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jaylaxies · 1 month ago

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DARKNESS OF DEVOTION

PAIRING: sunghoon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, dubcon, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), blowjob, fingering, bondage, degradation, impact play, usage of nicknames, breeding, possessiveness, stalkerish behaviour, lmk if i missed anything.

SYNOPSIS: Never in a million years you could have imagined your polished and perfect boss to have handcuffs in his office, and well, stalker tendencies. You thought you were just an intern for him, but he simply saw you as possession.

WORD COUNT: 2.6k words

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

A/N: hihi, loves! i truly have never tried the concept of dubcon before, but this is for @hoondrop who loves possessive hoon and @evermorehoon who preaches head pusher hoon agenda ! i hope you guys will like it :3 all likes, comments, reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated! iloveyou all <33

You were just the new intern at the firm where Sunghoon worked, him being your boss. You directly answered to him as he checked your progress each day, only—you didn’t know how obsessed he’s been with you from the day one, monitoring your every move, to the point he installed a camera at your work desk to check if you’re not texting any other guy—you were, but, he needs you all to himself.

Then came the night where everyone left the office and he asked you to stay back and do the work he assigned you, ensuring that you’ll get a bonus if you actually end up doing a good job. Little did you know that he’d come out when the office lights would go dim, just him and you in the building, and the handcuffs he had gotten just for you.

He comes around, leaning against the back of your chair to look into the monitor, so close you could feel the scent of his cologne, his hand resting on your shoulder as he leans in further when he feels you shake under his gaze.

“So, who’s the guy you were texting earlier?” He asked, and you stilled completely, “you do know that it’s not allowed during work hours, right?” He whispered, grabbing your chin, “right?”

You nodded as if in a trance.

“Y—yeah, I’m sorry,” he only chuckled at your reply.

“You don’t need anyone when you have me,” he muttered darkly, not giving you a second before picking you up effortlessly as you screamed, taking you to his office room, “shh, don’t make it hard for the both of us, kitten. Be a sweet fucking girl for me, yeah?”

“What—” You asked, suddenly breathless at looking at the man with a sharp jawline, fangs peeking through his plush lips and eyes dark, sweet moles scattered across his face, and specs perched on his ever so perfect nose.

He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe, the loud click of the lock sounding like a final verdict, just making sure that you knew what you had gotten yourself into. You squirmed in his arms, but he didn’t even flinch, holding you against his chest like you weighed nothing, that he needed you.

Sunghoon set you down gently on the plush leather couch in his office, fingers brushing against your thighs a little longer than necessary. His eyes roamed your body like he was trying to memorize every detail, every inch of you.

“Good girls don’t lie, y’know?” He said, removing his blazer agonizingly slow, to the point you couldn’t help but stare at his physique, “and they don’t flirt with others when they know someone’s watching, yeah?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” you whispered, legs pressing together instinctively, rubbing against each other. “Oh, yeah?” He cocked his head, unbuttoning his cuffs, “then why did I see you giggling at your phone like a fucking whore in heat?”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks at the blatant degradation, “that’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair,” he interrupted, his figure looming over you, “is how much I’ve done to keep you here. You think I didn’t notice the way you smiled at that guy from finance? The way you smile as if he means something to you?”

You tried to look away, but he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes back on him, his voice dropped an octave lower, almost like velvet but with a hint of poison.

“I’ve been patient, kitten. So fucking patient, but tonight—tonight you’re going to learn who you belong to, okay?”

A glint of silver shining caught your eye—he had pulled the handcuffs from his drawer, dangling them by one finger with a smirk.

Your heart thudded violently in your ribcage, so fast that you feared it would break, “what? No! You can’t just—”

“I can,” he cut you off, “and I will. You can say no, kitten, I won’t stop you. But I don’t think you will. You want this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t say no, your voice failing you, and he had you right where he needed you to be. Your body betraying you, every shiver, every tremble catching his eyes, and lord he thrived on it.

“You’re so scared, aren’t you?” He murmured, crouching down between your knees, his big, slender fingers gripping your thighs, “but—god baby, you’re so excited too, I can feel it. You’re already wet, aren’t you?”

You hated how right he was, hated that your pulse raced when he touched you, the wrongness of the whole situation just made it worse.

Sunghoon leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “tell me to stop. One word, and I walk away.” He challenged.

Followed by your silence, just the sound of your deep breaths filling up the room. You didn’t say it, you couldn’t.

“Yeah? Good fucking girl.” His voice was thick, as if he had won already (he did), and before you could say say anything else, his hand tangled into your hair, rough, no more teasing—and he yanked your head back until your breath hitched and your lips parted with a soft, involuntary gasp.

“On your knees, now.”

It was a request, but an order, and he chuckled at how your legs buckled, your makeup smudged already, blouse clinging onto your damp skin. He wasn’t pretending to be your boss anymore, the evil glint in his eyes no longer hidden by any means. He was something else now, an obsessive, unrelenting man.

“Don’t,” you breathed out, “Sunghoon, please. I—didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to be a fucking tease?” He snapped, catching your wrist with a hand and shoving you back against the nearest wall, the frames on the wall rattling with the impact, “didn’t mean to smile at him? I have been the one taking care of you, kitten.”

“You’re fucking hurting me,” you snapped, voice trembling with fear but also fury.

But Sunghoon only grinned like a maniac, “good,” he said, eyes flicking down to your wrists, where he held you firmly, bringing them to the back so he could handcuff you hard enough to dig into your skin, “pain means you’re still pretending.”

Your body jerked, trying to push him off with your shoulder, but his reflexes were too fast, he shoved you back again, harder this time, your hands useless behind you.

“Let me go, you’re so fucking sick,” you glared at him now.

He leaned in close, nose brushing against yours, his breath hot, “you think I’m the sick one baby?” His fingers brushed between your thighs and right up your skirt, caressing your panties, “then why the fuck are you this wet?”

You let out a gasp, trying to move again but he held your waist to keep you in spot, the other hand now gripping your jaw so tight it ached.

“You think I can’t see what you’re doing? Acting like a fucking brat now that you have my attention, huh? Pushing me back like you don’t want me,” his lips brushed your ear, voice almost a growl now, “but your body, yeah fuck, your body loves this so much, you need to be out in your place.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re dripping for me.”

He spun you around, forcing you to bend over his desk, cheek pressed against the cold wood. He shoved up your skirt as you tried to kick backwards, but he only chuckled, catching your ankle mid kick to spread your legs wider.

“Keep fighting,” he murmured, dragging his fingers up your soaked panties, “it makes me want to ruin you more.”

You cried under him, chest pressed to the desk and fists clenching, “you’ll regret this,” you said.

“No,” he whispered.

You barely had time to process anything before Sunghoon’s hand tangled in your hair again, taking your head back and bending your body, his breath against your neck.

“There’s no room for regret here, we’re just getting started, baby.” He moved with control, dragging two fingers against the soiled cloth, “still wet? How fucking cute.”

Then his palm landed on your ass harshly, once, then again, until you were gasping and thrashing around.

“That’s for flirting with the finance asshole,” he groaned, “then this, for not wearing that white blouse I love so much,” he mumbled, as if you had any clue about his favourites.

Your legs almost gave out as you tried to get out of his hold but it was hopeless, you were cuffed, bent over, and now his palm was making your ass—and he was just getting started. You choked on a sob, the humiliation seeping through as he pulled your panties down with a rough pull, the cold air caressing your skin, his groan vibrating against your back.

“Fuck, so filthy, your body isn’t even denying it anymore.”

He stepped back for a moment, and you breathed hard when you heard the sound of a belt unbuckling, slow.

“Sunghoon—” your voice cracked.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, and you felt something hard smacking against your thigh—his belt. “You lost the right to talk when you whimpered for me the second I touched you.”

