashing lights, with that nostalgic beat filling the air, you suddenly realized something. That this was the moment you'd remember.

Not Yeonjun. Not the break up.

But this. The dancing, the laughter and him.

The chorus of the song pulsed around you, neon lights flickering across the dance floor like stars crashing into earth. Jungkook suit jacket was no longer on. You laughed as you spun around, letting your hair fly loose, your dress twirling at your knees. For the first time that night, you felt weightless.

Free.

You didn’t notice Jungkook had stopped dancing until you turned back toward him.

He wasn’t moving. Just standing there, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Like the chaos, the music, the people. None of it existed anymore.

His eyes softened, lips parted just slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

You tilted your head. “What?” you asked, breathless from dancing.

He didn’t respond. Just took one step closer.

Then another.

And then before you could even process it. His hand slipped gently behind your neck, and he leaned in.

His lips met yours.

Soft at first. Like a question.

You froze for a heartbeat, not out of fear or confusion, but out of everything. Shock. Wonder. Relief. And then, without thinking, you melted into it. Into him.

The music faded beneath the roar of your pulse.

It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Years of knowing each other, of moments unspoken, of stolen glances and silent loyalty. It all collided in that one kiss.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm, his voice barely audible above the beat of the song still playing.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered.

You blinked up at him, lips still tingling, heart still racing. You didn’t know what to say, not right away. But your silence didn’t scare him. He just smiled, like he didn’t need an answer.

Jungkook tasted like soda. Lemon, to be exact. Sharp and sweet, like summer and surprises. It lingered on your lips a little longer. It felt dizzying, addictive, like something you shouldn’t want but craved anyway. And maybe part of you hated that he still technically came to prom with Sohee. That she'd been the one on his arm when he walked in. That her corsage was still fastened neatly at her wrist while you danced with the boy she was supposed to be with.

But the way Jungkook looked at you like nothing else existed… it made the edges of that ache soften. Just a little.

Still, the tension lingered, refusing to fade even as the music died down and the lights brightened. By the end of the night, after hours of mingling, laughing with friends, dancing under dim lights, and picking at plates of food. Jungkook had somehow made your prom night feel memorable, even magical in moments.

As the crowd slowly thinned, classmates trickled out in small groups, and teachers stood in clusters, exchanging quiet conversation by the doors. Sohee hovered near the exit with her arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say much, but the tightness in her jaw said enough.

“I can take you both home,” Jungkook had offered, his voice casual, like nothing had shifted.

Sohee’s eyes snapped to you, then back to him. “It’s fine. I already called my dad,” she said quickly, voice a little too clipped. “He’s almost here.”

“You sure?” Jungkook asked, brows slightly knit.

“I’m sure,” she replied, gaze cutting in your direction. “Besides… you two seem busy.”

Neither of you responded to that.

Sohee walked off without another word, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. The car ride that could’ve been a triangle never happened. Instead, it was just you and Jungkook, the night air heavy with everything unspoken.

Even though your houses were right next to each other, he still pulled into your driveway. The engine idled for a moment before he turned it off. He didn’t say anything at first. Just got out and rounded the car to open your door.

You stepped out slowly, the hem of your dress grazing the ground. His jacket, which he had put on you earlier, still draped over your shoulders.

He walked you to your front door, not rushing, not speaking. Just… being there.

And then, right as you reached the steps, he finally asked, “You okay?”

You turned to look at him, heart full and aching all at once.

A soft smile curved your lips. “I am now.”

Jungkook fell silent for a beat, his gaze shifting to the side as he slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I didn’t like him anyway.”

You raised a brow, momentarily thrown. “You mean… Yeonjun?”

He let out a quiet scoff, tongue clicking in annoyance as he shook his head. “Yeah. The guy’s a total ass. I overheard him talking with his boys once. Saying the only reason he got with you was because he felt sorry for you.”

Your breath caught. “Seriously?” A beat passed. “Wow… he really is an ass.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a small smile. It was soft, but there was something protective beneath it. His eyes flicked over to you, lingering. “You looked really pretty tonight. The dress. Your hair. Everything.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest. “Thanks. I’ve got your mum to thank for that. She has an eye for this stuff. She helped me pick out the best one.”

His smile widened, just slightly. “Well… she was right.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, Jeon.”

A silence settled again, comfortable this time.

Your eyes flicked toward the house next door, before returning to his.

"You should probably head home," you said gently, voice low. "It's late."

He nodded slowly, reluctantly. "Yeah... suppose I should."

You slipped off his jacket, handing it back as you took a small step back, arms folding in front of you. A faint smile tugged at your lips. "Goodnight, Kook.'"

He lingered for a second longer, like he wasn’t quite ready to cross the few steps that would take him back to his door. Then suddenly, without warning, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.

Your breath caught.

His embrace was warm, secure, a little too long to be casual. He didn’t say anything. Just held you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like letting go too soon might break something in him.

And maybe, in you too.

You stood frozen for a moment before letting yourself relax into him, your hands finding his back. The fabric of his dress shirt was soft beneath your fingertips, but it was the heartbeat you felt against your own that made your throat tighten.

He finally pulled away, slowly, almost reluctantly.

Neither of you mentioned the kiss from earlier. You didn’t need to.

Because the real moment wasn’t the kiss.

Not the dance.

Not even the jealousy.

It was this.

Jungkook, just a few steps from home, still choosing to stay for a little longer.

Still choosing you... even in silence.

Your eyes blink open slowly, the weight of half-slept dreams still clinging to your lashes. For a second, you don't know where you are. Your mind pulling from fragments of a dream that felt real only moments ago.

You weren't sixteen anymore, at prom, twirling under fairy lights, laughter ringing in your ears as Jungkook spun you around like you were the only girl in the world. No soft music, no warm hands. You weren't even in that familiar memory anymore. Instead, your ceiling stares blankly back at you, the soft hum of a Sunday morning filtering in through your cracked window.

The smell of dew and cut grass drifts in as light creeps across the floor of your room. The air feels slow, a little heavy. You let out a small sigh, rubbing your eyes. You don't even remember what you were supposed to be doing today. All you know is that last night, you stayed up far too late. Pouring yourself into dense business readings, getting nowhere with that damn case study report you had to work on.

And then there was Jungkook.

You stared at his name glowing on your phone screen, feeling a strange distance between you. His message sat there unread, unopened, just as he deserved. Yet, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering back to it. Back to him. After all, wasn’t this what you wanted? To have him back in your life? To have your best friend back?

You throw the covers off, the sheets twisted and clinging to your legs like the thoughts you’ve been trying so hard to outrun. It's almost pathetic. How even the air in your room feels like it carries traces of him. Like he still lingers, even when he shouldn’t.

You hate it.

That somehow, despite everything, Jungkook thinks a single message. Probably crafted with zero effort is enough to worm his way back into your day. Your mind. Your heart.

Not after what he had done.

Not after he let his friends talk about you like you were disposable. A joke. Right there, in front of him, and he didn’t flinch. He let their words hang in the air like it wasn’t his job to shut it down. Like he wasn’t supposed to be the one to protect you.

He ignored you. Brushed you off. Dismissed you when it was convenient for him.

And God, you try not to think about your twenty-first birthday. The way the day came and went, and there was no text. No call. No surprises. Just silence from the one person who was supposed to know what that milestone meant to you. Who was supposed to be there.

Especially after you showed up for his.

Even when it wasn’t your kind of scene. Chaotic, wild, too many strangers crammed into a space pulsing with loud music and strobe lights. The kind of party that felt like it had been thrown for social media rather than for connection. Drinks being poured like water, shots passed around like candy, and girls. There were girls everywhere, clinging to him, laughing a little too loudly at everything he said. Half the people there probably didn’t even know Jungkook, not really. Just heard that he was throwing a rager and decided to show up.

But you? You showed up for him.

And he didn’t even expect you to.

You can still remember how his expression changed the moment you stepped through that door into the frat house. There was a flicker of surprise. Like a part of him had convinced himself you’d finally walked away for good. Maybe, deep down, he was hoping you wouldn’t show up at all, just so he could tell himself you were the one who left first.

But you did come. Because it was tradition. Because for as long as you can remember, you and Jungkook never missed each other's birthdays. It was just an unspoken rule. A thread that tied your childhood to your present, something steady, even when everything else was falling apart.

You even got him a gift, not some small, last-minute thing, but the wireless headphones he’d once casually mentioned in passing. The latest model. Beneath his passion for film and all that, you knew Jungkook loved music, and lately, he’d been getting into gaming and streaming too. That was another reason you’d chosen those headphones.

He hadn’t expected it. You saw it, the brief, flickering shadow of something like guilt in his eyes as he unwrapped the gift, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness.

And still, somehow, when it was your turn, he didn’t even show up.

Even after you had sent him a gentle reminder the night before the actual day. A reminder of how excited you were to celebrate your twenty-first with him. You had booked at the new diner, the one with that Korean BBQ vibe you knew he’d love.

You tried to convince yourself you weren’t bothered by his absence, even as your friends kept reassuring you he’d show up.

Kelsey, was the first to notice something was off. She gave you a small, uneasy smile. “I know it’s not like him to miss something this big.”

Linda nodded beside her, frowning. “Yeah… and honestly, we’re starting to believe you. This whole ‘new Jungkook’ vibe. You might be right. He’s not the same anymore.”

Kelsey reached out to squeeze your hand. “But hey, this is your night. We’ll make sure it’s still a good one, no matter what.”

From there you blew out your candles and spent the night laughing through bowling and karaoke with your uni friends and your old high school duo. The ones who actually showed up, who actually cared.

It was real. It was alive.

And still, he didn’t.

So no, he doesn’t get to act like a message means anything. Like that one text wipes away the silence, the absence, the times you were left hanging. It doesn’t. Not even close.

Without thinking, your eyes flicker toward the bouquet of crocheted tulips sitting on your desk. Soft, pastel coloured and handmade. The ones Jungkook brought you yesterday at the weekend market.

It wasn’t even the tulips themselves. It was the nerve. The way he acted like those stitched flowers could somehow cover over everything he’s done. Like yarn and effort could could bridge the growing distance, erase the quiet moments where you felt him slipping further away.

A flare of irritation hits your chest. Sharp and fast. You scoop the bouquet off your desk with one hand and march out of your room, heavy steps on the hardwood floor.

You’re fully ready to toss the whole thing in the bin.

But you freeze mid-step at the bottom of the stairs.

In the lounge, your parents sit with mugs in hand, already dressed for the day. Your mum’s hair is loosely braided, soft strands escaping here and there, while your dad scrolls through the news on his tablet. Both look up the moment they notice you.

Your mum pauses mid-sip, blinking in confusion as you stand there like a half-dressed storm cloud, hair a bit messy from sleep, in just your oversized tee and shorts… clutching a bouquet of crocheted tulips like it’s the smoking gun in a crime scene.

To them, you probably looked unhinged. Or sleepwalking. Or both.

“Morning, Y/n,” your mum says slowly, cautiously.

“Morning,” your dad echoes, though there’s already amusement in his voice, like he knows this is about to be something.

Their eyes both land on the tulips.

Your mum leans slightly forward. “What are you doing with those?”

You blink.

Your mind blanks.

And then, like a reflex, you lie.

“They’re for you!” you blurt, voice a little too chipper, a little too high.

Your mum’s face scrunches, confused. “Wait... aren’t those from Jungkook?”

You force a laugh. “Yeah… I mean, yes. But I totally forgot I meant to give them to you instead. Thought you’d like them better. You know… handmade… tulips…”

She raises an eyebrow.

And then, just to dig the hole deeper, you add, “Also, I’ve, um… recently developed an allergy to acrylic.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you want to sink through the floor.

Your dad looks up from his mug, eyes wide. “You what?”

“Since when?” your mum chimes in, clearly caught off guard.

“Acrylic yarns,” you say, keeping a straight face, too far gone to backtrack now. “Apparently, I picked it up during uni.”

A heavy silence hangs between you all.

Your dad clears his throat, setting down his mug with a soft clink. “Well… I guess you should throw that out then."

Your mum shakes her head. "No! I'll keep it. It's from Jungkook. After all, I wouldn’t want it to go to waste."

You let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Fine, but just… keep it at a good distance from me,” you say, forcing a half-smile. “I don’t want to end up sneezing all over the place.”

Your mum grins, clearly pleased with the compromise. “Deal. I’ll treasure it. For both of us.”

Your dad chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Only you would come up with an allergy to yarns.”

You laugh along, the tension easing as the moment shifts from awkward to warm, even though the truth behind your excuse isn’t quite so simple.

Holding out the tulips awkwardly, your mum takes them gently. “Well, thank you, I guess,” she says with a soft smile.

You nod and turn on your heel before they can ask any more questions.

But as you walk back toward the kitchen. Barefoot, flustered, and still wrestling with yourself, you feel a sharp twist in your chest.

Because no matter how ridiculous it all seems, no matter how much you tell yourself those tulips mean nothing now, the truth remains. He still got to you. He found a way to crawl under your skin. And here you are, cleaning up the mess of feelings he left behind.

And it sucks.

But maybe that’s proof. Proof that you’re still learning how to let go.

And as you told that little lie about being allergic to acrylic yarns, next door, Jungkook is just waking up.

He groans, arm thrown over his eyes. His room is dim, curtain still drawn, but he can see the faint light sneaking through the edges. He doesn’t check his phone immediately. He already knows.

You still didn’t reply.

Last night, he had stayed up longer than he needed to. Pretending to focus on his film assignment while watching your bedroom light from his window. Just waiting. Just hoping. For something.

He sits up, rubbing his face, a bitter taste in his mouth. Not from sleep, but from regret. Maybe he pushed too far this time. Maybe you finally had enough. Fuck no. I can't back out yet.

Eventually, he drags himself out of bed, goes through the motions. Shower, brush teeth, throw on something decent. Still, your silence clings to him like static.

Downstairs, he’s greeted by the scent of breakfast. Toast and eggs, maybe pancakes if his dad got ambitious. His parents are chatting in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning, son,” his dad says. “Plans today?”

“Not really. Was gonna go out, take a stroll somewhere."

His mom looks over her shoulder. “Why don’t you and Y/n, go visit Halmoni Boksoon today? She’d love to see you both. It’s been too long.”

Jungkook pauses, heart tugging a little. Halmoni Boksoon.

He forgot about her. About the summer days you both spent there, how she’d spoil you with lemonade and stories while your parents worked overtime. The garden swings, her laugh, her warm hugs.

He feels a pang of guilt. Then warmth.

“Yeah,” he says, softer. “That might be nice. I’ll ask Y/n."

He pulls his phone out again, thumb hovering over the same thread. The message you didn’t reply to.

His mum glances up. “Why are you texting her? Just walk over. She’s right next door.”

He blinks, like it’s only just occurred to him. “Oh… right.”

He stuffs his phone into his pocket. Maybe he can fix things in person. Maybe he’ll say something you can actually believe this time.

But as he’s heading toward the door, a part of him forgets something. Something important.

The bet.

The dare.

The reason he had even sent you a text in the first place.

And what he doesn't know is that across the fence, you’re done letting him play tug-of-war with your heart. Because today isn’t about Jungkook.

It’s about you.

... so you thought.

You had freshened up since the whole crochet fiasco, hair loosely done, makeup light but enough to make you feel awake, present. Your hoodie was zipped halfway, and your sneakers sat by the door, ready to slip on. You still hadn’t fully decided on where the day would take you. Maybe a café nearby, maybe a walk down by the old park trail. Or maybe, if your parents were feeling generous, you’d ask to borrow the car. Nothing serious. Just a scenic drive with music on and the windows cracked open to let the breeze carry everything away.

In the meantime, you sat with your parents in the lounge again, the mood light. Your dad was telling one of his infamous stories from his early work days. About a photocopier jam that turned into a full on evacuation drill. On the other hand, your mum couldn’t stop laughing, her head leaning against the couch as she wiped a tear from her eye. You chuckled too, genuinely, grateful for the stillness of the moment.

It felt warm. Safe.

Normal.

Until it didn’t.

A knock echoed from the front door.

Not loud, but purposeful.

Your dad paused his story mid-sentence, looking toward the hallway. You were closest, so you stood up and walked over. Assuming it might be Ms. Jeon... or the postman.

You didn’t even hesitate as you turned the handle and opened the door.

But your breath caught in your throat the moment you saw him.

Piercings, tattoos. His hoodie was thrown on carelessly over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up, revealing the ink that curled around his arm. But it was his eyes that did it. Those familiar doe eyes. Wide, unreadable, with the kind of softness that used to make you crumble. The kind that still somehow made you falter, even now, when you didn’t want them to.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should smile. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

You were frozen, hand still on the doorframe.

He spoke first.

“Hey.”

Simple. Quiet. Weighted.

Your mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. The air felt heavier with him standing there. Like he brought all the weight of your shared history with him.

“Hi,” you said, voice low. Guarded.

He glanced past you into the house, then back at you. “I didn’t mean to just show up, but… I figured I’d come see if you wanted to go visit Halmoni Boksoon. Like old times.”

Like old times.

He really had the nerve.

You almost laughed.

“Now’s not a good time,” you said calmly, trying to step out slightly, subtly blocking his view from the inside of your house. As if you were hiding something, even though he's been inside so many times before.

He nodded slowly, chewing on his bottom lip the way he always did when he was trying not to say too much, too soon. “Right. I figured. Since you didn't respond to my text.”

Before you could say anything else. Before you could tell him to go away or shut the door on him. Your mum's voice floated in from the lounge, light and curious.

“Is that Jungkook?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, silently cursing how easily his voice carried.

That one line from her was all he needed. Permission. He stepped fully into the doorway, past the invisible line you hadn’t realized you were drawing. And just like that, he was inside.

“Morning!" he called out, all fake cheer and sunshine. You rolled your eyes as he brushed past you. His scent... faint cologne and fabric softener, clinging in the air between you.

“Morning, Dad,” Jungkook added with a polite nod. Just like he always had since you were kids.

Your father looked up from his tablet, a warm smile tugging at his face, the kind that deepened the lines near his eyes. From the couch, your mum grinned. “Can you ask your mother if she’s still coming with me to bingo night?”

Jungkook chuckled as he made himself comfortable at the edge of the armchair near your dad. “Are you kidding? You know she lives for bingo night. She’ll be there with her ‘lucky lipstick’ and two daubers.”

That made your mum laugh. A real, warm sound that pulled at something nostalgic in you, the kind that made you feel like a kid again.

And as time went on, conversation flowed easily around the room, like Jungkook hadn’t just ambushed you. Like his presence wasn’t a sore spot.

“So,” your dad chimed in with a knowing grin, “you get bored of all that film study already, Jungkook? Or did you come over because you’re just bored and missing Y/n?”

Jungkook didn’t skip a beat. He turned to glance at you with a soft smile, but then his gaze landed on something else.

The crocheted tulips. Sitting on the dining table at the back. Your mum must've had place them there after your whole thing with acrylic yarn. She had noted to herself to take it up to the room later on.

His smile faltered for half a second. You watched the recognition click in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly.

“Oh,” he said, as if everything was starting to click. “Glad you like the tulips, by the way. Figured you’d have them up in your room.”

Your throat tightened, but before you could offer any sort of retort, your mum jumped in, completely unaware of the emotional minefield she was stepping into.

“She loved them so much,” she said, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Though apparently, she’s suddenly allergic to acrylic yarn now.”

You froze.

Jungkook blinked, clearly confused at first.

Then it hit him.

That was your excuse? How could you possibly be allergic to acrylic yarn? when just yesterday you seemed perfectly fine with it?

His brows lifted slightly. He didn’t say anything right away, but the way his lips curved. Tight and unsure, told you everything. He knew it was a lie. And now he knew what it meant.

She really does hate me.

But he didn’t let it show in front of your parents. Instead, he cleared his throat and kept playing the part.

“Well,” he said lightly, “guess I’ll remember to get silk next time.”

Your heart gave a bitter twist. Next time? Like you’d ever let there be a next time.

Then he turned back toward your parents, shifting the conversation before the moment could hang too long in the air.

“Actually, I came by because Mum had an idea. Thought maybe Y/n and I could go visit Halmoni Boksoon. It’s been a while since we’ve seen her... and I think it’d make her really happy.”

Your dad nodded immediately. “That’s a great idea.”

“She’d love that,” your mum added, eyes turning toward you with something unreadable behind them. “You two always used to spend time with her. I’m sure she misses you both.”

Your stomach twisted. Not because you didn’t want to see Halmoni. You loved her. You missed her. The woman practically helped raise you. Her house smelled like jasmine tea and honey, and her hugs always lasted long enough to warm the coldest days.

But going with Jungkook?

Absolutely not.

“Maybe I’ll go tomorrow,” you said quickly. “Give her a call, see what works. You can go today.”

Your mum tilted her head, frowning a little. “Why not today? You’re not too busy, are you?”

It was a fair question, but a loaded one.

Because this hesitation wasn’t like you. You’d always been eager to hang out with Jungkook. Always chasing him, always defending him, always caring for him.

So this shift? She noticed. And you knew it.

But before you could respond, Jungkook stood up and stepped toward you casually, his arm draping around your shoulders like it was second nature.

Your body went stiff under his touch.

He leaned in, cheek brushing yours, and smiled. Big, fake and charming.

“Come on,” he said playfully. “It’ll be fun. Like the old days, remember? We used to eat all her rice cakes and watch TV until we knocked out on her couch.”

You stared ahead, teeth clenched behind a forced smile.

Like the old days.

The thing about the old days? You weren’t this angry back then. You weren’t this heartbroken, this bruised, this unsure of who Jungkook really was.

And now, here he was. Still trying to stay close, to stay needed, even if he didn’t deserve it anymore.

Just from this morning and how you'd made an unspoken plan. Right from the moment the idea was planted in the room. Avoid Jungkook as much as possible during this semester break. You needed space to untangle your thoughts, to find yourself without the constant pull of his complicated presence.

But here you were now, sitting behind the wheel of your mum’s car, the leather worn but familiar beneath your fingers, and Jungkook settled in the passenger seat. A shift from the usual. You'd offered to drive, mostly because you just wanted to take control. Both the car and the situation.

The drive to Halmoni was short. No more than twenty minutes through winding suburban streets where trees bowed low over cracked footpaths, and the scent of spring blossoms hung in the air.

You tapped the stereo, letting music pour out, loud enough to fill the small space and drown out the awkward silence between you.

For a while, it seemed to work.

You kept your gaze locked on the road ahead, hands steady on the wheel, your mind calculating every turn, every light.

Jungkook sat still beside you, eyes watching the passing scenery, but not saying a word.

Until the volume dropped suddenly.

You glanced over to find him reaching for the dial, his voice breaking the quiet with a teasing edge.

“You can’t give me the silent treatment forever, you know,” Jungkook said, voice deceptively light but his eyes dark, searching and desperate. “Allergic to acrylic… really? That’s the excuse you’re sticking with?”

You bit your lip, feeling the weight of every unsaid thing pressing down. The words wanted to come out harsh. Like the bitterness still simmering beneath your skin, but you swallowed them.

“I’m driving,” you said, voice steady but cold, like glass. “And yes. I am. It’s pretty common now, actually.”

He scoffed, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the tension thickening the air between you. “Come on, you really hate me that much princess? After everything?”

“Don’t ever call me that,” you snapped. “And yeah, maybe I have stopped pretending I even liked you.”

His chest tightened, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. His breath hitched sharply, and for a moment, his eyes glazed over. Distant, lost in a memory that pulled him back to that night at the house party.

He could almost feel the rough wall pressing behind him, hear the music’s bass vibrating through the air, taste the bitterness curling on his tongue. The piercing on his lip, the fresh tattoos marking someone new.

And then his own voice. Clear and painfully familiar, echoed inside him. “Maybe I just stopped pretending.”

He blinked, shaken by the ghost of that moment.

This wouldn’t be easy.

Jungkook knew he had to take it slow, let you believe it was your choice. To open up, to get close again.

But he’d keep the leash tight, just enough so that when he pulled, you couldn’t pull away.

And if you broke… or when you did…

He’d be there to catch the pieces.

His voice dropped low, rough with emotion, almost a whisper meant only for himself. “I’m sorry, okay? For how I’ve treated you. For that night. For what I said.”

A heavy silence settled between you.

Finally, you sighed. A breath weighed down by days of frustration and fading hope. “Jungkook,” you said softly, reluctant, “Let’s just go visit Halmoni. Be civil. For her.”

He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “For her,” he echoed.

And so, you focused on the road again. The car hummed along the quiet streets, the music now soft and fragile. Like the delicate peace between you both, uncertain but holding on, if only for a little while.

Pulling up to Halmoni Boksoon’s house, the familiar sight hit you like a bittersweet wave. Everything was the same, yet somehow different.

The garden still flourished with wildflowers, though some patches had grown a little wilder, the edges less tended than you remembered. The orange tree stood tall and proud in the corner of the yard, its branches heavy with fruit, casting dappled shadows across the cracked concrete path.

You and Jungkook climbed out of the car, the quiet crunch of gravel beneath your feet breaking the stillness of the morning. The sun warmed your skin, but a quiet nervousness settled in your chest.