You sobbed again, moaning alongside with how wrong it felt to actually like something as twisted as this, you couldn’t even admit it out loud, you simply couldn’t.

You jolted again, a cry escaping before you could stop it, your legs gave out, wrists still bound behind you, cheeks hot with a mix of fear, shame, and something far worse—arousal that you couldn’t explain to anyone, not even yourself.

Sunghoon stepped in front of you, keeping his belt on the desk, unzipping his slacks like he had all the time in the world.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered.

You shook your head slowly, “n—no,” you cried.

That was a wrong move.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked hard—forcing your head back until you cried out, your neck exposed, your lips parted just from the force of his grip.

“You’re really testing me tonight,” he growled, stepping closer until the head of his cock pressed against your lips, “you wanna make this harder for yourself? Fine. You’ll choke on it.”

He didn’t wait, he shoved himself into your mouth with one hard thrust, the taste of him flooding your tongue as your gag reflex immediately kicked in. You choked, whimpering around him, but he held your head steady with both hands now, thrusting into your throat like he didn’t give a damn, pushing your head deeper with a low groan.

“That’s it,” he hissed, hips snapping forward, “take it, take it like a good fucking whore.”

Your eyes watered, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth as he used you without pause, his grip in your hair was bruising, keeping you exactly where he wanted you—his personal fuckhole, gagging on his cock in the same office where you’d tried to act professional just hours ago.

“This mouth doesn’t deserve to speak unless it’s wrapped around me,” he said, thrusting deep again. You gagged loud this time, trying to pull back, but he shoved you right back down.

“You hear that?” he growled, staring down at you, your lips red and stretched, your eyes wide and teary, “that’s the sound of you learning your place.”

He held himself there, cock resting deep in your throat while your body jerked, struggling for breath, your cuffed hands useless behind you. Just when your vision blurred from lack of air, he pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit and pre cum connecting your swollen lips to his length.

You collapsed forward, coughing, drooling, body trembling—completely wrecked, but still wet, still breathing hard, and now looking up at him in a different light, and you gulped harshly in fear now that you knew you liked it, ashamed of yourself for thinking so.

“Aw,” Sunghoon mocked you, “already broken, kitten. You’re my doll, aren’t you?” He asked, petting you like a dog.

You didn’t even flinch at the touch, only looking at him as you took in deep breaths. He tilted his head, watching you with that same hungry intensity you’d seen behind his glasses in the office all along—only now, the mask was gone. He didn’t have to pretend anymore.

“You liked that,” he said quietly, almost in awe, like he was marveling at the mess he made, “and you’re still fucking dripping.”

“Please—”

“Shh, open,” he parted your lips with his thumb, going down to collect your wetness, and he pushed his soaked fingers into your mouth. You gagged, humiliated, as the taste coated your tongue with embarrassment.

“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek in twisted praise as you struggled, “see? I knew you’d learn for me, just for me, hm?”

He stood again, towering over you, then pulled your handcuffs—forcing your upper body upright. You cried out, the strain on your arms sharp, your blouse now torn and half hanging off your shoulder.

You didn’t respond, you couldn’t. Your lips were parted, chest heaving, eyes wide and dazed as he spun you around to face him. Still cuffed, still naked from the waist down, legs trembling.

He gripped your chin and forced your eyes up to his. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say you liked it.”

You shook your head weakly, shame crawling up your spine. “I—I didn’t—”

He scoffed, eyes darkening, “I said,” he muttered, “say. You. Liked. It.”

You tried to speak, but you couldn’t. You tried to turn away, but his grip on you tightened.

“I—I liked—”

“Look at your cunt,” he dragged two fingers back between your thighs and shoved them in without warning, “still wet and clenching. Still desperate. You’re not even pretending anymore.”

You cried and he only smiled, finally kissing your lips, tasting himself on your tongue, tasting the tears that stained your face, and swallowing your moans. Sunghoon found this romantic, as if it was all he had ever wanted.

“Don’t cry now, kitten. You’re not sorry, you’re ashamed because you liked it. Because you wanted it, because you want more.”

“I hate you,” you whimpered, breath hitching as your thighs trembled again.

“Yeah? But I fucking love you,” he mumbled, sick and twisted as your body gave into him, moaning his name like a desperate slut.

That’s when he pushed you against the desk, giving you no warning before thrusting into your leaking little hole. You screamed and he laughed.

“Say my name, go on.”

“Sunghoon—fuck please—Sunghoon,” you moaned.

“That’s it,” he hissed, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding into your hair, “my good, dumb little slut, all fucking mine, you’re mine, mine.”

He fucked you rough, it was deep, fast, and filthy. The mirror shook on the table shook and you cried out, drool slipping past your lips, every thrust breaking you down further.

“This is all you’re good for,” he growled, pounding into you so hard the glass fogged with your breath, “getting ruined by the man who fucking owns you, yeah?”

You came fast, embarrassingly fast, cunt clenching around him with no resistance, no fight, just pure ecstasy and embarrassment.

But he didn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips snapping, “you’re so fucking perfect like this. Look at you—my favorite toy, crying and creaming all over my cock like you’re meant to do this, to be my fucking doll.”

He took your moans in, kissing you again, and again, till he couldn’t breathe anymore.

“You were made for this.”

And then he filled you again, his hand on your jaw, forcing your face to the mirror, “Look at yourself,” he panted, cock twitching inside you, “look how pretty you are when you break, when you submit to me, when you let me breed that pretty cunt of yours.”

“Sunghoon—” you mumbled against his lips.

“Yeah? You’ll look so good all swollen for me, for me, yeah?”

You nodded weakly, making him smile, “you’re fucking mine, do what I say now, hm?”

And you did exactly what he asked for—for you to be his.

Only his.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

@jaeminvore @macaroonff @ajayke-reads @en-myworld @lunalovesstories @jayzdaze @deobitifull @celeste-hoon @mari-oclock @kpoprhia @ikeuizm @woniebae @lalalalawon @blessedcursd @skzenhalove @heesuncore @seuomo @kyurizeu @haechan-nahceah @tobiosbbyghorl @jezzebear @jaehoonii @itsgivingitalian @bunhoons @hyacandoit @luvswonyoung @ma-riiii @addictedtohobi @heeliopheelia @haanigurl @dopedels @kaykay11sworld @glitterjay @skzooluvr @yongbokified

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#fic : darkness of devotion #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #sunghoon smut #kpop smut #enha smut #sunghoon x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen

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ancillaryjurisprudence · 2 years ago

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I'm looking through my old work slack msg from 2019 and it's like. Who is this person. So cheerful and engaged. I can barely string two sentences together

#Im looking for previous phone research because its finally time to replace this phone i think #I dislike smartphone shopping nobody makes specs i like anymore #The problem is that I like xperia because they last but because they last sony is not making money on them #Going out of business because their phones last 5-6 years easily #This will be my 3rd smartphone ever but man theres nothing out there #Personal #Meanwhile im looking at all the msgs about things was super excited about #I just dont care about any of it anymore

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fgojous · 2 months ago

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silver springs ( satoru g. )

satoru's life was planned down to the very last detail. every clinical rotations, every exam, especially his future—laid out carefully like a surgical procedure. but then you came along—loud, sarcastic and seemed to have no remorse when your ice cold coffee was dripping down his white coat—and into his perfectly planned life. and now? he can't stop thinking about you. everything he had planned? yeah, that went sideways.

med student!gojo x pre-med student!reader

tags. romance, fluff, light angst (hehe), hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, slow burn, medical au, college au, age gap, banters (a lot), sexual tension, use of profanities, explicit sexual content, kissing/making out (like a lot too i think? lmao), unprotected sex (pls always use protection), little hair pulling, fingering, p in v, creampie, overstimulation (?), pillow talks | eighteen plus only!

word count. 13.4k

status. completed (one-shot)

note. i know! 13.4k is crazy but i love satoru sm can u blame me. anyway, i can't get enough of med student satoru, he drives me insane. this is kinda self-indulgent (cos yn is a pt student, and me too hihi). btw, satoru is 25 and yn is 20! <3 i think that's all i wanted to say. anyway, i love u <3

Satoru was—safe to say, pissed.

He hasn’t slept for hours. There’s his clinical instructor breathing down his neck. He’s still got to study after this.

Then you, wide your eyes wide, jaw slightly dropped, are just staring at him. Like you were sent by the heavens above to add to his problems today—maybe they said, it wasn’t enough, you had to come.

Fuck this day, really.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” his voice was low, irritation unmistaken.

You blinked, frozen in place, your caramel macchiato—wasted, dripping down his white—very white coat. Does this day get any better than this? You think not.

You stared at the man in front of you. His jaw was clenched and his specs are slightly askew, and there’s obvious irritation dancing in his sharp sapphire eyes, his long white lashes fluttering. Goddamn, he’s tall.

And you are pissing him off.

“Uh—what—you bumped into me!”

His figure was towering over you—his white messy hair caught a glimpse of the fluorescent light.

“Because you weren’t looking. You’re on your phone.”

Well, sorry, if you were stressing about your upcoming long test—but you were here in the hospital instead of studying, accompanying your mother. Maybe she thought it’d be better to string you along in the hospital on the weekends.

“And you’re walking too fast.” you retorted, your chest was brewing. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

His lips twitch, almost smirking. You’re so fucking… irritating. “Wow. Was it your mission to irritate me today?”

You scoffed, my god, you hate him already and you don’t even know his name yet.

You reached for a napkin from your purse, attempting to ‘alleviate’ this situation but you know that there is nothing you could do anymore. You were about to dab on his coat when he stepped back.

“Are you seriously going to dab it in?”

“Wow. You’re so grumpy.”

“And you are irritating.”

Yes. You get it.

“Then maybe you should get some more sleep?”

He paused, for a moment, before he laughed. He actually laughed.

Not that loud, but enough for you to ease a bit. He can’t believe that you still have something to say—and yet to say the one thing that he’s waiting for you to say.

“You’re unbelievable.” he muttered, he adjusted his glasses before peeling the coat off. “You owe me. Dry cleaners.”

You blinked, he’s only wearing his dark navy scrubs now, you see his badge clipped on his breast pocket.

Gojo Satoru | Clinical Clerk

His name lingered in your mind longer than it should be. Where have you heard that name again?

But you didn’t have any time to rack your brains out when he handed his white coat to you with care, like it’s something so fragile it almost makes you scoff. But you took it anyway, because taking it to the dry cleaners was the only thing that you could do now—and you know, it’s kind of your fault too.

“Don’t put bleach on it. I’m serious.”

“I know how laundry works.” you rolled your eyes, folding his white coat carefully in your arms.

“Really? You’re not just a spoiled brat who spills coffee on someone’s coat?”

You deadpanned, not bothering to answer him because seriously, you can’t argue with him anymore. You handed him your phone and his brows furrowed, “Your number. How could I give this back to you if I can’t contact you?”

He snatched your phone from your hand, “For once you were actually thinking.”

Oh my god, give me the strength not to wipe his coat on the floor right now.

You just watched him type in his number, he called his phone from yours so he could save your number.

“There.” he says, handing you your phone back. “I expect my coat to be sparkling clean.”

“Yeah, fine.”

He didn’t answer you anymore and just turned to walk away. But before he disappeared into the hallway, he waves over his shoulder.

“Talk about dramatic.”

Three days have passed before he reached out to you.

You had honestly forgotten about the coat—well, you blame the myriad of long tests and practical exams for the past three days. You’d gotten immersed in studying that you forgot that you had to actually give his coat back.

But it was already clean and hanging neatly in a garment bag, just forgotten for a bit.

And honestly? You didn’t know how to face him again without getting embarrassed. You may have been too much of a brat that day.

[grumpy med student | 6:57 PM] where’s my coat i need it

[grumpy med student | 6:58 PM] you’ve thrown it away, didn’t you?

You rolled your eyes, typing on your phone.

[You | 6:59 PM ] i can bring it to you right now, my classes have just finished.

[You | 7:00 PM] i had it cleaned, don’t worry. u asked for bleach, right?

[grumpy med student | 7:01 PM] stop fucking with me. meet me at the ER entrance in 20

You stared at the screen for a bit too long. How in the hell did he manage to annoy you with just a text?

But still, you were there twenty minutes later with his coat draped over your arm. You’re still wearing your white uniform, your ID badge hanging on a lanyard embroidered with the hospital’s name—you’re scrolling through your group chats to read about the practicals that were coming up.

“Huh.” you looked up at the voice, his face etched with surprise as he looked at you, “ You actually look so miserable.”

Your eyes fell on him and there he was with his navy scrubs with a stethoscope slung around his neck and the only thing missing was his white coat that was hanging from your arm.

“Thanks. I just came from a six-hour lecture.” you say, voice laced with sarcasm then you handed him his coat. “Here. We’re even now.”

“Didn’t know we study in the same university,” he says.

How could he even know when you’re in different buildings? And he’s already in med school?

“So, what are you?” He didn’t give you a chance to answer when he reached for your badge, “Physical Therapy, huh?”

You snatched it from his hand, “I’m leaving.”

He smirks, “Don’t trip and spill some coffee on someone else now, YN.”

“Try opening your eyes while you walk, Satoru.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and turned away. God, he was so annoying.

Your mother’s rounds were running longer than usual.

She keeps on insisting you wait for her at the hospital so you could have lunch together. With you, living in the dorms and your long, grueling classes eating up most of your days, this was the only time you get to spend together.

And she’s late. And you’re hungry.

Now, you’re in the hospital cafeteria, eating the chips that you got from the vending machine.

This is the only place you could think of where you could spread your books and notes. You can’t afford not to study right now.

Your mind was full of some terms you’re not even sure you’re understanding. You were muttering words, teaching yourself like it actually helps. You didn’t even notice a group of med students passing by your table until a voice cut through the noise going on in your head.

“Hey, Miss PT.”

You looked up at him.

He looked the same. Glasses perched on top of his nose, same navy scrubs except he was the one holding the coffee now.

“Are you planning to get back at me?”

Satoru stared right at you, eyes flickering between you and your notes, “As much as I’d love to stain your white uniform, fortunate for you, I’m not as clumsy as you.”

“Aren’t you too busy to irritate me right now?” you retorted, looking back down at your notes to… read?

Anything.

Just so you could look away from him.

Then you hear him laugh lightly—annoyingly, before turning away. You stare at his back as he walks away then you see him talk to a dark-haired med student who looked just as tired as he is before disappearing.

Then you look down, something caught at the side of your eyes.

Then you see a small chocolate bar on top of your open notes.

Huh.

You muttered a curse under your breath. How else are you going to go to your dorm when it’s pouring?

A heavy breath escaped your lips as you tuck your arm in your chest, watching the rain splatter down the pavement. The rain was cold, loud—and seemed like it would not stop any time soon.

“Let me guess, you’re trying to catch a cold to miss clinical exams?”

Your head tilted to the side quickly. That familiar voice grazing through your ears.

It has been almost a week since you saw him. He wasn’t wearing scrubs anymore. He’s just wearing his white uniform just like you are, a university hoodie for med students draped on his arm.

“Let me guess, you’re going to annoy me to death now?” you gave him a sarcastic smile, “What are you doing at our building?”

“Had to drop off something. Why? You thought I was looking for you?” a menacing grin tugging on his lips.

Does he really have to be this annoying? And unbelievably good looking?

You ignored his comment, “I don’t suppose you have an umbrella?”