Together, you walked up the worn steps to the porch, the wood creaking faintly under your weight. The door was the same faded blue with the little brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head.

You lifted your hand and pressed the doorbell.

Silence hung for a beat.

Then, a faint shuffle echoed from within.

A tiny square peep hole on the door swung open just enough for a pair of eyes to peek out. When Halmoni saw you both standing there, her face lit up instantly. You could almost hear the joy in her voice from behind the door, even before it opened.

“Oh, my darlings!” she called out, her tone bright and warm, “I can’t believe you’re both here! I thought I’d have to wait forever.”

The door swung open, and there she was. Halmoni Boksoon, just as you remembered. Slightly stooped but strong, with silver hair pulled into a loose bun and eyes twinkling with love and surprise. Her floral apron was dusted with a hint of flour, as if she’d been baking just before you arrived.

She stepped forward and wrapped you both in a tight hug, her arms surprisingly strong despite her age.

“My goodness, what’s the occasion? Why didn’t you just call first?” she asked, her voice filled with that familiar mix of curiosity and gentle scolding.

Neither of you had the chance to answer before she took your hands and started pulling you inside, her excitement too big to hold back.

“Come on, come in,” she urged, practically dragging you past the threshold. “You both look like you could use some tea and something sweet.”

The scent of fresh jasmine tea and cinnamon greeted you the moment you stepped inside. The comforting aroma instantly melting some of the tension you'd carried in the car.

You and Jungkook exchanged a glance, one heavy with unspoken words. But for now, you both let yourselves be pulled into the warmth of the moment, even if only just for Halmoni's sake.

Jungkook now settled into the cozy armchair by the window, the soft sunlight catching on the silver glint of his piercings and the intricate tattoos winding up his forearm. Halmoni ’s eyes flickered curiously to them, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “So, it’s university break then?”

Jungkook nodded, folding his hands on his lap. “Yeah, just a short break. Plenty of work to catch up on, but it’s nice to have a little time off.”

Halmeoni chuckled warmly. “I remember my university days. Dreaming big, feeling like the world was wide open. What are you studying again, Kook?”

"Film production,"Jungkook said proudly, a spark lighting his eyes. “However, I want to tell real stories. Things people don’t always see.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, her gaze softening. “Your tattoos... they tell stories too, don’t they? Each one a piece of who you are.” She glanced at you then, beaming. “You two are still as close as ever, I see. Just like your mums. Best friends since before you were born, practically grew up side by side. I’ve been there for them through everything, you know.”

You smiled politely, warmed by Halmoni’s presence but weighed down by years of tangled history with Jungkook.

Halmoni’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she leaned in, her tone dipping into playful territory. “Your mums always hoped you two would grow up close. And who knows… maybe more than just best friends someday.” She paused, her smile turning sly. “You know, dating… marriage even. They used to say it like it was already written in the stars.”

You nearly choked on the tea she’d handed you moments earlier, coughing into your sleeve while Jungkook froze beside you, eyes slightly too wide.

“Me? Dating Jungkook?” you managed between coughs, your voice straining somewhere between disbelief and sarcasm.

Because the truth was. Before Jungkook turned into this smug campus jock with a permanent chip on his shoulder and a rotation of girls in his bed. There had been a time. A quiet closeness. Lingering stares. A kiss or two, more than once. His hands had known your skin. Your heart had once, stupidly, softened around the idea of him. That was probably why, back then, he refused to call it anything. Why he backed away when things felt too real.

“Halmoni, Y/n’s like a sister to me,” Jungkook said quickly, his tone smooth and casual, too casual. “I wouldn’t imagine dating her or anything like that.”

Ouch. That one stung.

You masked it with a roll of your eyes, a tight smile curling your lips. “Right. I wouldn’t dream of dating anyone like Jungkook anyway.”

Halmeoni simply chuckled, not missing the edge beneath both your voices. “Don’t worry, dear. Sometimes love sneaks up on you when you least expect it.” Her eyes flicked between the two of you. Amused, wise and too knowing for your liking. “But no pressure. Life’s too short not to take chances.”

The room felt heavier then, tension settling in like a storm cloud beneath the cozy warmth. You and Jungkook, yet again, exchanged a glance. Awkward, unreadable and said nothing.

Halmoni chuckled softly as she set down her teacup, turning her body toward you. "Now, enough about all that,' she said with a smile. "Tell me about your studies, Y/n."

Time drifted by like that. Halmoni’s stories from years past weaving seamlessly with yours and Jungkook’s tales of campus life, though he carefully left out the parties, the girls, and the way he’d treated you. You spoke of deadlines, ambitions, and distant dreams.

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, Halmoni stood and clapped her hands together.

“Come on, I want to show you two something out back.”

Curiosity piqued, you both followed her through the back door and into the garden. The familiar scents of earth and blooming flowers surrounded you.

To your surprise, tucked behind the orange tree and partially hidden by climbing vines, was a small greenhouse. The glass panes caught the sunlight, sparkling like a little jewel among the greenery. Nearby, sprinklers were set up, their gentle spray misting the air.

"Both your dads built it last summer,” Halmeoni said with a proud grin. “Thought I’d try my hand at some herbs and flowers. Keeps me busy.”

Jungkook stepped closer, examining the neat rows of pots and seedlings. You wandered around, feeling the cool mist from the sprinklers brush against your skin.

Suddenly, a sudden spray of water caught Jungkook off guard, drenching his shoulder.

"Halmoni!"

Then a second spray comes at him. Maybe a third and a forth. The water hit Jungkook full force, soaking him from head to toe. His shirt clung to his skin, droplets running down his tattooed arm as he sputtered and laughed, completely caught off guard.

She stood behind the hose, giggling uncontrollably, eyes twinkling with playful delight. “Had to get you back for that time you splashed me at the river when you were like... ten years old, didn’t I?”

You, on the other hand, started laughing. A sound that to Jungkook was suddenly beautiful, reminding him how much he’d missed hearing it. But just as quickly, the thought slipped away.

“Oh, so you wanna laugh, Princess?” he called out, spotting the second sprinkler nearby. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he grabbed the hose and aimed it at you. Your laughter burst louder, eyes sparkling and breath catching in surprise as the water sprayed.

The cold spray hit you square in the chest, and you squealed, stepping back with a startled laugh. Jungkook’s laughter echoed behind you as he chased after you, playful and relentless.

“Hey, come back here!” you shouted, trying to dodge the icy water.

Halmoni threw up her hands in playful surrender, shielding her face as a stray spray caught the hem of her apron. Jungkook quickly lowered the hose, a cheeky smirk tugging at his lips.

“Can’t soak the old lady,” he said with a grin. “She’s earned a pass.”

You took off again, heart racing as you weaved through the garden. Bursting out of the greenhouse, the warm, humid air clung to your skin.

But Jungkook was faster than you expected. Just as you neared the porch, his hands caught your arms, steadying you before you could slip away.

For a moment, the playful chase froze, and you caught the sight of him. The familiar face framed by wet hair plastered to his forehead, the sharp contrast of dark eyes, cheeky smile. Your childhood friend.

But then the weight of everything else crashed back.

This was Jungkook, yes. The same boy who’d once built forts with you and shared secrets beneath the stars.

But also the one who had changed. The campus fratboy.

The one who had shown you, with words and actions, that you were no longer part of his world.

And in that moment, you realized that he wasn't really your Jungkook anymore.

You pulled back gently, wiping water from your face, your voice soft but steady. "I'm glad we came together, for Halmoni," you said, meaning every word. Despite how much you didn’t want to come with him before. "But this... you can't do that."

Jungkook’s smile wavered, his eyes searching yours. For a glimpse of what once was, or maybe what still could be.

He took a slow breath, the playfulness fading from his features, replaced by something raw and uncertain.

“I said I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low, almost desperate. “Even if it doesn’t look like it… being here, with you, it made me feel things. Made me miss things. Made me miss you.”

You took a step back, pointing a finger at him, voice sharp and unwavering.

“No… you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to feel that. Just because we’re both back home, away from uni, and you’re away from your friends, doesn’t mean you get to fool yourself into thinking you miss this. Miss us.”

Before Jungkook could find the words to respond, a warm, familiar voice cut through the charged silence.

“Omg, look at you two! So drenched!” Halmoni’s gentle laughter floated through the air as she appeared, two towels draped over her arms.

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. Unaware of the storm that had just passed between you, silently hoping she hadn’t overheard a thing.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the garden as a heavy silence settled between you.

Back inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around you both. A stark contrast to the cool dampness still clinging to your skin. You and Jungkook stood side by side, towels wrapped tightly around your bodies.

Halmoni clapped her hands together with a bright smile. “Alright, you two! Time to dry off. I’ve got some spare clothes for you both.”

With comforting ease, she bustled about, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she returned carrying two matching sets of soft, floral pajamas. The pastel hues and delicate prints looked like they belonged in a vintage catalog.

You both froze, wide-eyed and speechless.

Jungkook’s jaw dropped, a mix of disbelief and amusement in his voice. “No way. I’m not wearing that.”

You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. “Seriously, Halmoni?”

She chuckled warmly, handing over the pajamas with gentle care. “Why not? You know, Jungkook, when you were little, you were always fascinated by my pajama collection. You used to ask why I had so many sets that looked the same. I said they were ‘magic’ pajamas.”

Jungkook laughed, a genuine grin breaking through his usual guarded expression. “Yeah, I remember that. Guess the magic was just keeping you cozy and warm. But that was then, Halmoni.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile as Jungkook eyed the delicate fabric, clearly wrestling with his pride.

Halmoni winked. “Well then, magic pajamas it is. You two go change and get comfortable. I’ll have some rice cakes ready.”

With the floral pajamas in hand, you both headed off to change. Caught somewhere between childhood memories and the complicated present, wrapped in the softness of those silly, familiar pajamas.

The floral pajamas were soft and surprisingly cozy as you slipped into them. Once dressed, you met Jungkook just outside your room. He had changed in the spare room nearby. The two of you exchanged glances and shared a quiet laugh. There was something both ridiculous and oddly comforting about wearing matching, grandma-approved sleepwear.

Meanwhile, Halmoni gathered your wet clothes, expertly loading them into the washer and then the dryer. “Old but gold,” she said with a proud wink, patting the machine. “This house might creak, but it still has all the bells and whistles.”

Soon, you and Jungkook settled into the cozy lounge. The TV murmured quietly in the background while Halmoni brought in a steaming tray of hot rice cakes.

“Dig in, loves,” she said warmly.

The sweet, sticky treats filled the room with a calm, nostalgic comfort. Between the soft pajamas, the warm tea, and the gentle crackle of the fire, your eyes began to grow heavy.

Eventually, you drifted off, curled up at one end of the couch, your breathing soft and steady. Jungkook had fallen asleep too, head tilted back against the cushions, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

He woke first, blinking into the dim room as the flickering light from the TV danced across the walls. He turned to look at you, still fast asleep and completely unaware. Then his eyes drifted toward the porch.

Outside, beneath the soft glow of the string lights, Halmoni sat in her favorite chair with a book in her hands, the pages catching the warm light. Jungkook looked back at you again, a flicker of something tender crossing his face.

He reached out slowly, his fingers just brushing your cheek, as if trying to memorize the shape of it. You stirred, just slightly, and his hand froze midair.

Your eyes fluttered open. “What… what are you doing?” you asked sleepily, your voice thick with drowsiness.

Jungkook hesitated. His mouth opened, but no words came. Just silence thick with everything unspoken.

“Maybe we should head home,” he finally said, his voice quiet. “It’s getting late.”

You nodded, still half-lost in sleep, though the weight in the air had noticeably shifted. A little while later, Halmoni stepped back into the lounge with a warm smile. “Your clothes are all washed and dried now,” she said, placing them down. “Unless, of course, you two have decided to live in Grandma-style pajamas forever… very fashionable, you know.”

You and Jungkook exchanged a quiet glance, a small laugh passing between you.

Jungkook let out a soft chuckle, his voice still rough with sleep. “No thanks, Halmoni. I think we’re good.”

You and Jungkook exchanged a glance and nodded, grateful for the warmth of your own clothes waiting. She led you both to the laundry room where everything was folded neatly, still warm from the dryer.

In the calm of your own space, you let the floral pajamas fall away, the cool air brushing your skin as you reached for your clothes. The familiar fabric felt comforting, grounding you after the strange tenderness of the night. A quiet sigh escaped you as you pulled your top over your head. Dry, soft, and yours again.

When you returned, the three of you made your way to the front door, where Halmoni stood waiting with her warm smile never fading.

“Don’t forget to study hard, both of you,” she said softly, a gentle reminder wrapped in love. “And remember, no matter what happens, you’ve always got a place here.”

You said your goodbyes, the night outside cool but the memories inside glowing warmly as you and Jungkook stepped into the quiet dark, the past and present tangled between you.

The car ride started off quiet again. This time, though, Jungkook was the one driving. He offered and you let him. You didn’t feel like speaking much. Not when you could still feel the ghost of laughter from earlier, still trying to forget the look in his eyes when he caught you during that moment. Like for a second, he wasn’t the version of him everyone at campus whispered about.

He wasn’t the flirt. The daredevil. The player.

He was your Jungkook again, just for a blink. And it unsettled you more than anything else.

But the silence didn't stretch for long. Jungkook’s grip on the wheel grew tighter the farther you got from Halmoni’s street. His fingers tapped against the leather, his jaw flexed now and then like he was trying to bite back whatever was circling in his head.

He didn’t understand why his chest felt this tight. Why the memory of your laugh hit harder than it should. Why watching you nap earlier made something ache in his gut.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was supposed to play the part. Win the bet. Keep control.

Not feel like he was losing it.

And before he could even think it through, he pulled the car over onto a quiet stretch of road flanked by trees and silence. He shifted into park, his breath shallow.

You frowned, glancing around. “Jungkook?” you asked, wary. “Why are we stopping? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, barely. “I just-”

You leaned slightly toward him, brows pinched. “If you’re tired, I can drive. Seriously.”

But he wasn’t listening. Not to your words, not to reason. His heart was beating louder than the music still playing low through the speakers. A love song, ironically. The worst kind.

He looked at you. Your eyes, confused. Your lips, slightly parted. You, so close yet so far away.

His hand moved without permission, brushing against your cheek, fingers slipping behind your neck like they used to. Familiar... and so fucking wrong.

Then, he kissed you.

There was nothing soft about it. Nothing rehearsed or sweet. It was rushed. Intense. A collision of old emotion and current chaos. His lips pressed against yours like he was trying to find his way back to something he’d already lost. Like if he held on hard enough, you wouldn’t slip away again.

And for a second, you let him.

Because you remembered, too.

How his mouth once felt like home.

But then reality snapped like a rubber band stretched too far.

You pulled away. Sudden and sharp, like coming up for air after drowning.

“No,” you breathed, your voice breaking slightly as you pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him back. “No, Jungkook.”

His eyes opened, stunned. You felt his breath catch, his chest rising beneath your palm. But you weren’t looking at him like you used to. Not with softness. Not with longing. Just disbelief. Hurt. Maybe even pity.

“What the hell are you doing?” you whispered. The words came out raw, like they’d been scraped up your throat.

Jungkook blinked, lips still parted, like he hadn’t realized what he’d done until he saw the look on your face.

“I— I don’t know,” he said, the words coming out small, pathetic. “I just…”

You shook your head. Slowly. Like even trying to understand him would hurt too much.

"You can't just do that," you said, your voice trembling now, but not from fear. From restraint. "You don't get to leave me hanging and then act like you still have the right to come back."

He wanted to argue. To defend himself.

But what could he say?

You were already turning away, eyes glassy with unshed tears, jaw tight like you were holding back more things you really wanted to say.

“Let’s just go home,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. He just sat there, blinking through the gravity of what he’d done.

Then, finally he nodded.

He turned back to the wheel, hand gripping it tighter than necessary.

The car rumbled to life.

The music kept playing. A soft echo of everything that now felt impossibly far away. But the silence between you had changed.

You looked out the window, trying to gather the pieces of your composure.

Jungkook didn’t look at you again. He just couldn’t.

And as the car rolled forward through the dimming streets, the distance between you felt like a wall neither of you knew how to break through anymore.

The drive home felt like a dream you hadn’t signed up for. One you wanted to wake up from, but your body was still caught in its haze. The streetlights flickered past in streaks of gold, and even though the kiss had ended minutes ago, it still lingered on your lips like a secret you didn’t ask to keep.

Jungkook didn’t say a word the entire ride back.

When he pulled into your driveway, he shifted the car into park, the soft click echoing louder than it should’ve. He sat there for a second, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing anchoring him. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned off the ignition. The hum of the engine died, leaving only the sound of your shallow breaths in the stillness.

He reached into the cup holder, grabbed your mum’s car keys, and finally stepped out.

Before you could even gather your thoughts, the passenger door opened. He stood there, not meeting your eyes, and gently placed the keys into your palm. Careful and almost distant, like he was passing back something delicate he wasn’t sure he should’ve been holding. Then without a word, with his head low and hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, Jungkook turned and walked away.

You blinked after him, heart thudding loud in your chest as you watched him cross the small patch of grass between your houses, disappearing into the warm glow of his porch light.

Not even a glance back.

You hated that it hurt.

Still trying to make sense of what just happened, you unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was dim and quiet, expect for the soft buzz of the hallway light and the faint creak of the floor beneath your feet.

Your mum was still awake, sitting on the couch in her coat, bingo cards stacked beside her and a half-drunk cup of tea on the coffee table. The scent of peppermint hung in the air.

She looked up as soon as you entered, face brightening. Until she saw the look on yours.

“There you are,” she said warmly, her voice soft. “I just got back not long ago. Your dad’s knocked out already. How was Halmoni?”

You stood frozen for a moment, keys still clenched in your hand, shoes still on. You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. You were still replaying it all. The garden, the water fight, the nap, his hand brushing your cheek, his mouth on yours like none of the damage he’d caused mattered.

Your mum tilted her head gently, eyes narrowing in the way only a mother could. “Everything okay?”

“I…” you started, and for a terrifying moment, you thought about blurting it out. Jungkook kissed me. You wanted to say it. Wanted someone else to hold the weight of it. Maybe even tell you what to do.

But you couldn’t. The words got caught in your throat like splinters.

Instead, you gave a soft, tight smile. “Yeah. Halmoni’s good. Still the same.”

Your mum didn’t look fully convinced, but she smiled back and nodded slowly. “That’s nice to hear. Did she show you her greenhouse? She's been obsessed with it lately."

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, I saw it. It’s still incredible. She hasn’t lost that spark. Still playful as ever.”

Your mum yawned into her hand, clearly letting the moment pass, though something flickered behind her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you and Jungkook went. It’s good to see you two spending time together."

You froze at that. Just a second.

Then you nodded stiffly. “Yeah. I guess.”

She gave you one last glance as she stood, gathering her things. “Get some sleep, honey. Big day tomorrow or not, you look like your mind’s still somewhere else.”

It is.

“Night, Mum,” you murmured.

“Night. Love you, Y/n.”

She disappeared down the hallway and up the stairs, leaving the silence to settle around you. At last, you were alone with your thoughts again.

You stood in the dark living room, staring at nothing, your heartbeat still racing with the weight of that kiss.

You still loved him. Maybe always would.

But you hated him just as deeply. Maybe even more.

And what haunted you most… was that you didn’t know which one would win.

The door of his bedroom clicked shut behind him with a dull finality, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since he left your driveway.

What the fuck was that.

The feel of your lips lingered, soft, shocked and hesitant. The way you looked at him, with your eyes wide and breath caught. That flicker of something raw and real he hadn’t expected.

That kiss wasn’t just a moment. It was a test.

A desperate, reckless test to see if any of it still mattered. If the years and distance and walls you’d both built had erased what he’d never been able to forget.

From his side of things, he remembered the first time he introduced you to the guys. Namjoon, Taehyung, Jimin, Jin, Yoongi, Hoseok. The brothers from the frat house, the ones who made up his world on campus.

How he’d called you his best friend... his little sister, the one constant he wanted to keep close.

But the guys never let him forget it. They teased him relentlessly, mocking how protective he was. Joking about “bro code” and “bros before hoes.”

You didn’t fit their scene.

You never had.

And maybe that was the problem.

Jungkook was just a guy trying to find himself. Lost in the chaos of university life, trying to belong in a world where loyalty meant everything.

And maybe you were right... that he wasn’t being true to himself. Or to you. But fuck it, he was stubborn as hell. His ego too big to just walk away. He needed their approval, the loud, reckless validation from his frat brothers. The wild nights, the jokes, the unspoken code that made him feel alive, even if it meant pushing away the people who mattered most.

Because maybe he was scared. Scared to admit what you already knew... that he’d lost his way.

He shouldn’t have kissed you.

Not then.

Not like that.

But he did.

And that feeling ripped through every excuse he’d made.

He collapsed onto the edge of his bed, restless, heart pounding. His phone buzzed. Messages from the guys.

[Taehyung]: How’d it go man? [Hoseok]: did u manage to fuck her yet? [Namjoon]: Tell us everything.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight.

But he didn’t reply.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he needed silence. To sit with what that kiss had just confirmed. To figure out what the hell he actually wanted.

And if he was ready to admit it... even to himself.

The moment you stepped into the aquarium, the smell of sea salt and the low hum of bubbling tanks filled the air. You glanced over at Jungkook, who had this boyish sparkle in his eyes, already bouncing on his heels like a kid on a sugar high.

“I swear, you’re more excited than the actual kids here,” you teased, nudging his arm.

He shot you a grin, that familiar dimple popping out. “Excuse me, I’ve waited my whole life to see jellyfish in high definition.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile creeping across your face. “You’re such a nerd.”

“And yet,” he said, dramatically placing a hand on his chest, “you still agreed to come here with me. What does that say about you, huh?”

You lightly smacked his shoulder with the map of the exhibits. “That I’m the nicest person in the world.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the hall of glowing tanks. As the day went on, you both wandered from exhibit to exhibit, arguing over which sea creature would win in a fight, daring each other to touch the weirdest things in the tide pool, and trying (and failing) to take cute selfies without one of you making a stupid face.

But it was right after the dolphin show that the moment happened.

You had both finished your soft serve, and he threw a snarky comment your way about how you always managed to drop yours. With a playful gasp, you narrowed your eyes and took off down the path lined with colorful coral tanks.

“Oh, don’t you dare run from me, Y/n!” he yelled, already laughing as he chased after you.

You shrieked through giggles, weaving between displays and dodging a few surprised tourists. “Catch me if you can, Jeon!”

“NO RUNNING IN THE EXHIBIT!” a security guard shouted sternly from somewhere behind a jellyfish display.

“Sorry!” you both called back. Neither of you slowing.

It didn’t take long. His footsteps quickened behind you and in a blur, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind. You squealed as he lifted you off the ground and spun you in circles, laughter spilling from both of you like the crashing waves in the background.

“You’re so annoying!” you said between laughs, breathless.

He finally slowed and set you down gently, his arms still around you. You turned your head to look at him and for a second, everything quieted. Just you, him, and the soft glow of the tank beside you reflecting in his eyes.

“You love it,” he whispered.

You did. Maybe more than you were ready to admit back then.

The sun had already started to dip by the time you both left the aquarium, casting a golden hue over the city. The air smelled faintly of the ocean, and Jungkook insisted on getting takeout to eat by the pier. You didn’t argue. Not when he looked at you with those soft, hopeful eyes.

Eventually, after too many fries and shared sips from the same drink, the two of you ended up on his bed back home, curled up under the familiar weight of a blanket

A quiet, comfortable stillness had settled between you both, only interrupted by the low hum of his playlist in the background.

You were tucked into his side, your head resting on his chest as his fingers absentmindedly traced slow circles on your shoulder. It was the kind of closeness that felt… more. It wasn’t just friends. Not anymore.

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “Jungkook?”

“Hm?”

You hesitated, watching the way his jaw moved as he chewed the inside of his cheek, like he already knew something was coming.

“What are we?”

He blinked, eyes flicking down to meet yours, and in that moment, you could feel his whole body tense ever so slightly under you.

“You’re my best friend,” he said slowly.

You nodded once, sitting up just a little but still staying in his arms. “Yeah, but… friends don’t do this. They don’t cuddle like this. They don’t hold hands like we did today, or kiss."

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out at first.

“I know,” he finally murmured. “I know it’s not just… that. But I—” He exhaled hard, sitting up a little more so you were eye to eye. “I’m scared, Y/n.”

“Of what?”

“Of ruining it,” he said. “Of putting a label on something that’s always been so easy. So safe. You mean… everything to me. But if we try to go beyond this and it doesn’t work... what if I lose you? What if we lose this?”

You looked down at your fingers, fiddling with the seam of the blanket. “And what if we don’t? What if it’s even better?”

His expression cracked just slightly, vulnerability bleeding into every part of him. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear gently, like he was memorizing you.

“I don’t have the answers,” he said softly. “But I want to keep you close. I want this... whatever this is, even if I don’t have the courage to define it yet. I just hope… you’re okay with that.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you rested your head against his chest again, sighing quietly. “I don’t know if I am. But for now… I think I’d rather have some part of you than none at all.”