“Nope.” he answered, you just sighed and looked away—you frown a bit as you saw some of the students from different programs were looking your way, you just shrugged it off, trying to wait the rain out.

Satoru stared at you, really stared at you like you’re a mnemonic that he was memorizing—you were hugging yourself, teeth clattering slightly, your hair strands stuck in your cheeks.

“Here.” you glanced back at him, your eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

“Take it. Don’t want you dying from hypothermia over there.”

It’s his hoodie.

You looked at him and back at the hoodie again. You blinked once trying to comprehend what he’s offering you right now.

Is he really? This grumpy, annoying med student is offering you his hoodie?

“Are you going to take it or not? My arm is killing me.” he says, nudging it closer to you.

You sighed, taking it from him with slight hesitation, if you weren’t so cold right now—but you are, so you swallowed your pride, “Thank you.”

“Huh?” he leaned closer as if he didn’t hear what you said, but you know he did because there’s a smirk pulling on his lips right now. “Didn’t hear what you said. Come again?”

You leaned closer, whispering in his ear. “I said, fuck off.”

You slipped on his hoodie, it was annoyingly soft and smelled like him. That’s actually the first thing that you noticed—and you suddenly realized, you actually know what his scent is.

You actually know what Satoru Gojo smelled like even if you’re not around him that much.

And it pisses you off just a little how nice it felt around you.

“You know you’d have to return that to me, right?”

It’s been two days and you still have his hoodie.

You told yourself you’re going to return it. That’s why you’re here again.

In front of the emergency room entrance, in the middle of the day.

If anyone sees you, maybe you could say that you were going to see your mother.

Or, maybe because your professor had canceled his lecture for today and you had nothing else to do.

You’ve got about two hours before your next subject and you got time to kill. Your friends had already gone to the nearest mall and you had no energy to walk around right now.

That’s why you’re here.

That’s what you’re telling yourself because you’re seeing him so often these days, it’s almost becoming a routine and it weirds you out in a way that you can’t explain.

“Hey.”

You turned and there he was again, tall as ever, just a few steps from you..

“Your hoodie.” you say, lifting it. “Thanks.”

His eyes just flickered to the fabric on your arm then back to your face again. “You busy?”

“Not as busy as you.” you say with a mischievous grin.

He almost rolls his eyes, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.” you answered, a teasing smile escaping past your lips. “Why? You want to eat with me?”

“You like hospital food?”

And that’s how you ended up in that cafeteria again, except you’re sitting across from him now and his hoodie was still on your arm. So, you set it down on the chair beside you—it’s just sitting there, waiting to be brought up.

You’re twisting the pasta with your fork, and stared at it like it hurt you—how could it look this… bland?

But that’s not what concerns you the most, it’s the fact that the silence between the two of you was more comfortable than it is awkward.

Like you had done this before—or, like this isn’t going to be a one-time thing.

Satoru was about to bite on his sandwich when he looked at you. “Do you always stare at your food like it has done you wrong?”

“Do you always sound this irritating when you’re chewing?”

“Yeah. There’s actually a class in med school for that.” he bites on his sandwich, not shying his blue eyes from you.

You stare back at him, sipping from your cup. “You think you’re so funny, huh?”

“I know I am.” his smugness didn’t escape past you. Annoying.

You huffed a breath, “Should’ve gone with my friends.”

“Uh-huh.” he agreed, nodding his head. “Then I wouldn’t have to sit here and endure this torture.”

You scrunch your nose, glaring at him and he just gives you a sheepish smile.

Isn’t he the one who invited you here? And now he’s acting like you’re the one who interrupts his peace.

You didn’t answer—but you glared at him enough to let him know that he’s an exhausting little prick.

When is the bickering ever going to stop?

You bite back your breath before finally bringing it up, “Aren’t you going to take your hoodie back?”

You couldn’t take the way his hoodie just stares at you. It’s too weird—like it’s really meant for you when it’s not.

It shouldn’t.

“You keep it.”

“Why?”

Satoru looked at you, “So you’ll have to return it again.”

So here you were, in your next class, wearing his damn hoodie because the air conditioning in this lecture hall was on full blast.

“Medicine.” you hear Maki say.

“Huh?”

She pointed at the back of the hoodie with her lips, “You’re wearing a hoodie from the college of medicine and surgery. You’re a med student now?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Then why are you wearing it?”

Yes.

Why?

Why are you wearing it?

It has been two weeks since you last saw him.

Not that you were counting.

Well, maybe, it’s because your mother hasn’t been begging you to eat lunch with her and you had no business being at the hospital.

Not that you were hoping for him to drop something off at your building again. My god, why are you even thinking about him now?

It’s because you were staring at his hoodie right now, just sprawled across the backrest of the seat of your study table. You looked away, reaching for your phone to check if he had messaged you—

No, what business does he have messaging you? You tossed your phone away and buried your face on the pillow.

This is so goddamn embarrassing.

The next day, you were about to finish your last class for the day when your mother had texted you and wanted you to come.

And, fuck, you couldn’t get out of your building fast enough. You were almost sprinting to the hospital.

Then you slowed down… why in the hell are you this excited? Isn’t he annoying to you?

So you walked—tried to walk normally, but you were clearly searching for that white hair as you walked through the hallway.

And then you paused, your heart gradually pounds inside your chest, until the only thing that you could feel was your heart trying to claw its way out of your ribs.

There he was, standing just outside the exam room, reading something on the charts when you sneaked behind him.

“Hey, annoying.”

Satoru pauses for a fraction of a second before looking at you, your eyes met, and he looked like he hasn’t slept for about a year.

“Hey.” he greeted you back, his voice was flat—tired.

You blinked, letting out a faint smirk. “Wow, don’t get so excited now.”

You could almost see that grin tugging on his lips but… none. He just adjusted his glasses and scratched the back of his neck. “Just had a long day.”

You searched his face. Yeah, he looked so tired like he hasn’t slept—which, really he hasn’t. But there was something else.

“Oh, you okay?” you swallowed thickly, clutching on your bag—where his hoodie sits heavy just like that feeling creeping up on you.

“Fine.” he says, “I gotta go back.”

Satoru didn’t give you any chance to answer, he walked past you—not a single grin or snarkiness. He didn’t even give you a second glance.

So, you stood there, words still stuck on your throat, standing there a few more seconds than you should have.

[grumpy med student | 11:58 PM] u still up?

You stared at your phone. The bright light from your laptop screen illuminating the frown etched on your face.

[You |11:59 PM] what do u think

[grumpy med student | 11:59 PM] studying?

[You | 12:00 AM] how else am i supposed to answer the long test tomorrow

[grumpy med student | 12:00 AM] what topic

[You | 12:01 AM] orthopedic conditions

You hated how much you stared at your phone, your conversation still open as if you’re really anticipating everything that he’s going to say.

Then three minutes passed and he still hasn't answered and you thought that he had vanished again. And that was it.

It was three days since he gave you the cold shoulder in the hospital, you were supposed to be mad at him for reasons that you don’t even know—or if you even had the right to, and now you’re just waiting for him to respond—

The shrill ringing of your phone cuts off your thoughts.

You looked at the screen and there was his contact.

grumpy med student Calling…

Don’t answer it, you say. Why is he even calling you this late?

Your fingers hovered over the screen, thinking it over, debating yourself if it’s a good thing that you talk to him right now.

But then you sighed, your finger clicking the answer button.

“Hi.”

You heard him breathe on the other side of the phone, “Sorry.”

“For what?” you were almost whispering, like you couldn’t believe that you were talking to him right now.

“Three days ago. I wasn’t in the mood.”

You didn’t say anything right away.

The silence filled with quiet breathing from either of you.

Why is he saying sorry, even though it wasn’t a big deal?

It really isn’t.

Right?

“Okay.” you say softly, and then it was his turn this time to stay quiet. Then you hear him shift, maybe from his bed.

“You still have my hoodie?”

Then your heart pounds. Because you were wearing it. You’re fucking wearing it. It’s wrapped around you, clinging on your skin along with his scent that still lingers in it.

“No, I threw it out.” then you heard him laugh, a breathy laugh that made you slightly insane. “Cause you pissed me off.”

“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?” he paused for a bit, “Are you still mad?”

You huffed, “Am I allowed to?”

You hold your breath waiting for his answer. What kind of question is that?

“You are.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. So instead, you say, “I’m hanging up. I’m studying.”

“Wait.”

“What now?”

“I’m studying too.” he says, you can hear shuffling on the other side, “Don’t hang up.”

An irritated groan came out of your mouth, refusing to lift your head up from your desk. If you could get just a minute of sleep you’d be fine.

But there’s someone pissing you off by nudging your arm. Repeatedly, to say.

You haven’t had the chance to sleep, thanks to a certain someone who called you at midnight and kept you talking until your brain turned to mush.

And the nudging doesn’t stop.

You finally lifted your head, your eyes stinging from the lack of sleep. “What?!”

Then you froze, just seeing who it was.

Satoru was standing there, looking down at you with an infuriating smirk on his lips—his eyes flickering down briefly to his hoodie that you were wearing. “Now, you’re the grumpy one.”

“And who’s fault is that?” your brows furrowed as you narrowed your eyes.

Then you suddenly realized, he’s in your building.

In your lecture hall.

Right in front of you—in front of your entire block.

You blinked—a little stunned as he placed a coffee on your desk, with a chocolate bar just like the one he left you last time.

Did he just come all the way here to give you a cup of coffee?

Your eyes darted around slightly, your block mates were already watching—whispering like you’ve brought someone famous. Because how often do you see a third year med student in his scrubs, dropping off some coffee for a second year pre-med student?

Exactly. Never.

Then all of it clicked into place like a perfect puzzle.

Satoru Gojo.

You’ve heard his name before. From all around the campus—from the whispers, he’s that med student your block mates were all talking about.

You just didn’t realize it was him. Took you a month.

“Now we’re even.” he says casually, “Bye.”

Then he left you there, with your mouth slightly open—and with the knowing looks that your block mates were giving you.

Especially the one beside you.

“Oh.” Maki smirks, “So, that’s Satoru Gojo.”

You blinked at her, mouth shut tightly.

“Didn’t know you were dating the med school’s golden boy.”

Dating?

Is she kidding right now?

Your eyes gaze upon the coffee he left for a little too long.

“We’re not—he’s… not—”

“Uh-huh.” Maki nods, now staring at the hoodie that you are wearing. “Sure.”

The one thing that you were wishing as of now was for the ground to swallow you whole.

“You’re being weird.”

There you were, elbows propped on the table, cheeks resting on your palm as you shamelessly stare him down.

It didn’t matter that he was famous in your university and everyone was talking about him, blah blah. It bothers you that it took you this long to realize.

Well, you really don’t pride yourself on engaging in senseless gossip, much less about some handsome someone you don’t even know—well, now you know.

Because you’re eating with him side by side, at the hospital cafeteria, with the shitty food.

“You know they call you the ‘golden boy’, right?”

Then he groaned, poking on his food. “So?”

“How come I didn’t know?” you murmured, “I mean, I always hear them talk about you, I just didn’t realize it was you. I just felt stupid?”

“It’s because you are.” and he said that with a straight face, you glare at him and he smiles, “Can you just eat?”

“Okay, golden boy.”

“Can you stop?”

You scrunch your nose and give him a little smile before snatching a fry from his plate, “Make me.”

“Ah.” he laughs—adjusting his specs before leaning in, “You really want to go there? I don’t think you can handle it if I do.”

It was safe to say that you’re flustered, you tried to hold your ground but something in the way he stared at you made your stomach churn in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“Shut up.” that’s all you could say before pushing his forehead away using your index finger. “Just eat your food.”

─── MONDAY ───

[grumpy med student | 5:45 PM] i’m outside your lecture hall

[You | 5:46 PM] why? u miss me?

[grumpy med student | 5:46 PM] no. i’m just not irritated enough today, maybe seeing ur face would fix that

You purse your lips, trying so hard not to let a smile slip past your lips. Your professor was still on the last slide of her lecture, wrapping things up.

While you were already shoving things in your bag rather hastily for someone who ‘doesn’t care’ whether he’s there or not—and when your professor said the class was dismissed, you said a quick goodbye to Maki before stepping out the hall.

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed—hair messy, specs looking unfairly good on him.

He looked up from his phone, “Took you long enough.”

You raised your brows, “Well, I’m sorry if my studies are a bother to you having your need to be extremely irritated today.”

“Apology accepted.” he says, pushing off the wall to step beside you. “Library?”

You started walking, side by side—not minding the looks coming your way. “Uh-huh.”

Maybe you could see now why they called him the golden boy.

It’s not just his looks, but the way he’s so focused—head dipped down on his books like his eyes were glued on the paper. He was scribbling notes, tapping his pen lightly—his lips parted slightly.

You could see why they’re talking.

He’s like an all-in-one package—the looks, talent, skills… the way his face looks intent but calm while he’s studying.

But for you, he’s just the grumpy med student who bumped into you and made you spill your coffee on him.

─── TUESDAY ───

[grumpy med student | 3:12 PM] i think my legs would fall of if i moved

[You | 3:12 PM] why

[grumpy med student | 3:13 PM] they made me stand for 6 hours straight. fuck it, i’m never moving from this gurney

[You | 3:14 PM] aw, poor baby. want me to carry u home? );<

[grumpy med student | 3:15 PM] yes baby

[You | 3:16 PM] fuck u

─── WEDNESDAY ───

[grumpy med student | 6:17 PM] bring highlighters, forgot mine. not YELLOW

[You | 6:17 PM] what’s your beef with yellow

[grumpy med student | 6:17 PM] hurts my eyes

[You | 6:18 PM] you know what hurts your eyes? lack of sleep

He looked up at you when you laid out a bunch of highlighters in front of him, “Don’t worry. Not one of ‘em is yellow.”

“Did you go around and ask a bunch of people for highlighters?” his eyes followed you as you sat in front of him.

You just shrugged your shoulders, opening your own notes—hiding a grin behind the paper.

─── THURSDAY ───

[grumpy med student | 6:45 PM] where are u? some freshmen stole our table. the fuck

[You | 6:46 PM] our prof is still wrapping up

[grumpy med student | 6:47 PM] get here fast

You roll your eyes as you read his text. Your professor ended the class and you stood up almost immediately.

“Going on a date again?”

You glanced at your friend, brows furrowing. “It’s not a date.”

Maki doesn’t know why you’re still fooling her, maybe because you don’t know yourself what this is.

“Oh. Okay. Say hi to Gojo for me.” she says, laughing before stepping out the door. And you just huffed out a breath before picking up your bag.

You walk slowly—just to spite Satoru, and to think about what really is this.

Well, you’re just studying together. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?

─── FRIDAY───

[grumpy med student | 4:45 PM] i forgot to tell u earlier, someone just came up to me and asked if MI stands for mild infection

[You | 4:46 PM] my god

[grumpy med student | 4:46 PM] haha right.

[grumpy med student | 4:46 PM] what time’s your out? lecture just finished

[You | 4:47 PM] i'm here at the 2nd floor lounge w my friends. why?

He didn’t respond after that, you didn’t think much about it. Maybe he got pulled into a case, or he thought it’d be better to annoy his friends other than you.

Not until Maki nudges you with her shoulder, looking at the figure walking up to your table.

And there he was, Satoru Gojo, gracing your building with his presence—still in his lecture uniform, his hands were in his pocket like he’s a walking drama that’s about to happen.