And neither of you said anything after that. Just the quiet thudding of his heartbeat against your ear, and the unspoken question still lingering in the air.

#bangtan #bts angst #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fluff #bts scan #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook smut

701 notes · View notes

phantasm-ae · 1 month ago

Text

Sort of part 2 of my Mrs. Price drabble. I hope u like it🥺

cw: afab reader x captain price, soft fluff, afab reader x soap, afab reader x ghost, afab reader x gaz

HEADCANON: Forced to crash in Price’s place momentarily. The team meets you — Mrs. Price again — much to Price’s annoyance. Treating his house now like a sleepover den

PAIRING: John Price x reader, slight Poly141 x reader

something something, the team forced to reroute their entire mission due to an intel mix-up. Having to lay low for a few weeks somewhere in this woodland retreat of a lodge for the meantime.

But it wasn't entirely that bad. Fuck no.

Not when they rest of the team realized that they could technically crash at Price's own place for the time being. A quaint little countryside cabin with a roaring fireplace, creaky wooden floors, a tiny plant nursery at the front, and the comforting smell of pine that lingered in the air. But most importantly of course -- You. Mrs. John Fucking Price at the center of it all.

Price didn’t seem thrilled at first. Fuck that. He already hated how Soap practically salivated at the thought of his wife ever since they met her in that dingy pub. Cheeky bastard grinning like a schoolboy everytime he mentioned her and her famous lemon drizzle cakes.

But Christ on earth, they didn't exactly have a choice at the moment. So. Reluctant. Waning. Frustrated and annoyed. Muttering about how his place was hardly a “luxury hotel,” but once the team started packing their things with the energy of schoolboys on a field trip, he relented. And, honestly, who could blame them? They were tired, dirty, and living on dry rations; a warm bed and a roof over their heads was like a damn vacation.

So here they were. Standing in front of their little cottage abode. Walls mossy, wood comforting, and air remote. Quaint and tangling ivy around the roof. The marshy nook like something out of a storybook.

And as soon as the door opened, the familiar, warm scent of you greeted them. Wood, fresh herbs, mint, and a lingering hint of something that made the whole place feel more like home. Price's wife, sweet sweet perfect Mrs. Price, was already waiting when they arrived

"Oh my darlings. Its glad to see your faces again", she greeted them. Voice soft and smile warm. Price, absolutely knackered, immediately felt a wave of relief at the sight of her.

Long hair up in her usual hairdo, apron tied around her waist, and despite the chaos outside, she looked perfectly put-together in a way that made him feel all of a sudden like maybe he was the one who didn’t belong in the mess they’d become.

She looked absolutely angelic. Vision of druidic calm. Heaven sent and sacred. Hera in crochet and bunny slippers.

Price stood taller, more rigid at her side -- already bracing for what he knew was coming.

"Come in, come in," she beamed, ushering them all in like they were visiting nephews rather than elite soldiers who could snap necks before breakfast. "Shoes off at the door, please. I just mopped."

They all shuffled inside with relief, shaking off the dust from their clothes as if they’d finally arrived at some kind of sanctuary. Gaz obeying immediately, kicking off his boots like a schoolboy caught tracking mud, while Soap practically tripped over himself trying to get them off any faster.

"I made stew," she called from the kitchen, already halfway down the hall with her apron strings bouncing behind her. "And bread. Oh -- and Johnny, I baked that lemon drizzle you like."

Soap nearly wept.

“Marry me, Mrs. Price,” he shouted after her, only half-joking.

Price whipped around, face like thunder. “Johnny—”

“Jokin'! Jokin'!” Soap raised his hands in surrender, grinning like the devil himself. “Ye already bagged the best lass on earth, I know. Just sayin' -- luck bastard ye are"

Gaz leaned in, whispering to Ghost, “Swear to God, it’s like visiting your nan’s. All we need is a jigsaw puzzle and some knitted socks.”

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to. Massive hulking posture already loosening and starting to mellow. Halfway through removing his gloves and looking -- dare anyone say it -- peaceful.

Later that night. Cozied up in Price's living room. Her crocheted throw blankets and mismatched cushions cradling their weighty and coarse bodies like they weren't seasoned and elite killers but a bunch of children in a sleepover at their gran's. Bellies full. Air serene and leisurely, watching some old movie Mrs. Price put on.

She'd even brought out bloody hot chocolate (with marshmallows, of course), and Ghost -- Ghost with his towering frame, permanent scowl, but now brushed blonde hair that strangely smelt like that eucalyptus oil that you recommended him -- had accepted his mug with two hands like it was holy.

Sitting on the edge of the floral couch. Cupping the mug in both gloved hands like it was a sacred relic. Taking a cautious sip before letting out the softest grunt of approval anyone had ever heard from him.

Soap nearly dropped his own cup laughing. "That good, Ghost?"

Ghost didn’t look up. “Shut up.” But he took another sip.

Gaz, already wrapped in one of the knit blankets she’d handed out like party favors, leaned over with a grin. “I think I just saw you smile, mate. Terrifying.”

“She’s a bleedin' marvel, so she is,” Soap whispered behind his mug. “Bit o' witchcraft in that cocoa.”

"This should be a regular thing," Gaz mumbled, curling up farther into one of her handmade quilts with a contented sigh. "Every end of the quarter. Team regroup with Mrs. Price."

“Quarterly sleepovers, aye?” Soap echoed, raising his mug.

“Aye. With lemon drizzle cake and that stew. Jesus.”

Ghost hummed, shockingly agreeing, “Better than the barracks.”

John Price, sitting stiffly in his armchair like he’d rather be interrogating someone in a bunker, glared at them over his mug.

“No,” he said flatly.

Mrs. Price, from the kitchen, called out without missing a beat, “Oh I don’t mind, dear.”

“No, they’re not,” Price barked from the hallway, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

But no one was listening anymore.

masterlist

725 notes · View notes

w2mini · 4 months ago

Text

“Inarizaki with a manager who…” randoms !!

warnings: reader is reserved, fem reader, swearing, platonic or romantic idgaf

IDK bout’ you guys, but every time I think about Inarizaki having a manager, I think about someone who:

Is stereotyped as your typical “quiet” and “reserved” demeanor girlie when in actuality—she just finds herself in a difficult position to open up to the boys. 😓

- I mean, who wouldn’t have a hard time, they’re like top two in the nation and HIGHKEY intimidating to be with, I have respect 4u girl. 🫡 but a job is a job. Kita recruited you since he had to balance his club and academics at one point (also following the coach’s suggestion).

Also should I just mention that you are such a beauty??? Like, maybe if you weren’t so pretty and mysterious then they wouldn’t be bothering you so much just to talk with you!! 😾

- Suna tries to small talk with you sometimes, keyword: tries (his way of trying is giving you the most unnoticeable hints that he wants to talk with you).

- Whenever you begin to feel tired during a long day in practice, Osamu won’t just let it slip past him and hands you some of his mint candy that he has to help you stay awake as he suggests. Yall chill like that🤞

- You and Kita are the ones who are always together, since you guys discuss about the team’s schedule and strategies alongside coach. But that’s just about it.

- Aran and Omimi tends to help you with your duties, especially if it requires lifting heavy weight or a lot of items to carry. We love gentlemen. 🫡

- Riseki is TOO shy to chat with you, but he’s trying his best I swear. 🥲 Your glamorous self just makes him feel like standing beside you feel like a huge offense.

- The closest (🤏) I would consider to be close to you is proably Akagi and Ginjima, they were the ones who approached you with a warm welcome and introduced you to the team as they showed you the ropes of being a manager.

As for Atsumu? I’m gonna need a whole separate section for him hol’ on.

- How do I even start with him.

- Because for the first time, he doesn’t attract your attention, he’s chasing for it.

- You’re supposed to praise him! fangirl over him! shower him with your undying attention! Not just awkwardly standing there and nodding every now and then! 😾

- Can’t you see how hurt his pride is. 😞 (his fault for expecting too much tbh 😹)

- His last straw was during when he was practicing his sets and you were there to watch. So when you approached him, he was expecting the words: “wow you’re amazing Atsumu!”

- Your response?

- “Miya you should probably extend your arms further more so you have better accuracy on the ball.”

- his jaw dropped to the floor.

- YOU? THE MANAGER? giving him TIPS?

- and what’s worst is that you were right and it genuinely improved his sets slightly better, oh he’s never forgetting about this.

But even after all that, you genuinely just could not bring yourself to be close and open up to them, your reason? a lot.

- The volleyball team of Inarizaki is undeniably well known around the campus and to be their manager is either a curse or a blessing.

- actually scrap that. It’s a fucking curse.

- number one. the top on the damn list. their fangirls.

- the amount of them that question you about the team is just too much for your poor social battery to handle. You were their victim number one to harass about the team. (props to Aran for always saving you during times like these 🙂‍↕️)

- which is also why you have a set of rules to yourself whenever you encounter one of the members in the campus: 1) walk quickly past them in the hallways, 2) only talk to them when they initiate it first, and 3) to never bring up anything about them around the campus.

- number two would be the team itself. why? very self explanatory. 😊

- you do not get an ounce of peace and rest around those guys. Especially Atsumu’s endless cycle of jokes and teasing just to get a reaction out of you.

- and that one time Osamu accidentally served a ball towards you. You were on the tribunes just taking notes. WHO SERVES AT THE TRIBUNES.

- but its okay, he bought you a snack as an apology after that on the convenience store run on the way home. His motherfucker of a twin however just laughed at you like a maniac.

- also the amount of strays you have to pick up during practice is EXHAUSTING. Being their manager made your spine feel like 85 years old.

However, you are genuinely such a hardworking girlie🥹 your actions spoke louder than words, it’s just your way of showing you care for them but sometimes you just don’t feel like it’s enough and you don’t think they notice it either because of how reserved you could be.

- Inarizaki’s volleyball team was independent, they didn’t need a manager.

- which is what they think.

- because ever since you arrived, Kita has felt a heavy weight lift off his shoulders (++ coach too). You’ve genuinely helped them in ways that you didn’t deem possible

- you also took notes of the smallest things or even the quiet observations about the team on your notebook (e.g. “Make sure Atsumu doesn’t forget about his water” or “Osamu gets grumpy if he skips meals” etc.)

- Although they may not be vocal about it or have mentioned about it—the team just has so much respect for you. To be able to manage a team like them is impressive. They don’t think anyone would be able to top your managing skills EVER.

So yeah, it kinda just went on like that… not for long. You strictly kept a classmate relationship between them and just went on being their manager—you do your job, but you kept a distance. That is until Inarizaki gets their win against another strong team.

It wasn’t anything serious or sad with what became the turning point in your relationship with the team, I’d say its very Inarizaki like.

- It happened when Inarizaki won against a really strong team, the game was fierce and stressful to watch, but in the end they were able to snatch the gold.

- Undeniably, the boys are all hyped. “We should celebrate! C’mon let’s go out to eat!” Akagi says as he excitedly suggested.

- the others agreed with the idea, especially a certain twin. On the way, they all discussed their orders and plans for later. In the end they all decided to go for ramen.

- You on the other hand kept silent. You decided it was best for you to go home already and let them have their fun, your social battery was draining anyways.

- which COULD’VE been the plan.

- Until Kita turns around to your direction, then offhandedly says: “You’re coming too right?”

- your brain short circuits.

- it doesn’t help with the fact now that the rest is also waiting for your answer.

- is this what they call peer pressure. 😵‍💫

- but it was in this moment that you realize that—they actually want you to be there. Not just as their manager, but as part of the team.

- So you agreed.

- It was a warm moment when you guys were inside the ramen bar, everyone made an effort to include you, making stupid jokes, teasing you slightly, sharing food, etc.

- And, probably for the first time ever, you were laughing with them.

- And, they all just. froze.

- Because they rarely saw you express emotions around them. Heck, not even a laugh!

- They all glanced at each other and nodded, yep, it was like they had antennas saying their common goal: to see you smile more.

In the end, Inarizaki needs a manager who can handle their shit—and love them anyway.

WOOO kinda short but hope u guys enjoyed, I just kinda wanted to share my thoughts BECAUSE every time I write about Inarizaki having a manager, I always imagine someone who’s just keeps to herself yk, but thas js me🤷‍♀️ Thats why I chose Haerin for today’s layout because the personality matches her sm lowk omg

I kinda wanna make this a series tbh, LIKE that one shiratorizawa series in Ao3 I FORGOT THE NAME but you guys know right….. right.

677 notes · View notes

komelliko · 6 months ago

Text

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Sunday can no longer control himself around you. He will make his affections known. wc: 1.6k - this is nsfw! cw for dubcon! fingering/dry humping/softdom!sunday

part 2 / part 3 (nsfw) / part 4

---

By his insistence, it had been too late post-dinner for you to head home alone. In fact, it had been too late to bother leaving Blue Hour at all—not when Sunday could find you a place to stay the night as easily as walking through the entrance of the nearest hotel. "One room," he had told the Halovian clerk at the front desk, a kindly young lady with red cardinal feathers encircling her cheeks. "Anything will do." You tapped the empty box of mints clutched in your hand with one of your fingers, as if the slow rap-tap-tap would truly relieve any of your nervousness. His words had stuck with you after all—The Head of the Oak Family wandering around Blue Hour with a glorified nobody wearing a dress like this? Of course they'd assume something!

But you weren't a glorified nobody, you wanted to tell yourself. You had worked your ass off to be here, even if nobody else around you knew that. You were a somebody, no matter where you were or what Sunday had you wear or anything of the sort. You were one of the most powerful people in Penacony, damnit. ...Of course, at the time, you had been too distracted by this train of thought to realize he had only asked for one room. And, furthermore, at the time you hadn't asked if he would be making any trips that night himself.

Sunday had counted on this.

Sunday walks you to your room with his hand on your lower back once again, in what feels almost like a mockery of the conversation you had with him a few hours ago. You suck on the inside of your cheek, wishing the mints hadn't all been swallowed by now. Even as you try to walk faster than him ever so slightly, he seems to set the pace. Slow, methodical, calculated. The first thing you notice when you get to the room is the large window overlooking the rest of the Moment, sprawling buildings disappearing into the edge of the dreamscape. Large billboards painted in shimmering hues of gold display women in ornate jewelry, displaying dazzling watches and rows upon rows of pearls. You've never seen a Penaconian skyline that didn't have its fair share of advertisements, in all truthfulness—Every instance of gold and ochre like another glinting set of eyes watching you as you go about your day. Sunday approaches behind you, his hand resting on one of your shoulders.

"Don't you want to sit down?" he asks. You initially think to protest, but before you can even process it you're already in his lap, a lone wooden chair pulled out from the room's lounging area to sit in front of the window. Your eyes switch between glancing out at the billboards, then your knees, then somewhere in the middle distance. His voice takes on a honey-like quality that it usually only shows a hint of, whispering things in your ear that you accept so easily... because they almost sound like music. A low, deep harmony.

"I hope you know, [Y/N]," he speaks against the back of your neck, fingers dancing through your hair. "That when everything is said and done, I don't just consider you an employee. I consider you a friend."

His other hand goes to rest on your hip. You're still not sure what to make of it—Maybe you just don't want to accept the answer. This hot, churning feeling begins to twist just below your stomach, slowly growing bigger and bigger.

"O-of course, Mr. Sunday. Thank you, Mr. Sunday."

What would please him more: For you to drop the formality, or to keep it even as you're eventually moaning it? Sunday isn't entirely sure, but he lets the thought percolate while he continues to play with your hair. You sink your head back into his touch, and your whole body moves in response: Pressing up against him in a way he would kill for.

He cannot control himself any longer. For the briefest moment, he drops all pretense.

"Hike up your dress, [Y/N]."

Once you realize what he means by it, your hands have already shifted the hem halfway up your thighs. This is your boss. You can't be doing this. You'd only be proving people right this way.

...But what would he do if you said no?

The skeptic in you gives in, clinging onto the reasoning that you have no choice anyways. Hell, in the most pessimistic light, you might get a promotion out of this.

The tent in his pants pokes between your thighs like a cattle brand, hot and stiff. You clasp your knees together, but the choice works against you: the way your thighs press against the intrusion, the way the pooling cyprine leaks onto his pants. If you had any hope of convincing him (or yourself) to stop, it was long gone. You hear Sunday let out a groan, a gloved hand petting one of your thighs.

"You can keep a secret... can't you?"

There's nothing else for you to say. You stare at the floor, your face burning bright red.

"Of course, Mr. Sunday."

"...I've dreamed of doing this."

His hand moves with a particular confidence as it slips between your thighs, a single finger tracing that hidden bundle of nerves.

"It's awful," he pouts, his touch slowing to a crawl, "How often I convinced myself I could be satisfied with so little. Yet as I indulged myself with your presence further and further, I could not find satiation." The way his fingers gently pass over you cause you to jump in his lap, and he only sighs again, wrapping his other arm around your waist to keep you still. "Oh, how I betray myself."

The pace of his fingers quickens again, and you stop to think—Promotion? What in Aeon's name would you even be promoted to? What rung on the corporate ladder was there above Secretary to a Family Head (other than being a Head yourself, which was obviously out of the question), and what difference would it make if he changed your title to Personal Assistant or something of that ilk?

Well, there was no point in asking that question. You knew the answer. A promotion was clearly on the horizon—it just wasn't a corporate one.

His fingers breach through, and Sunday gasps as if he himself is being penetrated, not the other way around. What first seems to simply be Sunday readjusting himself in his seat eventually becomes a slow, desperate grinding of his hips, thrusting them up into your own as his fingers continue their work of spreading you open. Two, then three, then four. His head spins at the sensation of syrupy fluid coating his knuckles, as if even touching it is enough to get him drunk. Hissing out a minced oath under his breath, Sunday rips off his stained glove and plunges his fingers in again, practically dry humping you in his lap once he can truly feel the way you clench around his hand.

"Oh, you're perfect," he exhales. "Aeon forgive me for what I want to do to you, [Y/N]. The things you do to me... How badly I needed this." He starts to direct his huffing into your shoulder. "Come for me, [Y/N]—Right on my palm. Ruin me, I beg you."

"Mr. Sunday," you heave, the words forcing themself past your wobbling lip even as you bite it shut. "I—"

"[Y/N]," he whimpers. "Please." You clasp both your hands over your mouth when you finally reach release, throwing your head back with a muffled cry. Your heart continues to race so hard that it makes you dizzy, the sound thumping in your ears. Sunday, too, starts to heave in tandem, and you feel the sheen of sweat on his cheeks as he sloppily plants kisses on the back of your neck. As he catches his breath, Sunday's eyes glance around the room warily. He notices the pitcher of water on the countertop (a complimentary convenience typical for this specific hotel, and the main reason he chose this one to begin with), and resolved to dump it on his lap. Not to wash off any of his and your release currently sticking your laps together and staining his trousers, of course—But simply as a convenient excuse. He'd only been attending to his wonderful secretary, his treasured secretary, when the water was spilled as he filled a glass for you. ...Or maybe spilling it over his head and saying he had to dive into a fountain to valiantly save you from some ne'er-do-well would be more reasonable? Catching stray bullets with his hand to keep his darling safe and the like?

Your orgasm had all but knocked you unconscious, your half-lidded gaze unable to focus on the flashing lights and colors out the open window. The two of you must have been twenty, thirty stories off the ground, far from anyone spotting your little tryst. You slump back into Sunday's chest, rolling your head backwards as you mumble a weak "Mr. Sunday..." "Thank you for indulging me, my dear," is all he responds with, scooping you up off his lap and bringing you to the room's bed. Once you are draped in the bed's covers, you quickly fall asleep, with the night's events sure to become a hazy memory.

Sunday sighs contentedly to himself. In a final moment of trangression, he takes his soiled glove into his mouth for a brief moment to savor that which stains it. He can only hope—no, be certain of the fact that—the endless dream he searches to blanket this world in will be to your every liking. ...With you by his side, no doubt.

It wouldn't need mention just yet, but for your marriage to him to be the first union blessed by Ena THEMSELVES..?

Why, what could be better? --- a/n: when looking back through some of his lines, i thiiiink sunday uses aeon as the singular? correct me if I'm wrong on this lolol. feedback is always appreciated, especially regarding pacing! criticize me to hell and back y'all I want to write better smut :,) tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos @i-am-tiredd

#idk I'm hesitant to tag this as yandere sunday because that hasn't really happened yeeet??? but it will happen!#aventurine will make an appearance next installment hehehehe #not really as a traditional love rival but an “obstacle” nonetheless. to sunday at least #hsr sunday #sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr x you #manipulative yandere #sunday smut #hsr smut #sunday hsr #sunday's secretary #cw dubcon #cw dubious consent

479 notes · View notes

sailorsoons · 4 months ago

Text

Still Watching? (l. c)

PAIRING: Lee Chan x f. Reader

SUMMARY: Blood and Popcorn with your newly minted boyfriend is your favorite. Except now you watch a lot less Buffy and a lot more of Chan.

WC: 2,153

AU: Established Relationship, PWP

GENRE: Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Shameless pwp, explicit language, explicit sexual content including nipple play, vaginal fingering, a little bit of teasing/edging, cheesy banter.

A/N: Happy Valentine's day pt II the remix! As always, thank you to @daechwitatamic for beta reading this :)

A/N 2: This is the same couple from Blood & Popcorn but you do not need to read the first story to read this one :) This was originally posted on my old blog.

MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK

“HONESTLY, IT'S SO OBVIOUS THIS SHOW WAS WRITTEN BY A MAN,” You mutter, watching as Buffy yells at Xander. “He wants to be a hero for her soooo bad.”

“Xander is the worst,” Chan sighs. You rise and fall with his chest, your back pressed against his front where you lay against him. His knees cage you in on either side of your hips, your ass planted firmly between his legs with his arms around your middle, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “He really thinks he should win the girl just because he’s a nice guy.”

“Truly, he has like… very few other qualities than being a nice guy.”

He hums. “At least Spike knows he’s an asshole. It’s guys like Xander who think just because they’re not blatantly awful that it makes them dateable.”

“A lot of guys think that.”

“Mhmm. I’m a rare breed.”

You crane your neck to look up at him. You can hear and feel the steady thud of his heart, smell the hint of aftershave and menthol from his shower earlier, feel the heat of his skin. It makes you a little dizzy and you unfocus on the screen, studying the gentle curve of Chan’s mouth.

“You’re surely something,” you mutter in response, grinning a little as you look away toward the screen. His fingers slip under your shirt, skimming your waist. You suppress a shiver, suddenly hyper aware of the way his fingers scrape against you.

“I’m a nice guy and I know that it takes more than being a decent human being to get the girl.”

“Oh yeah? Remember the time it took four years to confess your feelings to me? What do you know, Lee Chan?”

“Hmm. Data is insufficient. Need more evidence regarding that specific example.”

For a moment, you’re unable to respond, lids fluttering as Chan continues to caress your lower stomach and hips. His touch is completely innocent, no suggestion that he intends anything. That he means anything. It’s a motion that is instinctual for him, so naturally to have his hands on you that it almost makes it worse.

Just knowing how easy it is for him to love you never fails to surprise you. You don’t know how you never saw it before.

Now it seems silly to have ever thought that Chan was anything less than in love with you. It’s in the way he naturally gravitates toward you in every room. It’s in the way he can be totally focused on something else, but his hand reaches out for you, not even really noticing that he’s seeking you out. It’s in the way that you mold so perfectly into his chest, made to be there.

“You don’t know your own data?” you shoot back eventually, snuggling a little closer to him. If you could crawl into his hoodie, you would. For now, this is fine. “Seems like you don’t know much.”

“Hmm?” His fingers stop moving. You feel the question hum against you. “I don’t know much?”

“Nope.”

Your heart starts to pick up. Chan’s fingers start stroking your skin again but you feel the difference. His blunt nails scrape across your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms. He skims his hands higher and back down, touch light over your ribs. Every time his fingers dance up your side, his reach goes a little higher.

A tightness forms in your throat. You try to keep your breathing even and will yourself not to squeeze your thighs. You are pressed too close to him for him not to tell if you squirm. Chewing your lip, you stare at the screen totally unseeing.

“Hm.” Chan’s deep hum hints at trouble. You feel your hands get clammy. “I think I know some things. Like for example…” He trails off for a moment, hand brushing under your left breast. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, fighting a twitch. “I know that your favorite color on me is green.”

“Green is a good color on anyone.”

“I know that you like the feeling…” His hand skates low this time, fingers dancing dangerously against the waistband of your shorts. “Of high thread count sheets.”

You snort. “Everyone likes good sheets, Chan.”

“Good sheets are important,” he agrees. You feel him trace his pointer finger back up with deadly accuracy, following the swell of your breast upward, skating so close to your nipple that you stop breathing. “Everything alright? You stopped breathing.”

“What?” you squeak. “Oh, yep. I am great.”

“I don’t know, baby. Are you feeling well? You seem… warm.”

Chan presses his palm flat to your chest, fingers splayed wide. His palm is warm and rough, his touch igniting a fire inside of you. The heat spreads outward, licking at every one of your nerves and setting them ablaze.

In an effort to ignore him, you lick your lips and say, “Never felt better. I like her boots.”