“I don’t think you belong here.” you say as soon as he sat beside you, in front of your friends who’s just looking at him with their jaw slightly dropped.

“Yeah? I was told I could find the most irritating person here. And, yeah. Here she is.”

Your eyes were flickering in between your notes and him.

Because for the past ten minutes, he’s been blinking slowly—nodding off just a little before snapping his eyes back open.

You try not to stare at him but it’s really hard not to.

Satoru shifts in his seat, his cheek dips down on his folded arms—and then, poof, out cold.

Seriously?

You pressed your cheek against your palm and let yourself stare at him. His white hair was messier than usual, his specs almost out of place—his lips are parted slightly, small huffs of breath shuffling out.

He looks so exhausted.

This is so stupid, my god.

Your eyes darted around the library to see if someone else is looking—but they’re caught up in their own world, so you extended your arm, reaching out for his glasses before removing them slowly and placing them neatly on the table.

You should’ve stopped there.

But your fingers lightly grazed his hair strands, brushing it gently out of his face.

It doesn’t make sense why—you’re here tucking his hair like you’re meant to do it. You don’t know why you keep meeting up with him when he’s just supposed to be a stranger you accidentally spilled your coffee to.

It’s like suddenly you’re looped in each other’s orbits and you can’t go on a single day without even talking to each other.

This is so stupid.

You sighed, leaning back on your chair and focused on your notes again.

Twenty minutes later, maybe more, he stirred.

You look up just in time to see him squinting his eyes against the light, he looked at you still a bit disoriented.

“You didn’t leave?” he mumbled—voice hoarse from sleep, now sitting up and stretching his arm.

“No.” you replied, “I’m afraid the librarian might kick you out.”

He lets out a soft laugh before rubbing the back of his neck. His eye catches yours—neither of you says anything for a moment.

You coughed a bit, handing him his glasses. “Here. I thought you might need it.”

[grumpy med student | 6:30 PM] cafe’s too loud

[grumpy med student | 6:30 PM] someone got our table in the library again

[You | 6:31 PM] find another place, we’re almost finished here

[grumpy med student | 6:32 PM] it's all packed

[You | 6:33 PM] are u sure

[grumpy med student | 6:34 PM] ?

[grumpy med student | 6:34 PM] yes im sure, u wanna go check it yourself?

[You | 6:35 PM] ugh so maybe next time?

[grumpy med student | 6:35 PM] how about my place? it’s quiet

You were having a staring contest with your phone again.

His place and quiet didn’t quite add up to you. Your brain was reeling its wheels trying to conjure every possible way going to his place for the first time ever might entail.

It’s not like this is the first time you’re going to be alone together. It’s just that—this feels different, too different.

[grumpy med student | 6:37 PM] unless you don’t want to, it’s fine we can study tomorrow

[You | 6:37 PM] no it’s okay

[grumpy med student | 6:37 PM] okay, i’m outside your lecture hall

And that’s how you ended up in his place, at the living room floor with your notes and books splayed on the coffee table and on the floor—just anywhere near.

His place was surprisingly clean. Not too clean, but enough to surprise you considering he’s too busy. There were a lot of medical textbooks near the coffee table, some takeout containers but that was it.

And there’s definitely his scent that lingers around the air.

It was silent between you two—it’s always like that, not awkward silence but comfortable. You were both flipping through books, handouts and whatnot.

You were scribbling left and right and sometimes mumbling mnemonics like you’ve lost your mind.

Sometimes he’d ask you some questions about anatomy because he needs to recall something—or when you’re spacing out, he’d nudge your knee with his and you’d flick your pen or a yellow highlighter to his direction.

Yeah, well, it was a mix of peaceful yet chaotic.

Satoru looked up from his book, arching his brow when you sprawled on the carpet, your handouts placed above your face.

“If I read the word vertigo one more time, I swear I’ll jump off the balcony,” you say, your voice a little muffled due to the papers that were covering your face.

“Neuro?”

“Uh-huh.” you replied, groaning.

“Okay, I get why you’re being so dramatic now. Take a break?”

You pulled the papers out of your face as you sat up, “Yes. Please.”

You lean the side of your body against the couch, elbows resting on the cushion as you look at him. “So, were you like this when you were in college?”

“Like what?” He removes his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose.

“Uh—annoying?”

“Yeah, it’s innate.” and you both snorted, “It’s a gift, don’t you know?”

You waved your hand off, “But seriously, what were you like?”

He turned, mimicking your position. “Just like this but minus the parties. Kinda reckless. Uh, handsome?”

Then you threw your handouts at him.

“And you, after college are you going straight to med school?”

You hummed, because that was always the plan. It never changed.

“Yeah. That’s always the plan.” you answered, “So, you partied in college, huh? I could see it.”

He raised his brow, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Oh, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” you narrow your eyes, looking at him carefully like you are analyzing him. “You’re wearing a backwards cap and oversized long sleeves with the first few buttons unbuttoned, probably holding a red cup—then there’s girls hovering over you, while you give your number left and right, did I nail it?”

Satoru blinked for a bit, then he suddenly laughed. “That’s oddly specific. What are you, a witch?”

You snorted a laugh, pointing at the small picture frame on his TV console. It’s a picture of him with his friends at a party—and he was wearing exactly what you had said.

Satoru blinked, looking at the photo then back at you.

Then he suddenly flicks your forehead—not too strong, but enough for you to glare at him. “You saw it earlier, didn’t you?”

“Ouch?!” you winced, a menacing smile slowly creeping up to your lips. “Even if I didn’t, I know you were like that.”

“Okay, miss psychic. But you were wrong about one thing.” he stretched his arms, and you could almost see the electrical field of smugness around him.

“And what is that?”

“I never gave my number to anyone.”

You raised a brow, “And why?”

“Because they wouldn’t stop texting.”

“But you gave your number to me.”

He stops for a bit.

“Yeah, because you have my coat. I was afraid you’ll throw it out of spite,” he smirks.

“You’re so annoying.” you roll your eyes, your lips trying to twitch into a smile. “So you never dated anyone serious?”

He hummed, like he’s trying to think of every girl that he dated and you almost threw a pillow in his direction. “Just the one. But we broke up after a year.”

You were about to speak when he did it first. “How about you? You ever had a boyfriend?”

You shrugged, “I had a boyfriend. First year. For just a few months. But it’s fine, we’re just friends now.”

You swore you saw his grin falter a bit—his jaw clenched slightly before speaking, “Ah. Dark-hair, looks like he hasn’t slept in quite a while, that guy?”

You blinked, “How did you know?”

“That day in the lounge,” he paused, “He was staring at you and he looked pissed when I sat beside you.”

Your brows furrow a bit then you laugh, “He always looks like that.”

“Right.” he paused, he was smirking but his eyes told a different story. “Totally normal.”

Both of you just stared at each other until you looked away and he cleared his throat like there’s something stuck in there that he couldn’t quite say.

“Okay. Break’s over.” he says, and just like that he’s got his specs on and a book on his lap again.

“Yeah.” you mumbled, and reached for your handout then you turned away.

The silence envelops the two of you again. All you could hear was his AC unit humming, his shallow breaths and the papers rustling. You were tapping your fingers on the carpet over and over again while you tried to read what was on the paper.

But all the letters all seemed mushed as you try to comprehend the look he gave you earlier.

What the fuck.

It was ten minutes until you spoke again.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?” he answers, gaze not leaving the book.

“Let me try the Dix-Hallpike maneuver on you.”

Then he looked up—you were holding the book up to show him the illustration, his eyebrow creased. “You really think you could pull me down without dislocating my neck?”

You thought about it. He’s taller than you, probably a bit heavy. But, hey, there’s no harm in trying, right?

You squint your eyes, “Come on. I just want to practice. It’s for the sake of medicine and my future patients.”

He groaned, removing his glasses, then he stood up to sit on the couch. Thank god his couch is L-shaped, you have plenty of space for him because he is freakishly tall.

You had him on the couch in a long sitting position, then you stood in front of him. Your hands shake a bit when you hold his face on each side, tilting it gently.

Your heart was pounding, how can it not when this six-foot tall med student was staring at your face like you’ve got all the answers in the world—

“You’re shaking.” his voice was low.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“It’s because you’re annoying, put your weight on me.” you say a little bit pissed, and he just laughs. “I’m going to lean you back now.”

And you tried, like, really tried but his muscle mass and gravity weren’t on your side. He leaned a little bit too enthused, his shoulders were also hanging because you hadn’t calculated the size of this couch.

This maneuver isn’t meant for this couch, really.

He burst out laughing and you did too, “You broke your patient.”

You were still laughing, hands clutching your stomach, he sat up. “Let me try it on you.”

“You don’t even know how.” you say, still giggling.

“I saw you did it, didn’t I? And lucky for you, I’m a fast learner.” he reached out to your book and read the section for a bit.

You just watched as he read for a while, a smile creeping up on your lips. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Don’t break my neck.” you say as a warning.

“Yeah, yeah.” he says, tapping the couch for you to sit on. Then it was your turn.

Your breath hitched when he placed his hand, his palm on your jaw—his thumbs placed on your cheeks, and his fingers were supporting your neck.

Then he leaned you back, your head hanging from the couch—you didn't realize that he was too close until you felt his breath on your cheeks.

“So, tell me,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “What signs to look out for when your patient is positive for this maneuver?”

“Uh—” you paused, your voice was close to cracking. “Nystagmus.”

“Good.” he mumbles, his breath getting heavy. “For how long?”

Then you tilt your head to look at him, he was still holding you. His thumb was brushing your cheeks.

“For… uh—seconds to minutes…”

My god, this felt like hours.

You could feel the air shift and all the nerves in your body had awakened.

Your gaze locked into each other and it just clicked.

Then he pressed his lips onto yours, not a sliver of hesitation like he was sure he wanted to do this.

The kiss felt inevitable.

Your eyes widened before you closed them, tugging on his shirt to pull him close—his hand moved to the back of your neck before pulling you up without breaking the kiss.

You could feel your body warm up despite the air conditioning being on low temperature—the nerve endings on your skin were working full-time as his fingers grip the back of your neck a little.

Then his back hits the cushion with a soft thud.

His hands settled on your hips—your weight hovering over him as you straddle his lap—he deepened this kiss, biting your lower lip—pushing his tongue in, making you whimper in his mouth.

Your hands travelled to his hair, grasping the locks in between your fingers. His hands were circling in on you now.

He was kissing you like he was being starved—like he wanted to devour you whole.

Then the kiss turned deeper, messier and louder—teeth clashing, lips biting, tongue delving inside just to taste every inch of your mouth—none of it was neat, he was kissing you sloppy.

Satoru groaned into your mouth when you moved your hips a little. You could feel him bulging underneath your clothed sex, he gripped your hips trying to keep you steady.

Then he pulled away—his eyes lidded, lips were swollen as you looked down at him, both your breaths uneven.

He didn’t say anything—just looked at you like he was memorizing the way your lips quiver as you breathe.

“We should stop.” he finally says, his voice rough.

“Why?” you ask softly, chest heaving—your hand still tangled in his hair, your fingers combing his soft locks.

“Because if we don’t,” he swallowed thickly, gripping your hips like he’s holding to what restraint he has left. “I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back anymore.”

Your ears pulsate, your face warms up as you stare at him.

God, you’re making him crazy.

The walk back to your dorm was silent. Not the tense silent kind of thing, where someone is about to throw a fit or cry.

It’s a ‘we-just-full-on-make-out-and-don’t-know-what-to-say’ kind of silence.

The kind that made your footsteps heavy on the sidewalk—you can’t even look at him, and you know he can’t look at you too.

Because he hadn’t said much since he offered to walk you back to your dorm—just took your bag without even saying a word, his skin brushes against you a bit and that was all, that was the last contact that you two ever made.

You were asking when the bickering would stop, and here it is. It stopped.

You used to walk like this together all the time. To the library, to the hospital cafeteria, to the café—bickering, nudging each other, making stupid jokes and annoying the hell out of each other and now it’s just… all gone.

You have no idea what else to do now. It’s like an itch on your brain that you can’t scratch. How are you supposed to act now? How do you even walk normally? How do you even breathe normally?

You swallowed hard, your brain was starting to irritate you. It’s screaming at you over and over again. You kissed him.

Nuh-uh, not just kiss, you made out with him. On his couch. With his hands gripping your waist. His fingers tracing your spine. Your lips clashing, molded into each other like it was the most natural thing in the universe.

You pursed your lip, huffing out a small breath that you wish he didn’t notice. Your thoughts were scattered, you couldn’t even think straight. You couldn’t find any right words to say.

And yet, you caved.

Your eyes looked forward, “You’re awfully quiet.”

“So are you.” he replies, then you look at him and he is staring at you.

And there he was calm. He always looked like that. Like this didn’t shake him.

Was he spiraling too? Is he pretending right now? You don’t know. You can’t even tell.

What now? What are you going to say? Are you going to ask him now what that kiss meant?

You looked away again. Wouldn’t it be better if he said something—maybe joke about it a little or annoy you, tease you—like he always does. But none of that was happening.

He stayed silent. And so did you, until you reached your dorm building.

“This is you.” he finally says, handing your bag to you.

You took it, and his fingers brushed into you again.

You open your mouth to say something but none of the words come out. Your throat felt like something big was stuck in it and you couldn’t spew what you wanted to say.

“Good night,” he said, and you just gave him a faint smile then you nodded.

What even is this? Why can’t you say something—

“Is this going to be weird now?”

He blinked, frozen in place but then he gave you a smile. Not that annoying, smug, teasing smile of his—it was a genuine smile, the kind that makes your heart squeeze.

“Only if you want it to be.”

You wanted to scream because how does he do it? How does he say it so casually while you’re here, like a ticking time bomb, about to explode?

Your fingers tightened around the bag that you were holding.

No, of course, you wouldn’t want it to be weird.

“I don’t want it to be.” you said, almost whispering.

Because that’s the truth. You didn’t want anything to change. Even if you’ve crossed that line. Even if you didn’t know what it meant for the two of you.

You don’t want to lose whatever this is.

He nodded, then stepped forward—placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow, YN.”

You just swallowed hard. Your eyes followed his figure while he walked back to his place that was just a few blocks from yours.

Your heart was pounding inside your chest. It’s funny you realize this now—but you know, it’s the truth.

That he’s either going to be the one… or the one you’ll never recover from.

You just didn’t know which is which.

You both said you were just taking a short break.

But now you have no idea how long you’d been like that on the couch.

Your back on the armrest, while he’s above, pressing his body against you—your legs curled up beside him and the other, slightly on him. It was getting kinda hard to breathe—from the kiss but also from the fact that whatever this is, there’s no coming back from this.

Your grip on his hair tightens when his lips trailed down to the side of your lips, to your jaw down to your neck—sucking and licking, “Satoru—don’t… don’t put—mhm!”

Then he presses his lips on yours again, and you could feel him smile—his teeth grazing on your lower lip.

“You know we should be studying, right?” he says in between, breathing heavy, then he was on you again—biting and nibbling on your lips.

“Mhm—hmm.” you hummed into his mouth, pulling him closer, like there’s any space left in between. Your lips were probably swollen—wet, from all the sloppy kisses that he was giving you but you didn’t have any care in the world.

Your notes and books were long forgotten on the floor and on the coffee table.

Your hair was probably a mess, a few buttons on your white uniform were unbuttoned—his white shirt was wrinkled from all the tugging that you did.