His chuckle is low. Throaty. You’re barely holding it together, feeling the ache between your thighs at the firmness of his touch. “See, I don’t know a lot about women’s fashion. But I do know those are not boots. Just like I know you’re not paying attention to the show, Bambi.”

You blink and stare at the TV. Chan’s right. Buffy is in sneakers, though in your unfocused haze they had been blurry and looked like boots from a distance. You swallow down the dryness in your throat, Chan’s hand still pressed flat and warm against your chest.

“I know that your heart is pounding,” Chan murmurs, voice barely audible as he presses his mouth by your ear. Your eyes flutter shut. “I know that you’re trying really hard not to squeeze those thighs.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

To prove his statement true, Chan’s thumb brushes upward, skating gently over a nipple. On command, your thighs squeeze and you feel the shake of his laughter behind you.

“I know everything about you, Bambi.” His voice brushes against you like his soft touch. You melt, feeling your weight sink into him further. “I know that you don’t share your food with anyone but me. I know that your favorite episode of Buffy is Hush. I know that you think Buffy should end up with Spike. I know that you are probably soaked right now because being caressed drives you crazy.”

“Insufficient data,” you breathe. “I recommend research.”

“You know what? Agreed.”

Chan moves fast. His hand moves from your chest to between your legs, hands slipping under the waistband of your shorts and panties before you can blink. Your lips part, a breathy noise escaping you as Chan drags a slow finger up your sticky folds.

“What do you know,” he observes. His fingers idly trail up and down your slit, making you twitch against him. “I was right. Do I win anything?”

“I thought you said nice guys shouldn’t just win the girl.”

Chan presses his fingers firmly to your clit, a ripple of pleasure ebbing through you. Your hips lift off the couch slightly but he pushes you back down into his lap, other hand looping around your waist to lock you to him. “Maybe I’m not that nice.”

Slowly, he starts to retract his hand. You whimper, both of your hands shooting to grab the wrist belonging to the hand between your legs. He pauses, fingers pressed between your folds. “You are nice!”

“Oh?”

“Very nice. You’re my very nice, very sweet boyfriend.”

“I see.”

He doesn’t move his hand at all. The space is filled with the low hum of Buffy fighting vampires, the blue flash of the screen falling against your silhouettes, body to body as he holds you tight. You try to get control of your racing heart, but that’s never been easy around Chan.

He knows it.

“Maybe you know some things,” you admit slowly. “Maybe I was wrong.”

Chan’s resounding chuckle is dangerous, but he slides his hand back down. You loosen your grip on his wrist but keep your hands resting on his forearm, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as his fingers resume their debauched exploration.

“See, that’s another thing I know. I know you hate being wrong, so if you’re wrong… it was because you were doing so intentionally.”

His words fall on unlistening ears. You’re too worked up by the simple way he plays you, too focused on the way his fingers gently circle your clit, the perfect stimulation. Too distracted by the way he dips his head down to sweep his mouth across your throat in open-mouthed kisses.

“I know you’re… not listening.” He stops and you let out a strangled sound, nails digging into his arms. He presses a wet kiss to your pulse point. “Didn’t think so.”

“Chan.”

“Hmm?”

“Please don’t tease me.”

“Why not? You were teasing me.”

You pout. He can’t see it, but you know he knows it’s there. “I like to tease you. I have to keep you humble.”

A long moan slips from your lips and you tilt your head back to Chan’s shoulder when he presses a finger into your aching cunt. You feel yourself twitch around him, hips swiveling for more friction.

“Humble? How are you ever going to keep me humble when this pussy gets this wet after I’ve barely touched you?”

Well that’s true. You don’t care, though, turning boneless as Chan strokes you with his fingers properly. It feels so good. Only he knows how to touch you like this, familiar with every button to press and every contour to mold to.

Heat flushes your neck. Chan presses his lips against your cheek, working your cunt with his fingers as he holds you steadfast. It feels like you might suffocate, totally trapped against him. His skin and breath are hot against you, the air thick. He breathes out a groan when your hips buck upward, Chan dropping all pretext of teasing you.

“Like that,” he breathes, heavy. “Do it exactly how you like it.”

Another finger drives you wild. You fumble over his name, squeezing your eyes shut and meeting the quick strokes of his hand. His palm presses firmly against your clit, letting you grind yourself against him for the extra stimulation.

You burn up. Briefly you wonder if this flash of euphoric heat is what Icarus felt before the fall. The thought is chased away from the intense pressure in your stomach as Chan presses up against that spot inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes.

“Wait - I’m gonna come in my shorts,” you whine, realizing you still have them on. “Chaaaan.”

“So come in them,” he says simply. “Research has revealed that you have a washer and dryer down the hall, baby. Go ahead.”

“Fuuuuck.”

“Come for me. I know you want to.”

You do want to. A moment of static builds up, your thighs squeezing around his hand so hard he can’t move and then you’re coming around his fingers, your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. His grip across your waist is like iron, holding you to him as you come undone.

Chan’s mouth presses gentle kisses on your jaw, muttering soft I love yous and fuck yeahs against your burning skin. The burning doesn’t stop, your body flushed with heat as you sink away from your orgasm, turning to molten metal and melting into his hold.

He leaves you like that for a few minutes, thighs shaking around the hand still shoved between your legs, fingers pressed deep inside of you. It feels intimate, and you crane your neck, driven by the desire to kiss him. Chan’s lips are already there because he knew you would want his lips against yours.

Just like he knows everything about you.

Chan’s lips are soft and gentle. His tongue brushes against yours in a slow dance and you lean up into him more, desperate for him. He laughs into the kiss, letting you have your way until you’re panting, sweaty and out of breath again.

You sag, head on his shoulder as you pant. “Your fingers are still in me.”

“Mhm.” He presses them in harshly, making you jolt. It earns a deep laugh from him. “Maybe we should call this Popcorn & Pussy instead. We’ve barely gotten through a full night of episodes since we started dating.”

“Are you aware you make the worst jokes?” You open your eyes and glance at the screen, only to find that the show has paused between episodes, asking if you’re still watching and if you want to continue. “Are you still watching? No, Buffy. I’m not.”

“No problem.” Chan pulls his hand from between your legs, the wet squelch making you whimper. “I have something else you can watch.”

“Oh?”

Chan kisses your temple sweetly before getting up, letting you fall back against the couch while he kneels on the couch and pulls your legs toward his face. You inhale deeply, watching as he looks up through long lashes, a smirk on his face. “Still watching, Bambi?”

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy21-blog @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched@eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy@gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries@archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona@beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen@mingumi @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp @ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy21-blog @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched@eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy@gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries@archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona@beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumi @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp

#lee chan smut #chan smut #dino smut #dino svt #svt smut #chan x reader #dino reader #dino fanfic #svt fanfic #sventeen smut #dino x reader #dino x you #lee chan x reader #lee chan x you

259 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 8 months ago

Text

100 Words for Worldbuilding

Some sensory words that can enhance your story/poem.

A-E

Acid - sour, burnt; vinegary

Acrid - strong, biting (e.g., something on fire)

Airy - natural smelling, (e.g., clean, fresh air)

Ambrosial - fragrant; having a pleasant smell

Aroma - strong, yet pleasant scent

Aura - smell surrounding something

Balm - soothing scent

Billowy - scent that surges and wanes

Biting - pungent, sharp or harsh

Bouquet - blend of floral scents

Briny - salty

Buttery - smooth; rich; greasy

Citrusy - crisp notes of any citrus fruit

Clean - very light scent, clean and natural

Cottony - soft; smooth or delicate

Creaky - squeaky; showing signs of deterioration

Crisp - fresh and natural

Crystalline - strikingly clear or sparkling

Dirty - nasty, unpleasant odor

Doggy - odor like an unbathed or wet canine

Downy - soft, soothing; silky; delicate

Earthy - recently dug or tilled soil

Essence - basic, natural scent

F-M

Faint - very light or mild; can barely be detected

Feminine - floral fragrances

Fetid - decaying or rotting smell

Fishy - smelling of fish; pungent, strong, unpleasant

Fleecy - shaggy; woolly

Floral - scents associated with flowers

Flowery - fragrance similar to flowers

Foamy - frothy; bubbly

Fragrance - pleasant smell

Fresh - natural smelling, rather than artificial

Fruity - having the flavor or aroma of ripe fruit; sweet

Gaudy - excessively showy

Gingery - pungent; sharp, robust taste or aroma

Globular - spherical

Gossamer - light, delicate, or insubstantial

Grainy - coarse; sandy; unrefined

Heady - very strong aroma

Incense - strong scent

Lemony - tart, piquant citrus notes

Lilac - rich floral scent combining rose with vanilla

Lime - refreshing and zesty citrus smell

Loamy - fragrance with an earthy note

Masculine - earthy fragrances

Medicinal - earthy; often unpleasant

Mildewed - soaked in wetness that has gone stale

Minty - menthol-like smell (e.g., mint tea or peppermint candy)

Misty - mild fragrance, not overpowering

Moist - smell of dew or rainfall

Moldy - damp, fungus-like odor

Musty - old smell; stale and probably moldy

N-R

Nauseating - odor that makes one sick to the stomach

Odorize - changing the scent

Overpowering - too strong of a smell

Peppery - hot, pungent, fiery; stinging

Perfumed - artificial fragrance, not natural-smelling

Pheromone - natural scents

Piercing - loud, shrill; biting

Pine - crisp, refreshing evergreen smell

Piquant - pleasantly pungent, sharp, or spicy taste

Plastic - artificial chemical polymer odor

Poignant - pungently pervasive; piercing

Prickly - stinging; irritating; itchy

Pristine - fresh and clean as or as if new

Pungent - strong fragrance

Putrid - stench of decay

Rancid - spoiled; food that has gone bad

Rank - offensive in odor or flavor

Redolent - having a strong, permeating odor

Repulsive - off-putting odor

Rich - strong, resounding smell that is appealing to the senses

Ripe - brought by aging to full flavor or the best state

Rose - spicy yet sweet fragrance

Rotten - spoiled, rancid, unpalatable

S-Z

Savory - spicy, salty scent that has no elements of sweetness

Sharp - pungent fragrance that permeates the air

Skunky - noxious smell that lingers; sulfuric (like rotten eggs) odor

Smoky - scent of burning wood

Soapy - smooth and slippery

Sour - rancid, sickly sweet smell

Spicy - sharp, heady, can sting or tickle the nose

Spoiled - rotten; something that has “gone bad”

Stale - old, dusty, stagnant odor

Stinking - unpleasant, foul smell

Sweaty - perspiration odor

Sweet - sugary smell

Tangy - having a powerfully stimulating odor or flavor; acidic

Tantalizing - arouses or stimulates desire or interest

Tart - sharp fragrance or taste

Tasteless - arousing no interest; dull

Tempting - having an appeal; enticing

Trace - a tiny amount of fragrance

Velvety - soft, smooth, thick, or richly hued

Vinegary - sour; disagreeable, bitter, or irascible

Whiff - a fleeting scent

Wispy - hint of fragrance in the air

Woodsy - forest-like smell

Zesty - sharp and pleasantly stimulating

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Worldbuilding ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#worldbuilding #word list #writeblr #dark academia #spilled ink #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #writing prompt #poets on tumblr #poetry #writing inspiration #writing ideas #descriptors #creative writing #fiction #writing resources

421 notes · View notes

archer-kacey · 5 months ago

Text

If the Art Corner is still active you bet your ass I'm dropping this in there when it's done

#mint's hints #mint's hints 2 #lilac mint's hints #mint's hints fanart

9 notes · View notes

riddikulusravenclawbelle · 2 months ago

Text

taste

plot - she’s a Slytherin who plays with fire. He’s the Gryffindor who finally gets burned. When a Potions mishap leads to late-night detentions, sparks turn to smirks, insults turn to touches—and suddenly, hating each other isn’t the only thing they’re good at.

characters - harry potter x you, draco malfoy x you (mentioned)

warnings - possessiveness, heavy themes, smut, and angst

wc - 4.8k

creds - @cafekitsune for the divider! <3

final notes - this is my first smutty fic, and i didn't even mean to start it as one. enjoy reader ;)

edit: part 2 out now

Professor Slughorn clapped his hands together. 'Attention to detail is the prerequisite of all planning!' He beamed—just as the door opened to reveal the Chosen One himself.

Draco hated his guts. You tried not to, but there was always trouble where Harry went…

“Ah! Harry, my boy, I was beginning to worry. Get what you want from the cupboard.” Slughorn instructed Harry and barely acknowledged Ron.

Harry’s eyes cut over to you. You looked away immediately. You were a Slytherin. Practically Draco’s best friend, and a bit more. You’d stolen one to many kisses from Draco and had many nights where you ‘accidentally’ slept over at Malfoy’s dorm. As for the chosen one? Potter was very easy on the eyes but, you weren’t going to risk being shunned from your house.

“Any ideas what these might be?” Slughorn asked, referring to the potions he concocted earlier today.

Hermione, ever the know-it-all, answered swiftly. The love potion. “It’s rumoured to smell differently according to each person, according to what attracts them.”

“Exactly. Now Amortentia doesn’t create actual love. That would be impossible. Who wants to try to give us an example of what they smell?”

Your eyes immediately went to the floor, praying to Merlin that Slughorn doesn’t pick you. But he did. Great.

You cleared your throat and stepped up to the cauldron. “I smell old parchment paper and ink.”

“Go on, Y/L/N.” Slughorn says.

“Um I also smell freshly cut grass, almost like how the quidditch field smells. The fresh rain smells after a storm and hints of a fireplace freshly stocked with wood.”

“Good.” Slughorn says.

Draco frowns, but Harry smirks.

“I think she smells you mate.” Ron says nudging Harry.

“No, I don't!” You quickly snapped, almost biting his head off.

All the students take their turn, including Hermione who smells fresh mint toothpaste and Luna who smells warm wool and candy. Then, It’s Harry’s turn.

“Don’t be shy my boy!” Slughorn insists. Of course. That could only end badly.

“I smell-”

He pauses.

Sniffs.

A faint pink flushes across his cheeks.

“Um cherries, warmth, and,”

He hesitates, but eager to get on Slughorn’s good side, he finishes by mumbling:

“That vanilla scented stuff she wears.” His eyes cut to you only for a second before looking down in shame.

Why did he have to smell you?

The slytherin boys teased Harry and made multiple ‘woo’ noises. Bloody hell.

“Looks like someone’s got a crush on Y/N.” Lorenzo couldn’t resist teasing.

Blaise silently shot you a knowing smirk.

“As if Y/N would ever go for Potter.” Draco sneers.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

You and Draco gather the last of your things from the Slytherin table.

“Merlin you take forever.” Draco complained, eager to catch up with Blaise and the rest of the Slytherins. That’s when you hear footsteps approaching. You looked up and saw the golden boy himself, Harry Potter.

“I’ll catch up.” You say, looking at Draco, smiling and resting a hand on his arm.

“Alright.” Draco said walking away but not before giving Potter a scathing look. “I don’t trust that git.” He muttered as he walked away.

Harry scratched his neck, you could tell he was nervous for whatever he was about to say. “You always wear that vanilla scent, don't you?” He lightly chuckled.

“Yeah.” You stopped packing your stuff and put a hand on the desk. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” He said, not meaning to offend you. ”Guess I just noticed today in Potions.” He smiled then walked away leaving you flustered. No teasing. Just that awkward boyish honesty that had no business being that charming.

It wasn’t the first time you noticed him, obviously. But it was the first time you blushed at his comment and the first time your stomach twisted.

You froze in place for a moment, temporarily stunned.

“You coming, princess?” Draco said, groaning.

“Yeah, my bad. I thought you already left!” You said, quickly grabbing the rest of your stuff and meeting Draco at the door.

“What’d Potter want?”

“Nothing.” You said, but in reality the scent of parchment paper and a warm fire were still lingering. And all you could think about for the rest of the week was bloody Harry James Potter.

So when Potions arrived again, you prayed to Merlin you would have a normal time as you walked with Draco, Theo, Mattheo, Enzo, Blaise, and Pansy.

“Do you think Slughorn ever forgets which potion he's drinking and ends up sipping Amortentia?” Theo asked, jokingly.

“That would explain why he keeps smiling at his own reflection.” Enzo adds, which gets an eye roll from Blaise.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

“What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen…is a curious little potion known as Felix Felicis. It is more commonly referred to as -” Slughorn stars before getting interrupted.

“Liquid Luck.” Y/N responds, sitting with all the Slytherins now at their table. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cut your eyes over to the Gryffindor table to see Harry a couple of times. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you.

“So, this is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of Liquid Luck to the student who in the hour that remains, manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death. Let the brewing commence.” Slughorn announces and immediately you—and all the other students in the class— start to brew.

“Hey, Y/N.” Mattheo says, already has a smirk on his face that reads nothing but trouble

“Yes?” You say, sighing as you were focused on making the potion, but now facing Mattheo.

“Hope you like blokes with glasses. 'Cause apparently one’s obsessed with you now.” Mattheo teased, loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Mattheo Riddle’s book went flying with a hex before he could finish his sentence.

“Miss Y/L/N!” Slughorn says surprised. “I expected better from you. You’ll be serving detention scrubbing the old Potions classroom after hours.” He said.

“Ugh.” You said, putting your head down on your desk. “Thanks, Mattheo.” you mumbled to where you could only hear.

The class ends with Slughorn announcing Harry had won the Felix Felicis and you all clapped for him.

“Oh Potter.” Slughorn said, grabbing the boy’s attention.

“Yes sir?”

“You’re top of the class and one of my best students—would you mind overseeing Miss Y/L/N’s detention? She’s a bright girl, just needs a steady influence.” Slughorn winked.

“Sure, sir.” Harry smiled, even though he sighed inside.

“Was Slughorn congratulating you even more mate?” Ron asked as he walked down the hall with Hermione and Harry by his side.

“No, actually. He asked if I could watch over Y/N’s detention. He’s lost it. Who in their free time would want to monitor detention?”

“Harry.” Hermione started, in her intellectual tone. “It’s clear Y/N and you had smelled each other's scents last week. He’s obviously setting you up.”

“Did you say yes?” Ron asked.

“Yeah. But I’m just doing this to appease him, Dumbledore wants me to get close to him.” Harry explained, although a small fraction of him was looking forward to spending time with you–without Malfoy.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

You were elbow-deep in soap suds and whatever magical gunk stained the walls of the old Potions classroom. You were too busy scrubbing to care how you looked at the moment. Then you heard the door creak. You turned to see it was the star student, Harry Potter. You turned back around.

“Slughorn sent you?” You inquired but you knew he did. Of course he did. You rolled your eyes as you continued scrubbing.

“Nice to see you too, Y/N.” Harry said, fighting a smile that threatened to creep onto his face.

Of course, he’d be smiling. He knew he was charming. You looked back to see that Harry was rolling up his sleeves, his hair a little messier than usual due to the day. He looked so effortlessly handsome.

“I thought this was my detention.” You said distracting yourself from the man that you were just admiring.

“Professor Slughorn sent me to supervise. Make sure you don’t hex anyone” He explained.

“Well you can tell Slughorn I won't hex anyone unless they deserve it–and Mattheo did.” You replied, which earned a laugh from Harry.

You felt a warm feeling inside. One that made you want to hear him laugh more. “You don't have to pity laugh.”

“What? No, no, that was funny. Mattheo can be a bloke sometimes.” He grinned, reflecting.

“Yeah,” you breathlessly laughed. You wringed out your towel as he squatted beside you, rolling up his sleeves even more, inspecting what you had been scrubbing for the past few minutes.

“I can handle it, golden boy.” You looked at him.

“I know you can.” He looked back at you. Something inside you lit up like a firework, those striking green eyes. You looked right back down.

He’s off limits. You knew this.

A few minutes passed before you needed more of the cleaning potion. You reached up toward one of the higher shelves where Slughorn kept old potions ingredients. You stretched on your tiptoes, fingers just grazing the edge of the jar as you felt the back of your shirt stretch up revealing your bare lower back.

“Need help?” Harry asked, you rolled your eyes in defiance. You knew you needed his help—and so did he.

Without another word he came over and grabbed it for you. His hand brushed the bare small of your back sending an electric spark up your spine. Nothing overt, you don’t think he meant to do it. But it made your breath hitch.

You cleared your throat. “Thanks.”

“Told you, I don’t bite Y/L/N, unless you want me to.” He smirked, his voice soft but his smirk spoke louder than the both of you combined.

“I figured I’d help anyways. I’m nice like that.” He said with a soft smile on his face. Why was he being so kind?

For a while there was only light conversation, jokes sprinkled in (mostly at Ron’s expense.), and the sounds of enchanted cleaning equipment to take up the sound in the room. It was quite nice.

And you smiled. And laughed. A lot.

He reached over your shoulder to grab a cleaning potion, and that’s when it hit you.

That smell.

Fire wood, the quidditch grass after a fresh cut, and a soft hint of an unknown warmth.

The exact combination from Amortentia.

You froze because you couldn’t deny it anymore. It was him.

“You alright, Y/L/N?” he asked, quietly. Like he actually cared.

You blinked. Then blurting out: “You changed your cologne.”

“Noticed, huh?” he said, smiling. “Hermione picked it—said it smells like me.”

“It does.” The words slipped out before you could catch them.

“Like the Amortentia you smelled in class the other day?” Harry teased, leaning closer to you. His voice changed to a lower, softer tone–he was certain at this point.

You didn’t respond. Your mouth had already betrayed you the last two times you spoke. Unfortunately, your silence spoke volumes.

“I knew it.” He smiled, smug. Blushing.

You looked at him then. Really looked. He was close enough to count the freckles on his nose. Close enough to see all the different shades of green in his eyes. Close enough to see that his lips were parted like he was holding his breath.

“Harry..” you whispered, almost so quiet to where you couldn’t hear it.

“You’ve got something-” he trails off as he wipes some soap off of your cheek. He keeps his hand there though. Your brain is telling you to look anywhere but in his eyes. Pull away. Slap his hand away. But you don’t.

And that’s when he kissed you. Softly. His lips felt like clouds you could lay on forever. It was warm and felt shy, like he was unsure if he should be kissing Draco’s best friend, a fellow Slytherin.

“Bloody hell.” you whispered on his lips.

You knew this was dangerous. You knew kissing Harry was the kind of thing that could unravel everything you’d worked to protect—your status in Slytherin, your friendship with Draco. But Merlin, you wanted him.

Eventually, your hands started to wander. And so did Harry’s.

“D’ya think Slughorn planned this?” Harry asked between kisses.

“If he did, I don’t think he planned it to go this far.” You replied breathlessly.

His hand was on your waist before you had a chance to even think about what you were doing. You gasped into his mouth, letting him guide you backward until the desk hit the back of your thighs. Your hands were tangled in his hair, pulling slightly, and he let out a low groan against your lips.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, even as he backed you up against the wood. But he didn’t stop. Neither did you. You helped him take his shirt off. You wanted to explore all the parts the cape was normally covering.

He hoisted you onto the desk with ease, parchment crackling beneath your thighs as you landed. The wood was cool through your slytherin skirt, a sharp contrast to the heat in your chest.

“Spread your legs.” He commands. His voice is deeper and eyes darker.

“You're distracting,” he said, breathless now, fingers trailing up the edge of your blouse. “How’s a bloke supposed to finish a potion like this?”

“You’re the one who kissed me.” You teased him, pressing your hand against his erection. Rubbing it.

“You kissed me back.” He growled.

A soft knock echoed from the far door. You both froze.

“Shit,” you whispered.

Harry cast a quick Silencing Charm toward the hallway, then leaned back in with a grin.

“You owe me ten points from Slytherin with that save.”

“She smirks. “Fine. But you’ll have to work harder if you want the House Cup.”

“Then maybe you should make it up to me some other way,” he said, fingers slipping just under the hem of your skirt.

The parchment crinkled louder now, mingling with the sound of their quickened breathing, the faint creak of old wood. Every noise felt dangerous. Every kiss felt like a dare.

The Silencing Charm fizzled suddenly, the glow snapping out with a quiet pop. They froze again—this time for real—just as Slughorn’s voice echoed faintly down the hall.

“Everything alright in there?”

Harry blinked, panic and adrenaline lighting his features.

“Brilliant,” you muttered, hopping off the desk and straightening your skirt.

He didn’t stop smiling as he helped you button the top of your blouse, eyes flicking down to your lips.

“We are so getting caught,” you whispered.

“Worth it,” he replied.

“Okay. Just finish up in there.” Slughorn says before you hear his footsteps retreat.

“Oh we will sir.” Harry said as you smacked his chest. It took no time for him to devour your face again like it was his air he needed to breathe. As he went to kiss your collarbone, he noticed a necklace.

He looped a few fingers around your silver necklace with Draco’s initials on it. He immediately ripped it off, throwing it across the classroom. You were more of a gold girl anyways.

The moment the necklace was gone, something in Harry changed. You weren’t Draco’s property anymore. His restraint—snapped.

“You’ve been wearing his initials this whole time?” His voice was low, rough, barely recognizable. “That git doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

This time when he kissed you, it was harder. Like he was staking a claim on you. He wanted to make you forget any guy you had ever been with. And you let him.

You moaned into his mouth as he gripped your thighs, spreading them apart with a firm hand as he stepped between them.

“The silencing charm is gone, so you have to be quiet, yeah?” He instructed. You nodded. Anything to have him please you right now.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh in your legs, forcibly pulling you closer to the edge of the desk until there was no space between you. You could feel him—all of him—pressed against your core through layers of fabric. It made your head spin and your heat ache.

“You’re so fucking warm,” he murmured, his thumb trailing around your lips and eventually going into your mouth—which you started sucking. “Been imagining this since the first time you smart-mouthed me in class.”

“Merlin, Potter you’re addicted to me.” You smirked, tugging at his belt.

“Maybe,” he slipped his hand to touch the space between your two legs. He leaned to whisper in your ear. “But I’m not the one soaking for your best friend's enemy.”

After, he pushed your underwear to the side like it was nothing. “You’re dripping for me.” He said, more to himself as an achievement than to you. “All of this for me.” He said, admiring the view.

“Merlin Harry.” you said, bucking your hips.

He pulled back his fingers after you finished, licking them while maintaining eye contact with you. “You taste so sweet. Like cherries and trouble.”

“C’mere,” you begged, grabbing his shirt and dragging him down for another kiss, all teeth and tongue. You could feel the hard line of his cock through his trousers, grinding against you with each movement. You needed him.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, voice hoarse, his forehead pressed to yours.

You grabbed what you wanted.

“Use your words, or I walk out of here right now, love.”

“I want you to fuck me right here on Slughorn’s desk,” you said, unashamed, fire blazing in your chest. “Like you don’t care if someone walks in.”

“I’ll be quick,” he muttered, pulling his pants and underwear down in a swift motion, voice thick with lust. “But next time, you’re riding me until you forget Malfoy’s name.”

“Yes sir.”

And then he was inside you.

You gasped, nails raking down his back as he filled you all at once. There was no easing into it, no time for gentle. He thrust deep and hard, making you moan out of pleasure.

His hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your moans as your head fell back in pleasure. “I said to be quiet.”

His pace was brutal, unforgiving, like he was punishing you for making him want you this much. You clenched around him, making him choke on a moan against your neck.

“Fuck—keep doing that and I’m not gonna last,” he hissed.

You bit down on his shoulder, trying not to scream. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he slammed into you, each thrust hitting your core perfectly, you swore you could start seeing stars. It’s like he’s done this before. Your bodies were in sync perfectly.

“Harry,” you moaned, which only sped his pacing up, “Gonna cum,” you whispered into his ear, desperate and wild. “Please—don’t stop—”

“I’ve got you,” he growled. “Cum for me, darling.” He said before moving stray hairs out of your face to look in your eyes.

You shattered around him, muffling your cry into his shoulder as you clenched hard, your whole body pulsing with the release. Harry followed right after, groaning low as he buried himself deep inside you, spilling with a final thrust that left you both trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of you both catching your breaths, the creak of the desk, and the faint sizzle of a potion that had overheated across the room.

Then Harry slowly pulled back, resting his forehead on yours, still inside you.

“Well,” he panted, smirking. “I think Slughorn’s desk might need a second round of cleaning.”

You smirked right back, running a hand through your hair. “Only if you supervise again.”

Your legs were so jello you almost fell when you both started to put your clothes back on. Although he giggled at first, he was gentle, slowly putting your shirt and underwear back on, making sure you were okay. He stole a few kisses before you had to part ways. Nobody could find out. Especially Draco.

As you walked down the hallway, alone, you were smoothing out your skirt and running your fingers through your hair. Thats when you caught a glimpse of your new tie. Gold and Red.

“Bloody hell.” you muttered. You quickly snatched it off, that would be a bold fashion statement in the Slytheirn common room for sure. One you were not ready to risk tonight.

But you couldn't help the smug little smile curling on your lips, reflecting on tonight’s events. Your neck still tingled where Harry had kissed you. Branded you. Your thighs ached deliciously with every step. You smelled like his cologne and sex and sin.

“Ah, Y/L/N. How was detention?” Draco asked.

“Terrible.” You said fighting a smirk, to which you lost.

“Where’s your tie, Y/N?” Theo noticed.

“Oh I lost it.” That earned a smirk from Blaise. He never spoke yet he knew everything.

You walked to your dorm when Lorenzo followed you.

“Ah, Y/N. You smell like sex. A scent I know all too well. So what really happened at detention? And if you don’t tell me, I’m assuming it was Slughorn.”

Meanwhile, across the hall, Harry walked in with a huge internal grin on his face. While trying to maintain an external ‘innocent and casual’ look. His hair was messier, sticking up in all different directions, where you had tugged on it. His lips tingling and his shirt untucked. But most importantly? The tie around his neck was not red and gold.

“Oi! Mate! What took you so long! ‘Mione made me do all of my homework.” Ron inquired.

“You had detention with Y/N, didn’t you?” Hermione interrogated.

“Yeah. The one I had to oversee.”

Hermione raised a brow. “You’re wearing a Slytherin tie.”

Fuck.

Worth it.

He looked down and pretended like he was surprised. “Huh. Must’ve—uh—mixed them up by accident.”

Ron blinked. “How do you accidentally put on a tie that’s a completely different color?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Harry mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “It was dark.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You smell like cleaning supplies and… something else.”

“I know what your thinking ‘Mione.” He paused as he sat down in the chair, facing Ron and Hermione who occupied the sofa by the fireplace. “But nothing happened okay?”

“That’s not what your body says. You're practically glowing mate.” Ron said half embarrassed for Harry. Half proud of Harry.

“Your lips are swollen,” Hermione added as she continued to analyze him. “And you’ve got a love bite on your neck.”

Harry slapped a hand over it, heart racing. “Merlin’s beard, Hermione.”

“Harry snogged a Slytherin!” Ron said, putting all the pieces together. “You snogged Y/N Y/L/N.”

Harry stared in the fireplace, refusing to answer. Not out of embarrassment, but out of respect.

“I must say,” Hermione began.

“Must you?” Harry said, throwing his head back.

“Yes.” She paused, then continued. “Y/N is a good match for you-”

“If she wasn’t Malfoy’s best mate.” Ron added.

Which made Harry flashback to when he ripped off your necklace with Malfoy’s initials.

He giggled, remembering the memory, proud of himself.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

“I’m just saying, if Hermione and Ron don’t get together by the end of this year, I will give you ten galleons,” Pansy laughs beside you in the courtyard between classes.

You laugh, shaking her hand. “Deal.”

Draco saunters up like he owns the damn place—confidence and arrogance wrapped up in a perfectly pressed Slytherin uniform. His eyes scan you slowly.

“Y/LN.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?” Your laughter fades, but you keep the smirk. You know how to match his energy.

“I was—” He pauses, eyes flicking down. “Wait. Where’s your necklace?”

You blink. “What?”

“The silver one. The one I gave you for your birthday.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your neck. Empty. “Oh. I must’ve misplaced it.”

Draco narrows his eyes, something unspoken tightening in his jaw. But he doesn’t press. You feel it though—whatever illusion you two had? It’s slipping.

And then, as if on cue, Harry walks up.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just clocks Draco standing far too close to you. His jaw tightens.

“Ah, Potter,” Draco smirks, catching the tension. “Careful. Keep staring at Y/N like that and people might start thinking you actually like her. Especially after that little Amortentia stunt in Potions.”

Harry’s expression darkens. He knows exactly what Draco’s doing—but so do you. And you don’t stop it.

“Yeah?” Harry says, voice low.

Draco steps closer, smug. They’re almost nose-to-nose now.

Harry looks between the two of you, jaw clenched like he’s debating something dangerous. Then he turns to Draco, voice low but lethal.

“Next time you get close to Y/N…” He pauses. “Let me know how my dick tastes, Malfoy.”

The courtyard goes silent.

Mattheo chokes on his pumpkin juice somewhere behind you. Enzo’s jaw? On the floor.

Draco stares, stunned. He’d expected a snide remark. Not that.

You? You can barely breathe. Heart racing. Legs weak. And somewhere deep down—way deeper than you want to admit—you’re completely, shamelessly turned on.

Harry doesn’t wait. He brushes past, fingers grazing your wrist in a possessive little touch that feels like a brand.

You stare after him, stunned. Then at Draco.

“I—”

You don’t finish. You run.

You find Harry in a shadowy corridor, one no one uses anymore. “Potter!” you snap.

He turns. There’s something flickering in his eyes—guilt? Regret? But it’s gone just as fast.

“What the hell was that?” you push him, palms on his chest.

He pins you to the wall, dark eyes wild. “No.”

“What?”

“You don’t get to look at him like that after last night.” His voice is rough, angry.

“I wasn’t—”

“You’re mine, Y/N.” He leans in, breath hot by your ear. “You know you’re mine.”

His hands plant on either side of your head, caging you in.

“That doesn’t give you the right to—”

His lips hover just inches from yours, daring you to keep going.

“He looked at you like he still had a chance. Asked about the necklace like you’re still his. And you just let him.”

“It’s not like that,” you whisper.

“Then make it clear.”

He looks at your mouth, then your eyes. Your lips crash into his like you’re starved. Need outweighs reason.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“Say what?”

“Say it, Y/N.”

You hesitate—then surrender. “I’m yours.”

Harry grins against your mouth before kissing you again like he’s claiming what’s his.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Later, you sneak into the Slytherin common room, Harry’s kiss still burning on your lips.

“So it’s true then,” Draco’s voice cuts through the quiet. He’s slouched in a chair, signature green apple in hand. He takes a bite.

You freeze. Of course he knows. Everyone does by now. You sigh.

You don’t say anything.

“Snogging in corridors. Switching ties like love letters.” He scoffs. “You think no one notices?”

“Why do you even care? Draco, we hooked up five times. It didn’t mean anything—you know that.” That was cruel, and you both knew it.

“Because you were mine first, Y/N.” Draco rarely referred to anyone by their first name, so you knew this was serious. He took a swig of his fire whisky. Always was his go-to.

“Tell me, Y/N.” He hesitated, did he want to know the answer to his next query? “Is he better than me?”

You stared off into space, it was at least thirty seconds before you responded. “Yes.”

You looked back at Draco, you could tell that stung. “That half-blood golden boy who doesn’t know what to do with a girl like you.” Draco sticks his tongue in his cheek. “He’ll only break your heart, princess. You’ll regret choosing him.”

You turn to go, but his voice follows you, quieter—almost vulnerable.

“I asked about the necklace because I thought maybe…” he trails off, then swallows hard. “Thought maybe you’d still wear something I gave you. Never mind. I guess you had other things wrapped around your neck anyway.”

That almost gets you.

Almost.

“Draco, stop.”

“Was it when we were…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

“Don’t twist this.”

“Well, you’re not denying it.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Enjoy being his dirty little secret. Let me know when the Gryffindor guilt eats him alive.”

You walk away, letting Draco have the last word. But this isn’t over. Not with Draco. Not with Harry. And definitely not with the girl staring back at you in the mirror.

297 notes · View notes

5starluvr · 2 days ago

Text

Three lies deep

Part 1 > Part 2

Pairing: Hyunjin x Felix x Reader

Genre: Smut • fluff • slight angst

Summary:

You didn’t mean to get caught in their gravity.Felix was soft smiles and reckless touch. Hyunjin was silence, precision, and heat.You thought you were just filling the space between them—until you found yourself beneath them, between them, and finally… chosen by both.

Warnings: Warnings: 18+ / MDNI • Dom/sub dynamics • Praise & degradation kink • M/M & M/M/F content • Oral (f receiving) • Double penetration • Emotional vulnerability • Aftercare • Self-conscious sub • Gentle possessiveness • Kissing between all parties • Soft angst with resolution • jealousy

The door creaked open.

She never knocked. It wasn't out of rudeness—she just had a way of moving through the house like she already owned it. Like it had been built around her and everyone else was just visiting.

Hyunjin didn't look up. Pencil steady in his fingers, he shaded the edge of a collarbone in the sketchbook sprawled across his lap. The girl on the page wasn't anyone specific. Just a curve of a shoulder, a hint of hair tied back in tension. He'd been working on it for an hour and still hadn't decided if he hated it.

The floor creaked again. Bare feet, soft. She always walked barefoot, no matter how cold the marble tiles got at night.

"Do you have toothpaste?" she asked.

Not a greeting. Just the question, straight through the quiet.

Hyunjin exhaled through his nose, slowly. "In the bathroom cabinet."

"Yours is better than mine," she said, already walking in. "Mine tastes like fake mint and it's too spicy."

He finally looked up.

She was wearing a tank top—threadbare and low on one side, like it didn't fit quite right—and tiny pink shorts with white trim that clung too close to her hips. Her hair was in a loose braid down one side, a few strands around her cheek. Her skin looked too pretty against the dark fabric. Too soft.

Hyunjin looked back down at his sketchbook.

She stepped into the en suite bathroom. He heard the cabinet open, heard the soft rattle of things shifting inside. Then the sound of her brushing. Loud, on purpose.

He tried to focus on the sketch again, but it was ruined. His pencil pressed too hard into the paper, scratching the page. He flipped it closed.

She emerged a moment later, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You hate when I come in here," she said, as if she was reminding him of the weather.

He didn't answer.

"You used to say something. Now you just get all quiet and murdery."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding. "Why are you here, y/n?"

She tilted her head. "In Korea or in your room?"

"Start with my room."

She moved to the edge of his bed and sat down without asking. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight.

"Your room has better air-conditioning."

A lie. Her room was directly under the fan unit. She just liked saying things she knew he wouldn't challenge.

Hyunjin stared at her. Her legs were crossed, one bare foot swinging lazily. She didn't even look at him while she spoke—her eyes wandered across his desk, the half-finished drawings, the closed sketchbook.

She picked up a pencil, rolled it between her fingers.

"You have someone coming over today?" she asked.

He blinked. "No."

"Mmh. Shame." She smiled faintly. "I like watching you get awkward around people."

"I'm not awkward."

She looked directly at him now. "You are around me."

He didn't answer.

A long pause settled between them. The kind that made the cicadas outside seem louder, the ceiling fan heavier as it spun above.

"You know Felix wants to come over tomorrow, right?" she said.

Hyunjin's shoulders tensed. Just slightly. "Yeah."

She leaned back on her palms, stretching her spine. "He texted me."

Hyunjin's gaze sharpened.

"Why?" he asked.

She smiled again, small and infuriating. "He said he wants to see the house."

That wasn't what he meant and she knew it.

Hyunjin stood, suddenly, too quickly. The chair scraped the floor. He walked toward the door. "Get out."She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not your entertainment," he muttered, reaching for the handle.

She stood too, in no rush. Walked past him, brushing too close. She smelled like coconut shampoo and something faintly like vanilla —something he didn't recognize from the bathroom shelf.

At the door, she paused. Turned.

"You know," she said softly, "if you hate me so much, you shouldn't watch me all the time."

Then she left. Quiet as she came.

The door clicked shut behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three months ago.

A table at a glossy restaurant in Gangnam. All glass and gold accents. The kind of place you reserved weeks in advance unless you were his father, who just made a phone call.

Hyunjin hadn't known why they were meeting until the woman arrived—tall, elegant, fur-lined coat even though it wasn't cold enough for it. Her lipstick was red and perfect. She kissed his father on the cheek like they were old lovers.

They weren't.

She was his father's dentist. They'd met four months ago after a cracked molar and a cancelled meeting. She'd done the procedure herself— she was precise, unflinching, and just charming enough to make pain feel like conversation. His father had been taken with her before the anesthesia wore off.

Hyunjin didn't care. He was used to his father getting what he wanted.

But then she'd said, with a careful accent, "I'd like you to meet my daughter. She's just flown in."

And then she stepped around the corner.

Not nervous. Not smiling. Just... looking. A girl in a black dress and thick eyeliner, posture too confident for someone her age. One hand on the back of the chair, like she wasn't sure if she was going to sit or leave.She'd met his eyes for the first time and tilted her head—just slightly.

That was all.

No handshake. No polite Korean greeting. No wide-eyed step-sister cliché.

She just looked at him, then sat down.

They'd all eaten steak that night while the adults talked about logistics and joint assets and summer properties in Nice. Hyunjin barely touched his food.She drank red wine with practiced ease and didn't speak unless spoken to.

They got married two weeks later. A private ceremony. No guests.

She moved into the house one week after that. Her clothes took over the upstairs closet. Her perfume replaced the citrusy diffusers his father liked. Her laughter started echoing down the hall at night when she was on the phone with friends he didn't know.

And Hyunjin had no idea what to do with her.

She didn't try to befriend him. Didn't try to make him like her.

She just existed—boldly, quietly—like she had always belonged here. And worse, she noticed everything.

When he didn't answer.

When he looked too long.

When he looked away too fast.

She never asked him to talk. But she made it impossible to ignore her.

And now... she walked in and out of his room like the house was hers.

Maybe it was.

Maybe he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door had been closed for fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.

Hyunjin still hadn't moved.

He stood at the edge of the desk, sketchbook closed, pencil untouched. His eyes flicked toward the floor where she had walked, then toward the chair she had leaned against, the sheets she had wrinkled just by sitting there.

He wasn't supposed to care.

She was nothing. His father's new wife's daughter. An interloper. A guest who never left.

Except she wasn't a guest. She was here. Every day. In his hallway. In his kitchen. In his space.

In his head.

Hyunjin let out a breath and forced himself to move—step by step toward the window. The room was dim now. The sky outside had darkened to a bluish-grey, that electric color that came before real nightfall. A few garden lights flickered on.

Then he saw her.

Outside. Alone.

She was down by the pool, standing barefoot on the pale stone tiles. Her hair was down now, loose and falling down her back in a soft wave. She'd changed into one of those oversized linen shirts she stole from the laundry room—his father's, probably. Too big, the sleeves slipping past her wrists.

She wasn't swimming. Just walking along the edge, trailing her fingers across the surface of the water. She didn't know he was watching.

Or maybe she did.

She paused at the far side, turned toward the house—and tilted her face up slightly, toward his window. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make his pulse spike. He should close the curtain.

He didn't.

Instead, he leaned closer. Just slightly. His forehead grazed the edge of the windowpane.

She sat down at the edge of the pool. Rolled up her sleeves. Dipped her legs in the water.

The shirt slid up her thighs.

Hyunjin's jaw clenched. He stepped back, abruptly, like the glass might accuse him.

It was wrong to look. She wasn't just a girl.

She was her.

And yet—he looked again.

She was smiling now, just barely, at something in her hand. Her phone screen lit her face in pale blue.

Texting.

Probably Felix.

Hyunjin swallowed hard.

He turned away, back to his desk. Sat down. Opened the sketchbook to a blank page.

The pencil hovered over the paper, waiting.

He started to draw. Not from imagination this time.A girl. Cross-legged. Hair down. Shirt slipping over one shoulder.Her face was turned slightly away. But he didn't need to see her eyes to know them.

He drew anyway.

Then the doorbell rang at 2:17 p.m.—five minutes earlier than expected.

Hyunjin was already halfway down the stairs, barefoot, grey sweatshirt clinging slightly from the heat. He didn't like the doorbell. It always sounded too sharp, too formal, like someone rich had designed it to remind you they were home.

Felix didn't wait. By the time Hyunjin opened the door, he was already grinning, shifting his weight on one sneakered foot, arms open like he lived there."Hyung" Felix said, dragging out the vowel. "You look like you've been in quarantine for three weeks."Hyunjin stepped back silently and let him in. "It's hot."

Felix kicked his shoes off and walked straight to the kitchen like he always did. "You don't have AC upstairs?"

"I do."

Felix paused, turned over his shoulder. "Then why do you look like a tortured poet right now?"

Hyunjin didn't answer. He followed.

The kitchen was clean, the way Hyunjin kept it. Light poured in from the windows, catching the thin streak of blonde in Felix's hair. He'd redyed it since last time—more contrast now. More trouble."Water?" Hyunjin asked, already opening the fridge.

"Something cold. Something evil. Do you still have those peach sodas?"

He handed one over without comment.

Felix cracked the can open and leaned against the counter, sipping loudly. "So. Where's your mysterious stepsister?"

Hyunjin froze for just a second. "Upstairs, I think."Ohhh," Felix said, eyebrows up. "She's real, then. I was starting to think you made her up."

Hyunjin gave him a look.

"What? You never post her. Never mention her. Never say anything except, 'she lives here now.' That's creepy. You made it sound like a ghost moved in."

"She's not a ghost," came a voice from behind them.

Felix turned.

There she stood at the edge of the hallway. Barefoot again. Same oversized linen shirt—maybe the same one from last night. Her hair was down, wet at the ends. She had a towel slung over one shoulder and no expression on her face.

Felix blinked. Then smiled wide. "You must be y/n."She tilted her head. "You must be loud."

Felix laughed. "Guilty."

She walked past them into the kitchen and opened the fridge without asking. Pulled out a bottle of chilled water. Drank half of it in one go.

Hyunjin watched Felix watching her.

Felix leaned slightly toward her, elbow on the counter. "You're taller than I thought."

"Flats," she said simply.

"Ah." He let his eyes drop to her feet. "Still. You're like... terrifyingly elegant."

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Terrifying?"

"In a good way."

Hyunjin's jaw tensed.

She turned, looking straight at him. "Your friend flirts like he's being timed."

Hyunjin didn't respond. Felix grinned.

"I'm just efficient," Felix said. "Kinda like your sarcasm. You two really are related."

"We're not," y/n and Hyunjin said at the same time.

A beat of silence.

Felix blinked. "Right. Step. Got it."

She walked past them again, heading for the stairs.

"I'm changing," she called over her shoulder. "Don't wait."

Felix watched her go until she disappeared down the hall. Then turned back to Hyunjin with a slow grin.

"Hyung.."

Hyunjin opened another can of soda, not looking at him. "Don't."

Felix's grin widened. "Too late."

~~~~~~~~

The dining table wasn't meant for three people.

It seated ten—glass-topped, surrounded by velvet chairs that Hyunjin's father claimed were imported from Milan. It always felt like too much. Tonight it felt like a stage.

Y/n took her time coming down. She appeared just as Hyunjin and Felix finished setting plates—slow steps, silk robe loosely knotted, her hair brushed and still damp from her shower.

Felix looked up from the salad bowl and nearly dropped the tongs.

"Jesus."

"Too much?" She asked, glancing down at herself without concern.

It wasn't a dress. Just the robe, dark red, falling open at the collar and too short to be accidental. Hyunjin could see the hem of black shorts beneath it, barely.

Felix recovered with a grin. "Not enough, technically. But I'm not complaining."

"Mm. That's new," she said, sitting across from him. "Men usually start with fake modesty."

Felix smiled. "I'm Australian."

"As if that explains everything."

" It kind of does."

Hyunjin took the seat at the head of the table. He didn't speak.

They ate in half-silence—forks clicking, glasses clinking. The kind of silence full of things being thought but not said.

"So.." Felix said eventually, picking at his chicken. "What's it like living with this guy?"

He jerked a thumb at Hyunjin without looking.

Shs smiled faintly, chewing slowly. "Quiet."

Hyunjin's fork paused over his plate.

Felix snorted. "That sounds accurate."

"He doesn't like music," she continued, voice light. "Doesn't like clutter. Doesn't like when people move things."

"Are you describing a serial killer or your stepbrother?"

She turned to Felix. "What's the difference?"

Felix let out a laugh.Hyunjin didn't. He drank from his water glass and stared at the edge of his plate.

"I do like music," he said quietly.

"Oh?" Y/n tilted her head. "Then why did you unplug my speaker from the bathroom?"

"Because it was two a.m.," he said sharply.

She raised her glass, unbothered. "I like to shower with soundtrack."Felix looked between them, eyebrows high. "This is the weirdest dinner I've ever had and I once ate goat brain in Morocco."

"You haven't seen anything yet," she said.

Her eyes didn't leave Hyunjin's.

There was a long pause. Something invisible passed between them—too quiet for words, too heavy to ignore.Felix leaned forward slightly. "Okay. I have to ask."

"No, you don't," Hyunjin said, voice low.

Felix ignored him. "You two have like... a thing, right?"She looked amused. "Define 'thing.'"

"I don't know. This... electricity. Like I walked into a soap opera where everyone's too hot and no one's saying what they mean."

Hyunjin stood abruptly. Picked up his plate. Walked it to the sink.

Felix whistled under his breath. "Wow. I was kidding."

Y/n sipped her wine. "Were you?"

Felix looked back at her. His grin had softened. "Maybe not."She looked at him a beat longer than necessary. Then stood too, gathering her own plate.

"Good food," she said simply. "I'm going outside."

And she disappeared into the hallway.

Felix watched her go, then turned back to Hyunjin at the sink.

"You're really not gonna say anything?"

Hyunjin didn't look at him.

Felix tilted his head. "You're staring at the knife block like it insulted you."

"Don't push it," Hyunjin muttered.

Felix just grinned.

"I don't have to," he said. "She's already pushing you hard enough."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door to the patio slid open with a whisper.

Hyunjin stepped out into the night air—thick and warm, clinging to his skin like breath. The cicadas had quieted, replaced by the occasional chirp of frogs and the gentle hum of the pool filter. The water glowed cerulean under the lights, making the tiles look like glass.

Nastya sat at the edge again, just like last night.

Only this time, her robe was gone.

She wore a black tank top, thin straps slipping off one shoulder, and those same shorts—legs bare, toes dipped into the water. Her phone sat abandoned beside her. Her hair glinting in the moonlight.

She didn't turn around when she heard him.

"I thought you were done watching," she said.

Hyunjin stayed where he was, just outside the door. "You're not making it easy."

She smiled without looking at him. "You think I do it on purpose?"

"Yes."

That made her laugh. A short, soft thing, like air slipping through teeth. "Maybe."

He stepped closer. Slowly. Stopped a few feet behind her.

"You think you're clever," he said.

"I am."

She finally turned, chin over her shoulder. Her expression unreadable. "You think you're in control."

Hyunjin's jaw tightened. "What do you want from me?"

She stood. Smoothly. Water dripped from her feet as she walked toward him, closing the distance. One step. Two.

"Want?" she repeated, voice low.

He could smell her—something sweet, like vanilla again . Her eyes searched his face, calm, unblinking.

"I don't want anything," she whispered. "But you do."

He didn't move. Couldn't.

"Tell me to stop," she said.

And just like that, the sliding door opened again.

Felix stepped out into the silence, holding a beer in one hand.

He stopped mid-step. Took in the scene.Her close to Hyunjin, Hyunjin frozen like a wire about to snap.

"Well," Felix said cheerfully. "Don't let me interrupt."

She didn't look away from Hyunjin. "Too late."

Felix raised his beer. "You two have zero subtlety, you know that?"

Neither of them answered.

Felix walked closer, slow, casual, completely in control. He stopped beside them, then glanced at Hyunjin. "You gonna lose it now or later?"

Hyunjin's voice came out quieter than expected. "Go inside."

Felix's eyes narrowed slightly. "No."

Hyunjin turned toward him. "This isn't your business."

"It is when you look like you're about to combust and she's standing there waiting for you to do it."

Y/n finally moved. Stepped away from Hyunjin—just slightly—and faced Felix.

"Funny," she said. "You're always around when things start getting interesting."

Felix tilted his head. "You think I'm not interesting on my own?"

She didn't answer. Just looked at him. Looked through him.

Felix smiled again—but this one was different. Lower. Tighter.

He stepped toward her, only a little, and said, "You think he's jealous of me, don't you?"

She blinked once. "Isn't he?"

Felix turned to Hyunjin. "Are you?"

Hyunjin's fists clenched at his sides.

No one spoke.

The night held still. The pool glowed. The air between all three of them thickened, like it might snap with one wrong move.

And then—

Hyunjin stepped forward.

He didn't say a word. Just reached out.

His hand brushed her wrist. Deliberate. Slow.

Her breath hitched.

Felix didn't speak either. But he was watching. Every second. Every shift.

Felix stepped closer—but slower this time.

There was no smirk. No easy laugh. Just a steady gaze, fixed between them.

His eyes flicked to where Hyunjin's hand still rested on her hip. His fingers had stopped moving, but they hadn't let go.

Y/n's breath hitched—not from fear, not from surprise. From the sheer weight of silence between all three of them. Every second stretched tight, pulling like a thread caught between teeth.

Felix's voice, when it came, was soft.

"You were never going to tell me, were you?"

Hyunjin didn't move. "There was nothing to tell."

Felix laughed, low, bitter. "You think I don't know what it looks like when you want something you're not supposed to?"

Hyunjin turned slightly toward him, jaw clenched. "This isn't about you."

"It's always about me," Felix said quietly. "You made sure of that."

The words hit harder than either of them expected.

She looked between them now, her expression unreadable—but her body tense. Still pinned by Hyunjin's presence, still aware of Felix's slow advance.

Felix stopped just in front of them, his gaze on Hyunjin.

"You've been avoiding me for weeks. Pulling away. Acting like everything's fine. And now I walk in and find you—" he gestured faintly toward her"—here, like this."

Hyunjin looked at him fully now. His face unreadable, but his voice was softer when he said, "I didn't plan this."

Felix's eyes narrowed. "But you didn't stop it."

Y/n leaned forward slightly. "Are you asking for an explanation or permission?"

They both looked at her.

She wasn't smiling now. Her voice was calm, but her hands had curled into the fabric of her shorts. She was bracing herself—against judgment, maybe. Or something worse: rejection.

Felix's breath came slow. Then, without speaking, he reached out.

One hand.

Not to her.

To Hyunjin.

His fingers brushed the edge of Hyunjin's wrist. The touch was featherlight. Not flirtatious. Not teasing.

Just real.

Hyunjin didn't flinch.

He looked down at the hand. Then up at Felix. Something shifted in his eyes—sharpness fading, replaced by something softer, something cracked.

For a second, no one moved.

And then Hyunjin whispered, "I don't know what I'm doing."

It wasn't an excuse.

It was a confession.

Felix's hand didn't move. "Neither do I."

Y/n exhaled, shakily. Like she'd been holding her breath all along.

Felix stepped closer—not intruding, just entering the space they'd been protecting so fiercely.

"Then maybe stop trying to do it right," he said. "And just feel it."

Hyunjin looked at him for a long time.

Then slowly—so slowly—he turned his hand in Felix's.

Their fingers touched. Interlocked.

She losed her eyes for half a second.

When she opened them, both of them were looking at her.

Waiting.

Not for permission.

For what came next.

She stepped back.

Just one quiet step. Bare feet against cool tile. She didn't speak. Didn't explain.

She saw it—knew it—the moment Hyunjin's gaze stopped looking past Felix and finally settled on him.

Everything in the air shifted.

They stood so close now, hands still loosely laced, breathing in sync but just offbeat enough to betray tension. The kind that had no name. The kind built from years of glances held too long and words never said right.

Felix didn't smile.

He didn't tease.

His voice was low, steady. "Is this what you've been trying not to say?"

Hyunjin didn't answer at first.

Then: "You always knew."

Felix nodded once. "Doesn't mean I understood."

His thumb brushed Hyunjin's. A simple gesture. But it felt like a key turning in a door they'd both pretended was never there.

"You hate when I look at her," Felix said.

Hyunjin's eyes flicked to the side, toward the pool, toward anything else—but Felix didn't let go.

"It's not just because she's her," Felix added.

Hyunjin's voice dropped to a whisper. "No."

Another silence.

Then Felix moved.

Just barely—his forehead rested against Hyunjin's, a touch so gentle it didn't even register as a kiss. Their breaths mingled. No rush. No fear.

Hyunjin's eyes fluttered closed.

He whispered, "I don't know how to want this and survive it."

Felix let out the faintest laugh—pained and sweet. "Then don't survive it. Just feel it."

And then their lips met.

Not messy. Not desperate.

Just real.

The first touch was a question. The second was an answer.

Hyunjin's hands gripped Felix's shirt—not to pull him closer, but to anchor himself. Like if he didn't hold on, something in him might fall away completely.

Felix deepened the kiss slowly, carefully. His other hand came up to cup the side of Hyunjin's neck. Not forceful. Just there. Like he'd always wanted to know what it felt like.

They broke apart with breathless silence, foreheads still pressed together.

Hyunjin's chest rose and fell too fast. Felix was still watching him, but softer now. He touched his thumb to the corner of Hyunjin's mouth, barely there.

"You're okay," he whispered.

Hyunjin opened his eyes.

Y/n stood a few feet away, watching them.

But she wasn't angry.

She looked...calm. Present. Like this was exactly what she'd expected.

Felix looked at her. Then back at Hyunjin.

Then he said, so quietly it almost disappeared, "So what now?"

No one moved at first.

Hyunjin and Felix stood forehead to forehead, breathless from a kiss that had taken years to happen in seconds. The poollight behind them painted their shadows long and strange.

And then she stepped forward.

Not hurried. Not loud. Like she belonged in the pause between them.

Hyunjin looked at her first.

There was no guilt in his eyes now—just something raw, open. Like he'd stopped trying to shove everything down and was waiting to see what she'd do with the truth.

She didn't speak.

She reached up and touched Felix's cheek.

He leaned into her palm, eyes fluttering closed for just a beat. Then opened again. Looked at her. Looked at Hyunjin.

None of them said anything.

She stepped in between them—not to separate, but to close the triangle. One hand on Hyunjin's chest. One still at Felix's jaw. She was touching them both now. Present between them. Holding the weight of everything unspoken.

"You both want everything," she said softly. "And you both try not to ask for it."

Felix smiled faintly. "Is that a problem?"

Her voice didn't change. "It's exhausting."

Hyunjin swallowed. "Then what are we doing?"

She looked up at him. Then at Felix. Then back.

Her hands didn't move. Her voice dropped, softer than the dark around them.

"We stop pretending," she said. "We take it—all of it. Together."

Hyunjin exhaled shakily. "What does that even mean?"

Felix answered this time. "It means we stop thinking. For once."

And somehow, that was enough.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to Hyunjin's—different from before. Slower. Tender. She didn't push. She just... stayed. Her hand gripped his shirt lightly, like she knew exactly how fragile the moment was.

When she pulled back, Felix was there—close again, not waiting for permission anymore.

He kissed her too.

And she kissed him back.

They were careful. Almost reverent. Like touching something dangerous that could also be holy.

Then Hyunjin's hand slipped to Felix's back—steady, grounding. Felix turned, and their mouths met again, this time deeper, fuller, as if something had finally clicked open between them.

No one led. No one followed.

They moved like parts of one breath, one body, one question finally allowed to be asked without shame.

The poollight flickered once.

Inside, the house stood silent—rooms untouched, rules forgotten.

And outside, three hearts beat just slightly out of sync—tangled now, impossibly, into something none of them could ever take back.

132 notes · View notes

feinecutasy · 3 months ago

Text

New Tenant

ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ stood anxiously in front of the flat. The landlord, ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ, so far had been very wholesome and welcoming. Almost unnaturally so. The young man’s mind drifted to memories of their first meeting.

---

It was too good to be true. A fully furnished studio flat, right in the city’s centre, with monthly rent not even above 70% of market price. Photos and the description showed nothing unusual – not even a hint of outraging demands or potential contractual traps, aside from a preference for a quiet, not too party-going tenant. The offer had already been up for a week. There must be a catch. An offer this good would have vanished in less than 2 days. There's only one way for Steve to find out.

Steve stood anxiously in front of the flat. Setting up an appointment was relatively straightforward, and the warm and energetic way in which the deep-voiced owner communicated had definitely helped in keeping his doubts at bay. He had imagined Peter Choi, the owner of a flat that was – perhaps not too coincidentally – barely a few steps away from the Korean district, to be some slim, slightly conservative middle-aged ethnic Korean man looking to further increase his hard-earned wealth. The very moment when he heard an enthusiastic „Hi, you must be Steve! I’m Peter. C’mon in!” booming out from within the flat, his preconception was completely shattered.

The man in front of him was an imposing tower of sheer muscles, with pale skin, a buzz cut, bushy eyebrows and a full, even bushier beard. Patches of hair chaotically lined up his chest, a glimpse of which was made possible thanks to the top two undone buttons of his shirt; the poor thing struggling to contain his hefty, herculean pecs. His youthful face was acne-covered, his neck thicker than Steve’s thighs, and his dilated grey eyes not too different from those of a weed-lover after a fat joint. Fortunately, and unfortunately at the same time, Steve couldn’t sense from the man the distinct stoner’s smell, only one accumulated from spending too much time in a sweaty locker room. Still, the signs did little to curb in Steve’s mind the image of a druggy youngster to whom the thought of free time not spent pumping iron would seem greatly outrageous. The brutish built was more befitting of someone who suffers brain damage in the wrestling ring for a living, but nevertheless there was a classical, Michelangelesque handsomeness in his visage, and the faint insidiousness of a shrewd businessman in his manner. And there was also … something else. Something uncanny that Steve couldn’t figure out. Oddly enough, perhaps it was this „something” that had rendered Steve’s instincts dysfunctional, for in other circumstances, he would have immediately bolted away from the sight of such a man and the number of red flags.

Steve convinced himself of the flat’s mint condition after having checked all of its nooks and crannies. The company of Peter was greatly appreciated, as the man turned out to be a great conversationalist. Steve was already hooked, and when Peter said that he would love to have someone calm and understanding like Steve as his new tenant after the last one wrecked his place, he was determined. The generous landlord even offered Steve dinner at a Korean restaurant nearby, and after having all his questions answered („Yes, I took my wife’s last name. Hard to find a pasty white guy with a Korean last name, aye?”, „I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s just genetics. I don’t do drugs.”) and his belly stuffed with soybean stew, kimchi and grilled pork belly, Steve happily signed the tenancy agreement.

---

Steve stood anxiously in front of the flat, bags and suitcases by his side. It didn’t take long for Peter to arrive. The two exchanged greetings and quickly entered the flat. Just like the first time they met, Steve felt unease for no particular reason. A shiver went up his spine as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but the discomfort shortly dissipated he was reassured by his landlord’s radiating energy and rambunctiousness.

„This is the key to the flat, this one … for the gate, but you can also use a code. I’ll send it to you on WhatsApp. Much quicker that way, actually. This one for the letterbox. And … I think that’s basically it”, Peter smiled warmly as his he handed the keychain to his new tenant. After having the latter thanked him, he stepped towards the table to fetch something.

„By the way, I brought you some pizza!”

A mix of gratitude and embarrassment momentarily seized Steve. It’s their second time meeting and he was already receiving so much from his landlord. He blurted out a few words of gratitude, unable to hide his excitement upon seeing the pizza box in Peter’s meaty hand. Placing the box right in the centre of Peter’s field of vision, the bulky man opened it with his left hand in one quick, swift motion.

There was no pizza. Inside the box was a smooth, slick, black creature that somewhat resembled the legless amalgamation of an ant and a spider had it not been for the writhing fleshy mass of thin, long tentacles – which looked more like the skinny tassels trailing behind a jellyfish – floating in front of what’s supposed to be it head. Light bounced off its chitinous carapace, bringing out a vibrant purple sheen. In the place where there were supposed to be eyes, a slit ran across the curved surface, parting the roots of the tentacles into two orderly clusters. The thorax, which connected the head to the rest of the body was in essence a bumpy, ragged, solid and relatively passive hump. The most striking of its features was the abdomen – a voluptuous, oblong sac covered by a veiny, glossy membrane that revealed strange organs pulsating within a clear gelatinous substance inside.

When Steve could finally process the outlandish scene unfolding in front of him, it was already too late. In the blink of an eye, thousands of fleshy threads shot out and latched onto his face while at the same time contracting, bringing the creature closer to him. Each of the threads touched the surface of his skin, flattened out before taking on the same colour and texture as his own flesh. They then softly dug into his face, slowly assimilating with his facial nerves. Instinctively, Steve tried to scream, but a wall of flesh was already formed before his mouth, blocking any sound from coming out. His attempt to use his hands to yank the thing away was in vain, for Peter was already keeping both of his scrawny limbs in a tight grip.

With his sight partially obscured by the wall of flesh that was now linked with his mouth, Steve could see the creature’s thorax split into two, revealing a more organic, fleshy organ slowly making its way out. His eyes could only perceive colourful waves of light hovering above the organ, for his human vision lacked the precision required to notice the row of microscopic, hooked needles slowly protruding out from the creature’s middle. The organ slithered to his side until he could no longer see it, slowly positioning itself straight behind his back. Steve could only feel a slight tickle on his nape, oblivious to the fact that his nervous system was already subdued.

Steve’s eyes dilated. All struggles had ceased. Peter loosened his grip on Steve as the latter’s limbs relaxed. His breath stabilised. The adrenaline rush has been quelled, and his heart rate and blood flow had returned back to their normal paces. Steve looked dully ahead, though whatever his eyes perceived, his brain registered none of it, for it was being distracted by something else. Someone or something was crawling through his mind. Memories in random chronological order flashed on and off abruptly inside his head. Highschool feud. Second job. Drunk on the tube. Lost in the shopping centre. Deployment. First love. Bike incident … He then started to realise that some of these memories weren’t his. He could vaguely made out the personas who owned them. A macho construction worker from Eastern Europe. A young, inexperienced American soldier. A middle-aged Korean immigrant … All but one sets of memories ended in one exact same moment, which Steve now knew would also become a part of his memory shortly after.

The fleshy wall in front of his mouth pulsated, pushing the creature’s sac pushed closer and closer, until it finally entered his oral cavity. The carapace dropped to the floor, producing a faint clank. The pulsating continued as the viscous, translucent liquid was pumped into Steve’s mouth. His compromised nerves pulled on, gently nudging him to swallow, after which the whole content of the sac was free to travel further inside his body.

Intense heat spread through Steve’s whole body. His now heavy testicles sagged down greatly as the scrotum struggled to adjust to their new combined weight after the latest influx of extraterrestrial, invigorating material. Acnes broke out over his face and elsewhere on his body due to its unfamiliarity with and inability to process bursts of testosterone in the span of mere seconds. His cock twitched with anticipation, growing longer and thicker; the head swelled, glistening with pre-cum. Alien energy induced extreme growth in all of his cells. His frame expanded, muscles bulging beneath smooth skin everywhere in parallel with his growth in both the horizontal and vertical direction. His clothes were starting to yield. His underwear gave in to his virile front and his ever-expanding muscular rear. His jeans surrendered to his man-crushing colossal thighs. His t-shirt torn from the pressure of his thickening biceps, triceps and the two still swelling hairy mounds of meat on his chest. His body tried to regulate the never seen before amount of intense heat inside but to no avail: the suffocating smell of sweat had already dominated the room, and it won’t be long before his body develops a reeking body odour that no deodorant nor showering could ever get rid of. The flesh wall that covered his mandible earlier had been absorbed into his body. His face took on all the facial features of Peter – his bushy eyebrows and beard, his strong, straight nose, down to his piercing grey eyes that are now still dilating due to the creature’s earlier interference. The fleshy organ that was attaching to his nape finally detached from its shell. The lump of flesh burrowed deeper into his neck, transforming it into an even thicker and muscular one that would put any professional wrestler to shame. His Adam’s apple as a result grew and protruded out a little more to make room for his enhanced voice box, further deepening his voice.

In the room, two identical hulking men stood face to face, one clothed, one practically naked. Beneath their feet lied an empty pizza box and a carapace of some unidentified organism.

---

3 years later …

ᴏꜱᴄᴀʀ stood anxiously in front of the flat. The landlord, ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ, so far had been very wholesome and welcoming.

Almost unnaturally so.

#alien possession #cloning #mind control #male transformation #male tf #muscle tf

242 notes · View notes

papasbaseball · 7 months ago

Text

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl)

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Teen (Rating to Increase)

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,185

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

The chill fights to work its way through me as I dress quickly. Mint blouse, forest green skirt, and olive apron are donned and tightened before the chill can catch me. I curse Esmet, the head butler for not having gotten the heating fixed by now, the cold of the winter month creeping in and savaging the servants' quarters of the Royal Palace like a fatal disease. I'd be happy as soon as I got into the Wizard's quarters, busying about with the other green bees in keeping the apartments in tip shape. There were several old hearths that had remained there through renovations that could have roaring and crackling fires set to them if needed. Until recently, they had been used solely for decorations.

I strip off the socks that I wore to bed and replace them with a new clean pair that was thick and wooly, and of course dyed green. Emily is still sleeping under the thick duvet when I shake her awake.

"Up, up, sleepy head," I say.

Emily grumbles and pulls the duvet around her tighter now that I'm not under it. She had her own bed, but the staff had taken to sharing beds to provide enough comfort to fall asleep as the sun sank the temperature in the palace with it. I can't blame her for wanting to keep warm, but it was better to rip the bandage off and go start the fire than to wallow in the misery. I cross the shared bedroom to her small little cube of a nightstand and pull her uniform out, throwing it on her sleep-wrinkled face. She flinches, but I'm already lacing up my boots.

"You're going to miss breakfast like yesterday if you don't get up and do your chores," I say. That causes her to wake up. All staff were required to complete their basic morning chores if they wanted to be fed. Emily had overslept yesterday and hadn't seen food until lunch.

I leave Emily to it, not wanting to miss out on my own breakfast. Quickly, I take the old wooden stairs up the servants' way to the Wizard's apartments. They hadn't seen fit to replace those with green marble yet, so they remained creaking from their decades of use. Esmet had already set the first fire in the hearth nearby the door, and for that I hate him a little less. I grab mint sheets from a linen closet and head to the main bedroom.

The Wizard had already risen. This was a little-known fact, one that we in his service had been sworn to secrecy. Nobody was supposed to know that the Great Oracle has needs like any other ordinary man, but looking past the need for sheets and warm baths drawn, he is still as wonderful as the day he came to Oz. Esmet had explained it to me when I was finally trusted to be put into his personal service. It was a privilege to serve him in such close proximity, that those who were unworthy became sick from the good that seeped from him and infected everything that he touched. It was also for his protection that most did not know who he truly was.

I lower my eyes when I knock before entering his room. In the first few weeks in his service, I had been terrified that I would catch some hideous illness that would make me break out in a pox exposing my badness to the world, but it never came. Still, I did not chance it, trying to make sure that I never caught sight of him in case the effects took direct contact to show up.

His room smells sweet with incense and a hint of tobacco. I look up briefly before raising my eyes, making sure the coast is clear. Satisfied that he is not present, I set the clean sheets on the emerald velvet bench at the end of the bed and work at stripping yesterday's sheets off of it. They're much softer than ours, the cotton only the highest quality that can be imported from Munchkinland. I think about the rough sheets that I had left Emily sleeping in back in our cold room.

The door creaks open and I hear her voice. "I'm going downstairs for wood," she says. "We're all out up here. Esmet must have used it all."

I go back to stripping the pillowcases, throwing the old linens into a nearby hamper. At least she's up, I think. Once I have the entire bed bare, I turn back to grab the new sheets, only to be met with the sight of him.

Given my fear, I had never actually seen him in person, but I knew what he looked like. His portrait was hung up in various places around the apartment. One painting that I had quite fancied hung in the dining room. In it, he was sat rather crooked in a chair of gold with green upholstery, a man with gray hair coifed in sweeps and a mustache and goatee to match, his hand lazily resting on the head of a tiger that had been posed next to him. I had always admired his bravery, wondering if he was ever for a second scared when posing for the painting. Seeing him now, any bravery that I had immediately fled from me as I cast my eyes back to the floor, giving an apologetic curtsy.

"Your Wonderfulness," I say, moving off towards the laundry basket, out of his way.

"You haven't happened to see my cufflinks?" he asks. I watch as his green wingtips walk into the room right up to the nightstand next to me.

"No, Your Wonderfulness," I say, trying to still the frog that is hopping in my throat. Why is he talking to me!?

"Could you help me look then?" he says. "They're... well they're green with a little..." he searches for the word. "A little gold flower on them."

I immediately go to searching, looking on the dresser. If I were a pair of cufflinks, where would I be? There are so many fine things laid out on his dresser: a golden hairbrush and mirror set, a snuffbox decorated with emerald and gold beetles, a green satin ribbon. No cufflinks.

"I swear I had them this morning," he says. "Should've had him put them on... Any luck over there?"

I turn to face him, eyes still on the floor. "No, Your Wonderfulness," I say.

"Is there something wrong with my face?" he says. It felt like I had swallowed a peach pit of embarrassment, my cheeks pinkening even more than the cold had roughed them up. I can’t find the words to respond to him, biting my tongue in fear that it may also offend him

"Do me a favor and look me in the eye," he says. "It's weird talking to the top of someone's head, no matter how pretty her braids are."

The compliment makes me want to dive into the basket of dirty laundry, never to be seen again, but I raise my eyes to look at him. This is the first day I have ever spoken with him, and somehow in all of his wonderfulness, he finds it fitting to compliment me. He is just like his portraits, but maybe with a few extra wrinkles around the eyes, the pepper that had generously seasoned his hair reduced to a dash. It can't be helped as those paintings must have been several years old. He smiles and again I fight the urge to bury myself in the hamper.

"Such pretty eyes," he says, crossing the room towards me. My heart beats quickly against my breastbone. Somehow this feels wrong, like I'll get in trouble with Esmet if he walks into the room. I remember Emily, who had gone down to get firewood for the hearth in the bedroom and my lips quiver to form words.

"Do you think they might be in the dresser?" I ask. It's sinful, but I don't want her seeing me with the Wizard. She could be a cruel tease when she wanted to be. I had avoided it for the most part, but the poor Munchkin boy that she had bullied when we'd first come to the palace eventually had to be relocated to the kitchen staff with the way he wept at night in the shared bedroom. Who knows what kind of rumors she might spread if she thought I had looked too swooned by him.

"I suppose," he drawls, making a survey of the top of his gilded dresser, humming in thought. His fingers snatch the ribbon between the middle and index and snap it sharply before holding it up to the sunlight. Satisfied with the assessment, he takes it and wraps it around and ties it into a bow amongst the two braids that wrap the crown of my head. "It looks better on you. Got it as a gift from an ambassador and I hadn't a clue what to do with it."

I go to thank him, but he holds a finger up in the air as if remembering something. Pushing his hand into his pocket, he produces two cufflinks: green, just like he said, with little golden flowers on them.

"Would you mind helping me with them?" he asks. I hadn't put on someone's cufflinks since I was 10 – my father's before he had passed away – but I figure that it can't be much different. I remember Emily once more and quickly guide the metal through the starched cotton, trying not to think too much about how I had gone from never seeing the most powerful man in Oz to dressing him in a matter of minutes.

He gives the sleeves a shake, and satisfied with their solidity, squeezes my cheeks with a tsk of the tongue. "There's a good girl," he says.

As quick as he'd entered the room, he left, leaving me with more than a hundred butterflies in my stomach and sweating palms. I head back to the dirty laundry and wipe off my palms on the sheets. There is a rattling of wood on metal and I know that Emily is back with a bucket full of wood. I hurry to the sheets, realizing that they are still not on the bed, just as they had been when Emily had left.

She enters the room as I'm stretching the second corner of the fitted sheet."What a nightmare that was," she says. "Those idiots in receiving hadn't opened up the wood shipment from last night so I had to wait there for them to cut it open. Here's hoping I still get breakfast." She sets the pail down with a clank, quickly chucking rough-hewn blocks of wood and logs onto the metal grate. "What's taking you so long with that bed?"

I sweep over to the other side, my crinoline rustling under my skirt. "There was a hole in the sheet," I lie. She didn't need to know all about how the Wizard had asked me to help him look for his cufflinks and about me helping him to get dressed afterward. I close my eyes as I pull the last corner of the sheet over the mattress and I can still smell the warmth of his cologne from that moment. It reminds me of the rolls that we get for Lurlinemas, with their cloves poking out of the shiny egg-washed crusts.

"I didn't see you with that ribbon earlier this morning," Emily says, pulling a box of matches from the mantle. "It's pretty. Did you get it in town?"

My eyes go wide as I realize that I still have the ribbon fastened around my head. "Oh," I stutter. I wasn't used to making up so many lies this early in the morning. "It's just some old thing I picked up this summer at the markets."

Emily gets a good strike and soon the fire is crackling quickly into a roar. "Well it looks good," she says. "Maybe we could go into town later this week. I need to get some gifts for Lurlinemas."

I was a little surprised that she was considering gifts, considering the price of everything had been crazy lately. Our meals and housing were complimentary with working in the palace, but any kind of extra clothing or goods besides the uniform that was provided at the start of each year was strictly up to each servant. The last time I had been in the markets I'd gawked at the price of 79 pennies for new laces for my boots. I consider objecting to the potential spending spree but hold my tongue. She's been asking too many questions. "Maybe we could go on Saturday?" I say.

Emily agrees to that, and we pass the rest of our day finishing our chores at a leisurely pace to soak up as much warmth as possible, talking of things we want to go do and see in the markets, away from the cold of the palace.

#wicked fanfiction #wicked 2024 #The wizard x reader #the wizard fanfiction #wicked 2024 fanfic #jeff goldblum

205 notes · View notes

netherfeildren · 1 year ago

Text

FABLE OF THE DOG : 3. Little Freak

Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1, Chapter: 2,

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Rough Sex; Size Difference; Spanking; DD/lg Dynamics; Dom/Sub Undertones; Forced Orgasm; Dirty Talk (like really forreal); Small Boobie Rep; Biting; Over Stimulation;

A/N: really sticking my finger in the father wound and wiggling it around in this one :))))))

Word Count: 10.3K

Read on AO3

3. Little Freak

You pull your sticky fingers from the damp bed of your underwear, the not enough little orgasm you’d been able to rub out still pulsing hot and cold through your cunt.

Horrible man—you’ve never wanted anyone or anything as badly as you want him to need you. And no, not a wanting sort of thing, not a wanting sort of desire—that’s not what you’d demand from him. It’s specific, this thing: it’s that you want him to have no choice in the matter, you want him to be forced, to see no other recourse but you because that’s just how necessary you feel to him.

You want there to be no thought, no compunction in him—only you.

Even more, because lies are worth nothing here in your own mind in your cold bed—

—You want him to love you.

The way your father never did. The way no man ever has, not really.

Face buried in the dark for a moment, you groan softly before sliding belly first off the silk bedding onto your knees, pushing yourself up off the floor unsteadily. You toe your boots off and then step tiptoe on the end of each sock to pull them from your feet. It’d not been a lie—you’re not drunk, limiting yourself to only one tonight, and no liquor, because you knew you needed to be able to focus on the taste of his tongue when you inevitably got your hooks in him, hoping, knowing he’d take your bait and follow, but now, it’s a wholly different sort of buzz zinging through you.

All him. All man. All Joel.

He’d been flavored of smoked whiskey and mint, a hint of tobacco, and you wish you could’ve been more faithful in your pursuit of enjoying the chewing of the leaves he always has, you’d tried for years but couldn’t bear the texture, the green gnashed between your teeth, earthen and organic. It’s not for you, your tastes veering to something hotter and sweeter. But you’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and every endeavor at a connection, no matter how small, had always seemed like a valiant one.

Stupid birthdays. Disgusting leaves of mint. Dead fathers and daughters and all the different ways we hurt each other.

Stumbling coltish and uncoordinated, newly birthed down the staircase, you push your way out the back door. He’ll have gone to bed now, you know they’re going up the mountain early tomorrow morning to check on one of the herds, but you’re desperate for one more second of him, being spit out of the house of your dead parents, hunting for the last hint of his presence riding on the fresh air off the Tetons and all this land that’s all yours now.

You veer left then right, a zigzagging dance across the green lawn until you’re far enough away from the house it’s like you can pretend to ignore the ghosts you’re readying to exorcize. One knee hits the ground hard and stinging, limbs loose and strengthless, you feel the stab of a little rock against the curve of round bone beneath easily broken skin, catching yourself on a palm, another too hard scrape and then you’re rolling over into the grass, settling on your back to look up at the stars.

There are so many, an infinite number of lights winking like watchful eyes back at you, and you wonder at the sort of childhood that lends itself to laying in the grass like this beside a parent that loves you and wants you and carves space in their life for a child they'd forced into the world. It should be some sort of crime, you think, immediate execution sort of barbarity, to have a child and not love it the way it demands.

Back of your hands open at your sides, palms to the watching sky, you close your eyes and imagine what it’d be like to have the hand of a father holding it, one that would want you—not a mother because what is she in reality to you but an imagination figure you can’t even truly conjure up? That much of a stranger is what she is—such an alien thing you can’t even bother to dream her.

Drawing your knees up, you press your bare heels into the earth and the wet placket of your panties is ice cold and sticking uncomfortably now, breeze against it. You shouldn't be thinking about this shit, but you think you might cry anyway, sucking in too fast breaths, forcing them out in attemptedly slow little puffs through your nose. A wave of sudden grief, then a plateau, the nauseating up and down of it all. You should be thinking about him, about your victory tonight, about making him so angry he can’t help himself, about what’ll come next—his skin. But that’s the thing about him, Joel, isn’t it? Always has been—the incongruous, make-no-sense feelings he’s always pulled out of you since you’d first set eyes on him, fourteen years old and tender and so alone you didn’t even know there was another way to be but abandoned.

A laugh then—huffing and sardonic and again, incongruous, because now you really are crying. Tears leaking back, hot and fat to pool in your ears and salt the earth beneath you—unloading your grief into the grass as if God were beside you. Nothing will grow here again because of you if you’re not careful, and that’s the next worry—

If he never needs you the way you’re demanding of him, you won’t be able to stay here.

You won't be able to live here and love him and not have him, and you could force him, perhaps, in your own ways. But you’ve done so much of that your whole life—forcing unloving men to look at you and take you into their arms when they’d never really wanted to give you the thing you’d always wanted most.

The tender truth: it would be so much better if Joel decided to need you because he wants to, because he can’t fathom another way than just that.

And you don’t think you’ll ever be able to live with anything else besides such.

Another forced out laugh again—just to feel the feeling of it, go through the motion, mountain air a roundabout gust in your lungs, then to your left: “What’re you laughing at, weirdo?”

Ellie, long and loping and beautiful, come to your rescue. She throws herself down onto the ground beside you and doesn’t even have to ask a thing about it when she places her rough hand in your soft one.

Working girl, mover of mountains, changer of lives.

Ellie has always known how to know you, and it has always been an incredible comfort.

The two of you lay there for a few quiet moments. Friendship as an entity has always been a strange thing to you who have never understood love in a non-transactional way. But the thing that Ellie has always given you, it has always been an incredibly straightforward sort of understanding, simple—that of one abandoned child to another, perhaps.

“Are you drunk?”

“Why’s everyone always fucking asking me that?” Said with another laugh but of the real sort this time, despite the bite in your voice.

“You’re a hazard. What can I say?”

Undeniable. “Oh, shut up.” You dig your nails into the back of her hand, trying to scratch her but probably ruining your manicure instead, she squeezes your knuckles in sideways, hurting you way more than you could manage her. A yelp, and you say, “You know what I’m excited for?”

“What’s that?”

“Skijoring.”

“Fuck no, dude. I almost died last time.”

You snicker, “Yeah, that was the fun part for me.”

Elbow to the ribs, and, “Asshole,” she laughs. And then you’re quiet again together, still gripped by the hands, and it’s the sort of comfortable only two girls who’ve been together since they were truly girls can be.

“You see Cassiopeia?” She points her finger way north.

“Do you think I should stay?” You see it, and easily, and you know if you were somewhere not here, it wouldn’t be so simply found. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Because of Joel.” It isn’t a question. You’ve never said it with words to her, but she’s always known.

You hum instead of answering, can’t say it out loud anyway just yet. “So you finally asked her.” Dina, she knows what you mean.

And Ellie hums now in turn too. The both of you are so fucked up. Can’t say a thing out loud.

“And?”

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

Ellie groans loud and long, baying goat, and you tell her so, which gets another knock to the ribs. “Turn around and don’t look at me so I can tell you.”

You roll over towards the mountains and feel her face the house where she doesn’t see ghosts like you do.

“But you’re not allowed to say anything—just say okay. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think—well, you know…,” she gruffs, voice dipping low and dropping off before she can say the words out loud again also. Everything’s a secret code here, even the stuff that shouldn’t be.

“You think?”

“You’re such a fucker. I know.”

You hum again but the good and happy sort, pressing your lips together to keep the misty eyed smile at bay. “Okay,” you say back just as low and just as gruff.

“S’why I think you should stay,” she adds. “If I can find happy here, so can you.”

“I’ve never been able to before.”

“But you’re different now.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah—can see it, you know. And this place is different now too—will be different.”

“I was afraid to come back for such a long time. It seemed like the worst thing in the world.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, before she says: “You’re not supposed to be afraid of your father.” A very obvious thing—or at least it should be.

You feel her turn to look at the back of your neck, and you peer over your shoulder at her and when your eyes meet, she looks so sad, like she’s so sorry for you but without the pity, and you do understand what it is she’s saying despite never having had that fearless experience.

“Aren’t you?” A shrug of your shoulder and a helpless laugh but also maybe with real humor accompanying it. Because yes, you’re not supposed to be. You always were anyway. It’s funny in an impossible to understand way.

A beat and then, “Can I say something fucked up?”

“Yeah.”

“He isn’t here for you to be afraid of anymore.”

Funniest of all, you’re the most sad about this. And what you don’t say to her, perhaps for shame or that child’s feeling of having done something wrong but not necessarily understanding what that wrong is—sometimes it’s inevitable, missing the monster.

“Maybe you needed him to die.” Yeah, fucked up. You’d already thought the same thing and were chock full of guilt for it. “Maybe it was like—like I don’t know. It was never going to be the way it should have between you, but now you can remember him, fuck, I don’t know—different. Not that you wanted him to die, but now the reality of him isn’t here for you to see, so you can just remember it all however you like or not.”

“So I should lie to myself?”

“Why not? There are worse things you could do. There are worse things you do do.”

You snort. “Is this what your method is?”

“Yeah. Like—like sometimes, when I’m so happy I can’t believe it’s me feeling it because she makes me that happy, Dina,” she says her name with love, “I pretend nothing from before was ever the way it was, and it’s only here and now and me and Dina and the ranch and there was no shitty, abandoning father and no dead mom and no nothing and only Joel is my dad and it’s all always been okay.”

Joel.

At the center of everyone’s happy dream, why is it always him?

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll try it.” She reaches behind her back then, pawing at your hip until you give her your hand again, and you were wrong. She’s changed too. She can say things now. She’s always had those too perceptive eyes and that too big heart, and she’s changed now in a way that makes her not afraid to let it out and use these things anymore.

You tell this changed Ellie now: “You know that like— that like… I don’t know how to say it. When a person’s life seems like it should be perfect, and you have everything. Everything should be good, right—but it’s just not. Your parents should be kind, they should be loving. They should be attentive and give a shit what happens to you, and it probably seems that way to the whole rest of the world except for the people that have to witness the humiliation behind closed doors, but it’s really just not, and then they probably look at me and wonder how my life could be anything but rose colored, and it all just seems a little silly and empty. Doesn’t it?”

“Nah—don’t know. My life was always shit before I came here and found Joel and Dina and all of them and you. And I'd seen enough to recognize what you were and how it was. Nothing ever looked rose colored to me—just looked like more shit.” You laugh again out loud now and for real, squeezing more tears out over your hot cheeks when she joins you in the sad hilarity as well.

When her voice is finally steady from the belly laughs again, she says, “It’s a grief pyramid, we’re all just going around hurting each other in the name of our ghosts and call it an excuse, an offering to their memory and act like it’s okay. But it’s fucked up. That’s why I decided to stop. I stopped pushing her away, I told her—well, you know. I told her.”

“Say it, loser.” You bump your butt into hers.

“Not to you—leave me alone.”

Say it, say it, say it, you sing.

“I love her, fuck off.” And a little clog of emotion sticks wetly in your throat.

That’s the real question, honestly: How do you make someone love you? How do you make yourself into someone people can love?

“It’s a grief pyramid,” she repeats. “You have to choose to stop adding to it.” And she’s quiet again for a long time, and you can’t fathom how it is one stops building onto something they’d been born into. You think on it so long the feel of her palm clutching yours starts losing itself to sleep in the grass and the breeze comes off the mountains like a blanket over the two girls who’d become women before them until she says again, ��Anyway, that’s usually the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid.”

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nope. You’re definitely doing something.” He angles the phone away from her prying eyes, trying to shield his shame with the palm of his hand.

“Mind your own damn business, kid.”

“Is that an Instagram account?” Ellie howls like a banshee, Tommy coming up behind him to reach over his shoulder to try and rip the phone out of his hand. He holds it out of his reach.

It’s just that he couldn’t help himself. He’d heard the boys all talking about it on the ride back down after their long day of work—your Instagram page—as if he knew what the fuck that was. He’d had to search it up on the internet when he’d gotten a moment alone in the bunk, cracking open a beer, muscles exhausted from the hard ride and having to haul a heifer out of a bramble she’d gotten herself caught in, he’d realized it was a thing young people put photographs and such on, a social media thing. But when he’d gone to search your name, it’d told him he’d needed to make an account of his own. Growling in frustration, he’d slowly made his way through the process, too big fingers punching at the too tiny keys of the stupid phone you’d forced on him.

“Can you shut up and just show me how to work this thing. And stop your goddamn howling—Dina’s gonna think she’s dating a hyena not a girl.” She slides into the seat next to him, taking the phone from his grip to finish setting up the account and type in your name, a deck of pictures loading up for him to hunt through like a vandal. Photographs of you in all sorts of different places, draped in fine clothes and jewels and your fucking perfect ass right there for everyone to see.

Oh my God.

“How many people can see this shit?” He asks Ellie, angling the phone back towards her.

“You’re so nosey, man,” she chastises. “Thirty-seven thousand followers.” And a long, impressed whistle from Tommy who he’s going to punch in the face after he’s done with this.

He swallows hard. “What’s that mean?”

“That thirty-seven thousand people are following her and looking at her pictures, Joel,” his brother says. “Man, how fuckin’ old are you?”

“Yeah, you’re not that old, Joel. Come on.”

“Go away now. I’m busy,” he tells the both of them, going back to doom scrolling through your pictures. One’s of you in barely any clothes at all, an itty bitty orange bikini, hands on your ass and sand where his tongue should be.

Joel feels insane again.

“Pervert.”

“Joel… I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think there’s steam comin’ out of your ears, man.”

“Fuck off.”

Blessedly, they leave him to suffer in peace after a while, and thank Christ for that because eventually, the ex-boyfriend shows up in the scroll of pictures too. There for everyone to see in posts dated several weeks back—even one of the two of you kissing, you on his lap, fuck that. Good looking, shiny-boy sort. Joel’s left eye twitches at the sight of the sort of man he has never been, could never be for you, someone of your caliber.

The memory of your cunt grinding against him last night flashes through his mind and his cock throbs once and hungry. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, adjusting in the suddenly too tight seat of his jeans.

A clusterfuck is what it is—this sudden melding of the memory of the girl-child you used to be, the one that up until only recently lived in his mind, good and golden, and the woman you are now. With both figures meeting together with all the characteristics he’d always admired in you, your kind heart, your honesty, your generosity. You’ve turned out to be an exceptional woman, and it’s difficult to let the distant perception from before meet the lust he feels for you now and grapple with it without feeling sick to his stomach about it all.

It’s all an inevitability though, anyway. He knows this just from the rewind memory play of last night, the taste of your mouth and the little sounds you'd made for him, because of him, the way your hips had rolled over his lap desperately seeking.

You’re ending up on his cock one way or another—inevitable.

He’s never claimed to be a good and honorable man—never played the part of one either. He’s not about to start now.

Clicking on the picture of your sun bronzed ass in the tiny bikini again, he imagines himself biting and eating it, shifting his legs restlessly, taking another long pull of his beer. Tapping twice on the image, he tries to zoom in to the apex of your thighs—he’s going to hell, he’s so fucked up, doesn’t matter—when a little heart appears in the center of the image. He clicks it again and the heart appears once more, refusing to zoom into what he wants to see up close. Fucking piece of shit phone and fucking Instagram—frustrated and hard and pissed off at the fact he’s yet to see you all day, he locks the phone, slamming it face down on the kitchen table, and downs the rest of the can.

If he doesn’t get a hold of himself soon he’s going to burst, gut all twisted up into a hot knot of coal. Sick with jealousy and anger and lust, aggressive, the taste of your sweetness ringing in his ears and the sound of your moans on his tongue—his head is not on straight and he better get it fixed quick or all this pent up frustration is going to come out with teeth to take a chunk of flesh out of you.

Groaning loudly, he lets his head fall back, thumbs digging into the sockets of his eyes until he sees stars and not the sight of your slick swollen mouth made that way by himself. He wonders if you slept well last night, if you thought of him, if you’d made yourself come the way he’d ran home to the little foreman’s cabin Kelly had given him years ago, to do himself. Jumping in the shower to jack his leaking cock to the image of what it would’ve been like if he’d been brave enough to pull that flimsy little tease of a thong to the side, let his cock out and force it inside of you, make you take it until you were crying and coming so hard you’d never think to even look at another man again, much less kiss him.

He should’ve hit that fucker harder. He should’ve kissed you longer.

He needs to force you to take all of those goddamn half naked pictures down. No one should get to look at you like that except for him, and he doesn’t give a fuck how insane he sounds.

Outside, he can hear the cowboys hooting and hollering at something, egging each other on louder and louder, the scuffle of them shoving each other and horsing around. He sighs once and long, too tired to deal with their shit right now. All he needs is an evening of peace to get his head on straight and relax and will his boner down for a few hours. He’s acting like a goddamn randy teenager, walking around hard and aching half the day.

Heaving himself out of the chair, back hurts, he grabs another beer before he’s pushing the bunk door open to the sight of half the team huddled together and peering around the corner of the bunk towards the house.

“The hell’s got y’all clucking like a bunch of hens?” He asks, coming around them to stop dead in his tracks when he lays eyes on what it is that’s got them all worked up.

That same ass he’d just been trying to zoom in on, right there in the flesh for the whole ranch to ogle at. Stretched out on one of the sun loungers from the deck, dragged out into the center of the lawn with a little table set up next to you. You’d even gotten someone to scrounge up a huge umbrella, a misting fan spinning lazily, spitting a damp sheen of water every few minutes, a drink and a speaker playing some girly song, whole goddamn set up for all of these fuckers to stand here and take an eyeful of your perfect ass.

Joel tries to take deep breaths, counting back from ten in his head—fails. He’s going to be calm and cool and collected—not. He isn’t going to lose his temper—sure.

Fuck that.

He’s going to spank your ass so hard you can’t sit for a week.

“If you all don’t find something to do in the next thirty seconds,” he growls at them all through clenched teeth, “I swear I’ll have you slingin’ shit for a month.” The can in his grip pops loudly between his fingers.

They all take one peek at the look on his face and scatter like chicken shit until it’s only Ellie left smirking beside him.

“Take this,” he shoves the can at her and starts towards you.

“Bro—” He ignores her. Hey! She calls after him, voice demanding now, stopping him in his tracks before he can go get exactly what he’s been denying himself from the moment you kissed him two nights ago.

Giving him that look she gets when she needs to remind him she knows exactly who he is and that he can’t ever hide it from her, she chews on her cheek for a second before she says, and he doesn’t mistake it, it’s a warning: “She’s a real peach. You know that. Pretty and soft and sweet, but easily hurt. Needs gentle handling, even when she wants to pretend otherwise.”

It pisses him off. Bad. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that? I understand her—” thumb to chest. Because he did—does. Because he thinks that he really always has. It’s undeniable that he has what you have, what Ellie has. Even what Oswald Kelly himself had had and what he’d seen in Joel when he’d decided to save the life of a no good man in a no good spot with a no good future in front of him—that sadness, that lost doggedness about you all that makes you so like one another, even despite your immeasurable differences.

The two of them look at each other for another long moment, and Ellie knows, Ellie always understands. With a roll of her eyes she spins on her heel, muttering to herself, slugging back Joel’s discarded beer.

Slowly, he rounds back towards you, afraid as if he were looking down the barrel of a gun, just as dramatic, as well. Objectively, he knows you’re doing this on purpose, to piss him off and rile him up and get a blow out reaction out of him. He tries to remind himself of it as he marches towards you, and if he were smarter or less inclined to take your bait, he’d take a beat to finish that count to ten reversal in his head and calm the fuck down before he gets to you—but honestly, he just doesn’t feel like it.

All he sees instead is the baby pink barely there string bikini you’ve got on, the slope of your back gleaming in the sun, slicked in something shiny, the damp from the mister, the lush curve of your ass and the shine of your hair resting face down on your folded arms.

You’re all sunkissed everywhere, and he’d really rather just give you what you want already.

“Get up,” he growls down at you.

One eye winks open, peering up at him before you press up on your elbows to take in the sight of him scowling down at you, and he can’t help it when his eyes flit down to the sight of your breasts cupped precariously in the tiny bikini, skin all sun flushed red against the soft baby pink fabric. You look like you’re made of sugar and sweet fruit and like you’ve come here specifically to ruin him and his whole life and all his self control.

Hmm? You smile up at him wide and teasing. Oh, he’s feeding right into your shit, and you piss him off so badly.

He’s never been this hard in his entire life, he’s even made dizzy with it.

The little wisps of hair at your temples are sweat soaked and curling, looking silky soft. A thousand little details about you and your body—the white of your smile and the flushed heat of your cheeks, sun burnished bridge of your nose starting to freckle—that he can’t help but notice.

Get. Up, he grits through clenched teeth. No one in the whole world deserves to see you like this, looking so beautiful, especially not him. Shading your eyes with the palm of your hand, you scrunch your nose up at him, and he’s got half a mind to bark at you to not do that when he’s around or he’s really gonna lose it. Your smile beams brighter.

“What’s wrong, Joel? Havin’ a rough day?”

“I swear to Christ, if you don’t get your ass up and in the house right this minute, I’m going to put you over my knee right here in front of your whole ranch to witness, little girl.”

You smile up at him again and a muscle at the corner of his jaw flutters madly, he’s about to crack a fucking molar. “Hmm, I don’t think so.” And you flop back down again so that the soft of your ass jiggles slightly, arching your back just a little so that he’s growling once, right before he’s gripping you by the elbow and pulling you upwards against his chest and dragging you all bare and slippery limbed to your feet. You smell like coconuts and sweet sweat and saliva pools heavy beneath his tongue.

“If you wanna act like a brat, I’m gonna treat you like one. You get me?” He yanks you towards the house screeching like a banshee, let go of me, you fucking psycho, you howl. A too little fist swings towards his face, and he catches it in his palm, squeezing tight and feeling your thumb tucked inside your fist.

“Stop that—you’re gonna hurt yourself.” More squawking and howling, skinny wrist slipping from his grip to take another swing at him. “Don’t even know how to throw a goddamn punch—Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t tuck your thumb.” He hauls you up higher against himself, getting a better grip around your waist so he can carry you bodily up the steps of the deck.

You jam your heels into his shins, and he huffs and puffs, trying to keep his hold on you. I’m gonna kick your ass, you screech again, scratching and pinching at his forearms.

Joel is too old and too goodman tired for this.

“No, you’re not. And if you think I’m gonna let the whole goddamn ranch and all the boys stare at your bare ass all day, you’ve got another thing comin’ for you.”

“Well, I’ve gotta show it to someone, don’t I?” You sass back, trying to elbow him in the throat while you’re at it. Blood boiling, catching you by the small joint, he pulls your arm bent behind your back, other forearm banding against your stomach so that his hand is splayed at your hip, feeling the satin soft skin, slippery in your suncream.

And sure, he might be too old or too tired for this, but his cock is still hard as anything at the feel of you all against him like this.

Pushing the door open with his hip, he shoves you inside. The late afternoon sun paints the cool interior in shades of gold and beaming white; everything is beautiful and pristine as always, and yet tinged with the red of his temper and lust. His temples beat in tune with his too fast, pumping heart.

“Where’s Dina?” He’s still got you caught in his grip. He does not plan to let go.

“Let me go, you mother ffff—” He gives you one hard shake, hearing your teeth click and rattle. Little doll caught in his grip. He can do anything to you—and you won’t be able to stop him.

“Where is she?” He asks again, and something in his voice must snap you alert because you settle for a brief second, a little shiver skipping down the length of your spine that he follows to your full ass. He tugs you back, barely moving and slow, just that little bit further into himself so that the lush curve presses against the hard length of his cock—and there it is, the little knowing gasp, finally understanding what it is you’ve gotten yourself into.

“She—” Your belly is suddenly so hot and tight, heartbeat starting up behind your navel. Suddenly knowing what it is this is about to be, and yet now finally confronted with the reality of it for the first time, you can’t even begin to imagine what it’ll be like. “She—I don’t know. She went into town, I— I think,” you stutter, brain short-circuiting, desperate to feel that hardness again. “Waiting for Ellie—they’ve got plans there tonight.” His entire hand is wrapped around your forearm pressed against the small of your back, long, thick fingers overlapping against each other, and you roll up on your tiptoes, trying to arch your back further into him.

He grunts once, exasperated, and then shoves you forward again, rough enough you’re stumbling over your own two feet, full on aggressive panting bull at your back.

That’s good, he says so low you barely catch it before he’s pushing you up against the wall by the front door, cheek smushed against the silk printed wallpaper.

Your mother decorated this room years ago, melding the masculine taste of your father and her love for European decor. The walls, wrapped in hand painted English wallpaper on the top half, and paneled at the bottom with a mahogany so fine it gleams an amber golden glow when the afternoon sun shines in through the windows just so.

Everything beautiful; still, even after all this time.

He holds you there for a long moment, his breathing quick and shallow, bellows of hot air at the nape of your neck, disturbing the escaped hair from your claw clip curling there.

“Joel?” You ask once, voice wavering just a little bit because he suddenly feels so large and imposing behind you that something like trepidation beats behind the soft of your kneecaps. You know he worked all day, and his big body is a steaming blaze of heat, waves rolling off of him to burn the naked length of your back and limbs.

He pulls your arm trapped between his forearm and your stomach to the small of your back to join the other, holding you there in a lock pinned against the wall, reaching up slowly to let your hair down, long and swinging. You listen to the clatter of your clip against the hardwood floor, and then he’s circling the side of your neck, the tiny beating pulse held in the cup of his palm so that it feels as if it’s reverberating back into your head, a staccato rhythm, and echoing all through your body. A chiming bell, ringing and ringing and ringing, telling you that it’s time now. His hand smooths down the slope of your throat to your shoulder, and you listen to the rumbling half humming moan he lets out at the feel of your sweat sticky skin, then down the flat wing of your scapula, thumb nail scraping against the edge of your jutting bone for the way he’s got your arms trapped behind you.

You let out a high pitched whine, almost a scream, another puff of sound in the assimilation of his name, pleading now, rolling up onto your tiptoes again to push your ass back against the hard of his cock. Everything is so, so sensitive.

Quit, he snaps once and mean. Ordering. In a tone that says he’s in charge, and finally.

It’s such a relief.

You whine again, higher, needier, like you’ve never felt before, and there’s a nauseating thrum of electrified butterflies in your tummy, sticky sweet and cloying for attention. Joel, please, again and the wings beat faster. You’re sure he’ll enjoy the sound of your begging, it’s just something you know. Tiptoes straining higher so that the soles of your feet ache, he smooths that work roughened palm down the slope of your spine, thumb against your vertebrae, feeling the round little notches of bone beneath sensitive skin until he’s reached the twin dimples at the low of your back right above your ass, and presses there and hard—mean—so it hurts. Keening loudly, you crush your cheek harder, harder against your mother’s wallpaper until the bone aches, until there’ll surely be an indent of your shape left in the wall, and his thumb digs even harder anyway, gripping you tight enough to bruise.

This is how it’ll be—surprising, but also not. In all your years of imagining, you still don’t know what it is you expected.

“You’re carved so fine,” whispered against your skin and gooseflesh spreads like wildfire, nipples going tight and aching. His nose skims the slope of your nape, smelling you. “S’like you’re made of sugar. Is that what you’ll taste like too?” And his words are slurred, drunk-like and you feel the same way also, legs on the verge of giving out.

You press your hips back again, desperate for any sort of pressure, and he jostles you once, hard enough you bite your tongue. Quit moving, he snaps, shoving his knee between your legs and spreading you wide and immobile, thigh hooked over his own so that the toes of that leg barely skim the ground and now you’re precariously balanced on one foot, held up and pinned entirely by him.

Caughtcha, he murmurs.

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

The palm at the low of your back splays wide, his long fingers reaching from side to side and pressing hard against your skin and then all of a sudden he’s gone, and only for a second, before he’s back and slapping you hard and painfully stinging on the ass. A downward swipe of his thick fingers so that it really fucking hurts, and then the palm is back at the small of your waist, hooked thigh over his leg, unable to move, unable to do anything except take it.

He presses your belly into the wall, and the pressure is so intense and so deep—his breathing is so rough behind you. You know he worked the mountain all day, he should be exhausted, but the strength he’s trapping you with belies the possibility.

His hand goes away from your back again, and he’s spanking you once more, and you can’t tell if it’s harder or not this time, if it hurts worse than the previous, but the fire pain of it snaps all the way down from your thigh to your calve, pooling there in a knot of painful ache. An animal baying noise warbles in your throat, he tuts once, a cooing click of his tongue and cups your ass right at the rose of pain he’s left, kneading the skin gently, palpating the hurt like he’s looking for the physical imprint of it beneath your skin.

“Yeah, baby? Like that?” You sing the little animal song for him again. “S’what you needed, right?” His voice now is not the Joel-voice you’ve always known, but it is the one you’ve always dreamed of. The kneading fingers slide whisper soft down the back of your thigh, up again, down again, callused skin scraping. On the up again, his thumb catches at the edge of your bathing suit wedged between the cleft of your ass.

And lest he thinks he’s bested you, you say, “Yes, that’s what I needed,” and he laughs a rough laugh that makes him sound like he’s been gutted.

He squeezes the thick of your ass between his thumb and forefinger, an almost pinch and then smoothes his thumb beneath the pink edge along the curve, precariously close to danger. The sound of his name loses meaning, you’re praying it in a litany almost, over and over, begging. Hush now, he gentles, more in a sort of voice you recognize while your heart beats so hard against the wall it must surely sound like someone’s knocking on the front door for entry, like it must surely send echoes all through the ghost-house.

His smoothing thumb continues its journey until it’s between your thighs, pulling the wet lycra wide away from your skin so that he can tuck the rest of his fingers flat against your cunt, and now he’s there.

One of you says the word fuck another lets out a whimpering sort of noise—you’re not sure which is who, it’s all only a cunt-throbbing need you know he’s feeling leak and pulse against his hand.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs all reverence like. Joel—touching your cunt and sounding like he can’t believe it. His hand slides back along the curve of your sex, and you really are so wet the sound of it is slick and lewd, his fingertips at your entrance, a gentle probing and then forward again, a circling not touch around your clit, like he’s learning for himself this new little place that belongs to him now. Your mouth falls open on a spit-full moan, your eyes closed because you don’t even have strength now to keep them open and watchful. You’re so wet for me, he says again and again like he can’t believe it all either.

He drags his finger flats against you once more and then another time and then taps twice with all four of them, two little almost slaps to your clit that make a sticky wet splashing sound. Good girl, and you don’t know which part of you he’s talking to. You’re practically leaking onto the floor, trying to widen your hips, arch your ass back further and present your cunt to him for fucking. And then his fingers side to side in a swiping motion and fast.

Oh God. Oh God. Inside, inside, you need him inside. He needs to go inside.

“Please, pleeease, Joel. Oh, please.” Delirious.

“Please?” His fingers move fast and your vision goes entirely away. “Please what? Please what? You, please.” He switches front and backwards again, and then two fingers draw a little ghost circle at your entrance. You, please, he says again. His hand flips over, palm facing downwards, and he starts to slowly, slowly press a single tip of one inside. “Please behave. Please don’t— don’t—fuck— please gimme a second to breathe, to think, to catch up. God, fucking tight little cunt. I’ll never fit in here, baby.”

Your vision whites, then blacks, then goes blinding bright and colorless—zero frequency. Up to the first knuckle, and he wiggles the tip inside, making you cry and squirm, pulls out and then two fingers are pressing inside and downwards. “We’re gonna have to take it so slow in this little cunt.” Shit—shit.

“Oh my God, yes.”

Your hips shiver and shake as he penetrates you, his forehead tucked against your shoulder so he can look down at what he’s doing, and drool slides along your mother’s wallpaper from the corner of your mouth as he pushes his fingers in and out of you so slowly, the slick slide, the pressure against your front wall so heavy, and spread so wide like this but held so immobile—it all makes you feel like you’ll wet yourself with such little control over your body. A few slides in and out again, “Good girl, just a little more,” before he’s wedging a third into the mix, trying to put it inside of you as well. A little more? The stretch is too much, burning, and you wail and cry, arching again but this time to get away instead of steal more.

“Okay, okay. It’s alright,” he soothes. Hush. “It’s okay.” He pulls his fingers entirely out and covers the slick mess of your mound with his entire palm possessively. Rubbing soothingly at your wet, his fingers slide over the satiny smooth skin of your lips.

“You’re all bare,” he whispers, shocked.

You swallow hard once, shoulders and neck starting to ache. “I— I got lasered.”

“Lasers?” Voice confused.

“Yeah.” You swallow again, can’t catch your breath. “Yes.”

“Gotta see.”

He pulls you from the wall, shuffling you like gambling cards in his hands, that’s what this is, a gamble, so that you’re facing him as he walks you backwards, bikini bottoms askew and cunt bare to your parents living room; your dead father’s best man about to fuck it raw.

Pressing up on your tiptoes at the same time that you’re tugging him low by the collar and the slightly too long hair that curls over it to press an open mouthed kiss to his lips with eyes kept open. You need to see his face, his reaction, that even though he’s all rough, he’s still Joel and he’ll still take care of you now.

One strong forearm bands around your back, pressing you up high and close to his chest, fingers tangling in the bikini string at your back so that it pulls tight and bites into your skin, the other reaching around the back of your thighs to take a squeezing handful of you ass as he lifts you clean off the ground, lumbering slowly towards the couch while the two of you stare at each other with something that smells suspiciously of wonder.

On the high ground now, you stare down at him, held as you are and kiss him again, for real this time, with tongue, an eating of his mouth. Trying to taste him as deep as you can go, digging your manicured fingernails into the rough whiskered planes of his cheeks until he grunts roughly.

Showing him that you can hurt him too.

His knees hit the edge of the couch, one palm going to the back to hold himself steady as he sets you down, following your path to fold over you nose to nose. Watching each other for a blink, predator, predator, lashes tangling and then his mouth is sliding wetly over your burning cheekbone, drawn out groan like dying. Down to the hinge of your jaw where he sucks sharp once and his tongue flutters down the column of your throat, tasting your pulse, his palms everywhere at the same time too. Over your shoulders and down your goosefleshed arms, cinching at the nip of your waist to slide around your hips and to your ass, pulling you forward and open when he goes to his knees on the floor at the edge of the sofa between your spread thighs, with you draped diagonally across the cool leather that sticks to your sweaty, coconut flavored skin.

One palm slides down your chest, dragging over your breast, the other catching at your nipple with this thumb, nail scraping and pulling the wet fabric along with him, baring you to the first glance of his eyes. A sound that’s a little like a whimper precedes his latching mouth, sucking hard and with teeth so you’re arching and crying and when your head rolls to the side, eyes bleary and barely seeing, he’s got your small breast in his mouth, jaw hinged wide and hungry. His teeth scrape, one wide palm sliding over your thigh to the back, pushing your knee up high and open to your shoulder, lips skim over your belly, smell so fucking good, sharp edge over your hip bone and the lave of his tongue, taste so fucking good.

“I’m gonna eat your cunt.” Bikini askew, one little tit bared to the cold AC, nipples hard enough to hurt, he pinches it once and mean and stretches the soaking wet center gusset of your bottoms wider.

He looks and looks and grins and everything inside of you pulses.

Boyish smirk and a cocky glance up at you, oh, pretty, “Perfect little princess pussy, huh? I see now.” He sticks his thumb into his mouth, pulls it out with a pop to rub it spit slick against your clit. Yeah, yeah, like that, and you can’t help the whining cry.

Pushing your other thigh up high, the grin turns to something a little more menacing before he bends to your cunt, whole mouth covering you there like he’d swallowed your breast. His thumbs dig painfully into the backs of your thighs like they’d dug in your back, leaving little spots of hurt all over your body is what he’s doing, spreading you wide open.

Every touch is possessive, full of ownership.

“What are you doing to me?” He groans as he eats your cunt, doing exactly as he said he would, flat of his tongue licking all over you, dipping inside. Purse of his lips then and he’s sucking hard and pulsing in quick successions, and there’s your first one—little gush of slick and your belly so tight it hurts, you need something inside of you so bad—your first orgasm forced from you and onto his tongue, swallowed down into his stomach. He groans like an animal—doubles his efforts, tongue spearing inside, pulling away to press two fingers in—fuck, fuck, and you grab hold of your own thigh to keep yourself open for him, knees trembling beside your ribs.

The hand not inside slides across you, smearing slick over your belly, it’s everywhere, and presses down as he crooks those two fingers forward. His hair’s all fucked up, eyes glazed a maniacle shade of hazel that makes him more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him and also hotter than you could’ve ever dreamed, that boy’s smile again.

His mustache is soaked in you. “Little pussy’s so small ‘nd wet, baby.” He wiggles his fingers, pets against the blindingly sensitive place inside of you. “Feel that?” Fingers twisting—almost too much, the stretch burns already and just like this.

“Please, put it in,” you beg stupidly, a tear leaks and then another, not at all smart of self preserving.

He clicks his tongue, and you can’t tell if it’s soothing or condescending or both, your eyes screwing shut at what he’s doing to you, trying to paw at his shoulders and pull him towards you at the same time. “Can’t—too small.”

No, no— His palm at your belly presses down, fingers petting forward, again, again, head bent once more to suck on your clit, licking it roughly if a tongue can be rough because it’s heavy and strong and intentional—I can take it. There’s your next one, obeying the come here order of his fingers. Mid-come and he’s forcing that painful third one from before inside, and now it’s split open and sloshing wetly—your cunt—hiccupping into another left over shaky orgasm, fucking hurts a little bit. More tears and his soft chuckle—you’re really in it now.

When he slurps at your leaking again, fingers leaving you to gape empty and wanting, your hips shiver, trying to shake him away and rock against him at the same time. He says something you can’t make out, can’t even open your eyes, you just need a second, you swear, and then the clink of his belt, the shuffle of clothes, and he’s pulled his shirt over his head—you’ve enough mind left to open your eyes for this.

He’s so strong, built for fucking and working and heaving. You knew this already, you hadn’t needed to see him without clothes to know.

And all yours now, too.

Your fingertips paw greedy at his chest, muscular, the thickly corded arms and shoulders. One hand wraps around the slim of your ankle, manacling you while he undoes his fly, your heart skips with the split of the zipper’s teeth and pulls his cock out, letting it fall heavy on your stomach—a threatening, aggressive thing. It drags against your cunt, so big it doesn’t stand up straight and jutting like the others you’ve been used to, but bobs low and hanging.

Reaching forward you flit the tips of your fingers over the wide head—barely there butterfly touch—and your hand looks comically small next to the thing as you pet at the dark head swelling out of the thick skin around it, soft and burning hot—he growls like a wolf at your touch.

“I’ve never— I’ve never… with one like…”

He pulls your hand forward, wrapping it tightly around the thick length with his fist over yours. “Nah, baby. You’ve never had one like this. It’s alright—I’ll show you how to take it.”

You’ve half a mind to roll your eyes at him, but he distracts you with the soft touch at the split indentation in your knee from your romp in the grass last night. “What happened here, little thing?” His words and his touch are so soft, eyes warm and caring, as if he weren’t threatening at all, as if that thing that’s about to split you in half and make you cry hasn’t started to slick itself back and forth between your legs, parting the lips of your cunt, sticky sound on every pass with his fist wrapped around himself—too many things happening to you all at once by his hand.

“A rock hiding in the grass last night.” You start to roll your hips minutely against him, presenting your similarly torn palm for his appraisal, no, no, my poor baby, he kisses the little hurt while the fat head swipes over your clit, pressing against your hole—a little gasp and you circle his wrist at your knee, anchoring yourself.

He frowns. “Last night when?”

“After you left me.” Pouting back.

Cooing once and low, “You shouldn’t go out alone at night, anything could happen,” pressing again at the mouth of your cunt. Fuck, now—

“Wasn’t alone—”

The head notches and stays, “Without me then— Deep breath now, baby.” He grunts on the first push inside, and your back arches tight as a bowstring, hand splaying wide at the center of his belly and his long fingers wrap around your breast tight, holding you in place, deep breath, he says again.

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God.”

He pitches his hips forward once, just a little, just a small shove, and you tense, sharp whine hiccuping through you. “Oh, it’s too big,” pressing harder at his belly as he edges deeper again, an inch and then another, literally splitting your cunt open for himself, thumb swiping slow and gentle over your clit, forcing little shudders of pleasure out of you amidst the pain.

“See, told ya.” It’s slow, slow until he makes it fit, watching himself sink inside of you the entire time, until you’re rooted on his cock, breath coming is quick, sucking pants, puffs out through your nose, body flushing hot and then even hotter. He folds over you, groaning loud and long, deep grinds and small shoves, and then it’s so much, too much until there’s no room left inside of you at all, that dull ache pain of his tip pressing against your cervix.

You’re going to be so sore tomorrow, it hurts, it hurts, but he plays with that place anyways, covering you with his body to press his face against your breasts, mouthing wet and hot at your nipples, biting hard to distract you from the pain inside. Your fingers twist in his hair, hot and damp at the roots, sweaty musk smell of a hard day's work, masculine, making you wetter for him. “It’s alright… it’s alright. You can take it. You’re such a good girl.” And then a fuck, and he’s mumbling your name, how good you are again, how well you’re taking your fucking.

“This what you wanted, right? To get caught on my cock?” The palm cupping your ass tips you up and forwards, forcing him inside just that little bit more. Your knees are at your shoulders, folded entirely under him, and the tip of his cock is still there where it hurts the most while he pants and sweats on top of you. A cramp of heat moves like lightning down your back and something goes loose in your cunt, your womb contracting once, accepting its fate as you start to come around him, milking him deep inside of you. You start to cry for real now too, fingernails dragging against his naked back looking for blood—sobbing, actually, not just crying.

He bites your breast hard, grinds further not letting the orgasm stop, “God—I’m so fuckin’ deep. No one’s ever been this deep, right? Tell me, baby,” he begs, sitting back and dragging you boneless, still coming, into his lap, little girl splayed wide over his knees on the floor. You sink further down onto his cock, and he kisses your hot cheeks, letting your cunt drip down him. His belt digs bruisingly into the back of your thighs and it all hurts—he really is so deep now, head tucked firmly at your cervix, and he feels like he’s getting thicker, harder, like he just needs to be sunk deep like this, as deep as he can get so that all your cunt needs to do is work him until it milks the come right out of him.

Your head lolls back on your neck, supported at the edge of the sofa. “No more—” You don’t know if you mean it, but it is just on the verge of too much now. You’re so sensitive.

“Yes more.” He starts to lift his hips again, pulling back and shoving, not a lot, but enough that it’s like a little punch inside of you each time. “As much as I say.”

Whining, “No—I can’t.” You roll your hips against him though, the both of you moving, straining against each other, his wide hands around your waist shifting you up and down like a doll on his cock. Your eyes finally open again, and the sunlight spears in through the windows in buttery blinding shafts, sparkling dust motes dancing above as he fucks you. The sound is all so wet, everything from his lower belly to the open front of his jeans is soaked. “I don’t like it anymore,” you lie.

“I don’t care,” and he gives you the first really rough thrust, not a pounding but with enough strength behind it that you get that heat cramp again, feel like you’re going to wet yourself again, there’s so much pressure in your belly.

You’re going to come again. You are coming again. It feels like you should say thank you.

He laughs, little cock sleeve, and you can’t understand how it’s so intense when the fucking is so slow—so good anyways—who cares about anything. His name slips through your lips without them moving, and he’s laughing again, a little mean and you tell him so, but still tender, still endeared by you.

You push his face away weakly, a mumbled, “Nasty old man.”

Nuh uh, he hums, taking both of your wrists in his grip and pressing them back to the leather edge on either side of your head, forcing you into an arch so that he can latch his teeth at your throat and suck. The rolling of his hips pick up speed, just that little bit, the heat coming off him boiling up to steaming and his sweat drips onto your skin and disappears inside of you—everywhere you’ve got him inside of you.

“Birth control?” All broken up with pants and your jugular between his teeth.

Flexing fingers, hands going away to numbness, he’s got you held so tightly, not being so careful of his strength anymore, his cock drags and it’s so wet and sensitive and swollen inside of you, it feels like he barely fits even more than it did before, like there’s definitely no more space inside of you for him at all.. “Yeah—ye—ah, ahh,” can’t get your voice to come out right with your clit grinding against his pelvic bone like that. “Implant right here.” You turn your face towards your left arm, tipping your nose the hidden little bump right beneath your skin. He clicks his tongue, kissing it softly.

“Poor baby. That’s good. That’s real good, baby. Just be good and lemme come in you now. It’s okay.” He spreads his thighs wider, pushing up with his knees into you now. Oh fuck— “But you gotta give me one more. I want it—it’s mine.” And the way he’s got you arched, the spot he hits inside is more intense than the others. He grunts rougher now, biting your throat so hard you’ll be left bruised all over and on the inside too. One palm lets go of your wrist to grip your bottom, long fingers slotting on either side of his impaling cock, pulling you to him so tightly the orgasm is squeezed out of you forcibly and hurts all the worse for it. You’re limp and boneless now, and he starts to pump his come into you in thick spurts, belly all suffused with heat and your name a groan in his throat.

His fingers, parted around his splitting cock rub at the slippery skin of your labia, back and forth to your asshole, holding and cupping the place he’s claimed, and he comes so long, hunched over and rutting into you, filling and filling until the wet squelch is even louder and you can feel the thick come being forced out of your stuffed full cunt.

You want to say his name, trying to move your lips, but your tongue rolls uselessly inside your mouth, all you are is a shivering cunt, a muscle spasming and spasming around him. He nuzzles at your throat, finally unlatching his teeth, licking away the hurt, pressing a soft kiss to the sore spot. You can feel him playing in the leaking wet now, fingering at your puffy cunt, well fucked and filled.

You want to tell him you didn’t think that the bikini was going to make this happen, pull this out of him.

At least not like this. You don’t think you could’ve ever imagined it’d be like this.

His mouth, hot on your jaw once more before he finally picks up his head to look at you, and his eyes make you want to cry, all that manic heat is gone now, replaced by some softly smoldering ember. You don’t think anyone in all the world has eyes the color of hazel he’s got. Something that should belong to some fiercely guarded precious stone, they glow, amber opal like, burnished in the setting sun’s golden glow.

“You okay?” His voice is very soft, and only for you.

You nod, chin tipping to your sternum, face flushed with so much unbearably pleased heat you’re unable to find your own.

Tilting his head to get at your mouth, he kisses you long and soft and open mouthed, licking your tongue, tasting you completely. And when he pulls back he has that same look you feel on your own face—that same unbearable pleasure. Shocked wonder sprinkled into it.

Look at what we’ve done and together and how good it is—

A smile and then a laugh from both of you, giggling like school children into each other’s mouths, and you’ve always thought he has some strange effect of appearing all man one second and then smiling and boyish for the flash of a single moment the next. And you don’t think you understand how someone who’s been through so much can still laugh the way he does. You smooth your finger over the arch of his eyebrow, thumbing at the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. Gorgeously strong man, and you suppose, looking at the wider picture, his life here, Ellie and the boys and a whole full life, you understand it, just a little bit—all the ranch’d given him. He has so much here—centered by the land as its heart.

You’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and finally, voice found—the feel of his heartbeat inside of you—it’s like finding a dream, “I’m okay,” you tell him.

Chapter 4: Figs

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

#fable of the dog fic #vic fic #joel miller fanficition #joel miller x ofc #Joel miller smut #the last of us AU #joel miller fic

514 notes · View notes