His hand moved to your hair, gripping on it a bit to angle your head—you moan into his mouth, and he pushes his tongue, swirling it around then sucks your tongue in—

“Yo. You weren’t answering—oh. OH.”

You both froze, eyes now open and you’re becoming painfully aware that he’s still above you. Then you heard another voice coming in.

“Hey! We brought—my god, we’re so sorry!” Then you heard a soft thud on the floor.

You pushed Satoru off you so fast that you almost hit your head against his. You sat up, fixing your hair and buttoning your white uniform again—while Satoru, this dumbass, was groaning—his back leaned on the couch now.

“For the record,” the tall guy with a dark-hair tied loosely into a bun—the one you saw in the cafeteria, started speaking, “We knocked.”

Satoru was about to speak when a voice cut into the conversation. “Hey, what’s up?”

“What’s happening in here?”

And another.

Now, there’s four of them. Looking back and forth at you and Satoru.

“Hi. I’m Yuki!” the tall blonde girl cracked the awkward silence, she walked towards the couch where you were sitting, then she pointed at her friends. “That’s Choso. Shoko then, the one who interrupted you first was Suguru.”

You smiled at them, still catching your breath—pulling your uniform down slightly, “I—uh… I’m YN.”

Then her eyes widened, “Oh! You’re YN?! The YN?”

Was he talking about you to his friends?

“The YN that spilled a coffee on his coat then he bitched to us about it like a fucking baby?” Shoko—the short-haired girl nudges Satoru to move so she could sit beside you.

Satoru glared at her but he moved anyway. Then slowly they were placing the food here and there, Suguru even handed you a soda.

“He was so dramatic about it,” Choso says, “We almost kicked him out of the group chat.”

You whip your head to look at Satoru, “I can’t believe you told them.”

“What was I supposed to do? I was pissed off.” he says, groaning. “And you didn’t even say sorry!”

“Uh—what? Cause you’re the one who bumped into me like you’re walking with your eyes closed! And I did say sorry!”

Did you? That memory was kind of a blur now.

Satoru laughs, “Uh. If I could remember, the only thing you said to me was I needed to get some sleep.”

And just like that the whole room burst into laughter—they were watching with amusement as you bicker back and forth with their friend, like they haven’t caught you making out with him on this very couch.

They were very loud—but funny, and so comfortable with each other and yet, you didn’t feel left out. Not even for a bit.

Now you’re all on the floor, your back leaning on the couch and Satoru was seated beside you.

Yuki was looping you in on the jokes. Shoko was asking you how pre-med is now and then, Choso and Suguru were asking you a bunch of questions about anatomy like you were in a trivia game.

They like you.

And that made you feel overwhelmed—in a good way, maybe? How are you supposed to feel in this position anyway?

You didn’t even notice the embarrassment gone out of your body like it was nothing. The room was filled with jokes, banters—and god, Satoru’s laugh. His laugh was annoyingly good. It was driving you insane.

You were still laughing when you looked at him and he looked back at you with a faint smile etched on his face.

Then your eyes landed onto his, he was looking at you like there’s something brewing on his mind—like there was something that he wanted to say but he couldn’t.

“You okay?” you asked him, nudging his knee slightly.

“Yeah.” he slung an arm around your shoulder, “Good.”

You smiled and looked away because you can feel something shifted. You can feel something tiny—an ache, pressing onto your ribs that was supposed to be protecting your heart.

You just didn’t know what it was.

Your days felt the same but at the same time it wasn’t.

You were still talking.

He was still messaging you.

You were still studying together—not at his place, but at the library.

And he was quieter than usual.

He wasn’t nudging your knee, flicking your forehead or grumbling about his back-to-back rotations where they made him stand for hours again.

He was just… there. Reading. Writing something in his notebook. Not even sparing you a single glance.

“Are you okay?” you asked and he just hummed, you took a deep breath, “Am I annoying you?”

He stopped for a bit, still not looking. “No.”

You were expecting that his answer would be ‘yes, you’re annoying me. you always do.’ because… that’s how he’s supposed to answer you, right?

With a cocky grin and a teasing tone. That’s how.

Maybe he was just too tired. Maybe his instructor was too much. Maybe he was just… you don’t know what reasons you could come up with anymore just to justify him acting like this.

But still you brushed it off. Holding onto some stupid reason that you don’t even know.

But the next day came. He canceled lunch, saying he was backed up. Rounds were taking too long.

He said he’ll see you later at the café, that he’ll text you once he gets there.

But he didn’t.

But you let it slide, maybe it slipped his mind. Come on, he’s a third year med student, of course, he’s busy.

And for the next two days, he was silent. He wasn’t messaging—and how you hated that every single time you stepped out the lecture hall, you were wishing he was there, leaning on the wall—waiting for you.

But he wasn’t.

So, you’re staring at your phone for the whole lunch break. Contemplating whether to send him a text. Typing then erasing, then typing again—and the cycle just continued until you had the guts to press the send button.

[You | 12:32 PM] u still alive? haha

So, you waited. Until the lunch break finished. Until it was time for your one pm lecture.

None.

Then you check your phone.

[grumpy med student | 4:45 PM] just busy

It took him four hours.

Four. fucking. hours. It was starting to piss you off. Why is he acting like this? Why is he avoiding you like you’re some plague?

Was it something that you did? Was it the kiss?

Your mind can’t comprehend why he’s acting this way. You were good, right?

You were so good. Not just good. Everything felt right, everything was into pieces like a puzzle locked in together and now it shattered, and the pieces were missing.

You already felt like you belonged.

And suddenly, it’s just… this?

[You | 4:55 PM ] okay

And that was the last thing you sent him.

Then a week passed by agonizingly slow—just like this elevator ride up to your mother’s office.

There were days that you found yourself staring at your phone—reading the old texts, and his damn hoodie wrapped around you while you slept, just to fill a large chunk of space that he left.

You hated how much you noticed the space where he was supposed to be. You hated all of it because he wasn’t just ignoring you—he’s making you feel his absence, and no matter what you did—you can’t escape this raw, aching feeling that’s clawing its way to your chest.

Like it wanted to rip your heart and lungs out.

Maybe it was all too much for him? Maybe he regretted it now.

Maybe.

You looked at the elevator door when it opened—

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart stopped beating for a short while before screaming inside your chest.

There he was—Satoru, standing in front of you, his hair was messy like he ran his fingers through it a lot of times, his specs still perched on top of his nose and a stethoscope was hanging around his neck.

You could see the look on his face—like you’re a ghost that he was trying to avoid. But then he stepped in and stood up a few inches away from you.

You knew this was going to happen if you went to the hospital. You know you’re going to bump into him—the problem is, you didn’t know what to say, you didn’t know how to act anymore.

This was the kind of silence that you hated—it was heavy with the words that you couldn’t utter. Words that you don’t know how to get out.

You wanted to say something.

Open your mouth but all you could do was look straight ahead.

Like he’s just some stranger who you share memories with.

You know he was about to say something by the way he breathed but then the elevator door opened again.

But you didn’t wait—didn't look back, didn’t spare him a glance and just walked out until you were out of his sight.

And that was the moment you realized—it was all gone.

The bickering, the coffee, the waiting outside your lecture hall so you could walk side by side to the library—the mnemonics, the late night calls and—the kiss.

It was all lost.

Just like that.

The cafeteria was just the same. It was a little more crowded than usual but it was just the same.

But instead of him, you sat across from your mother, quietly eating her food while her phone was buzzing nonstop, and she kept looking at her watch while you just poked on your food like it done you wrong.

“Sorry we can’t eat outside,” she sipped on her coffee, “The surgery took longer than I expected and I still have a consult after this.”

“It’s okay.” you answered softly, absentmindedly poking. You hadn’t said much since you saw him earlier.

You hated him for doing this to you.

“You alright?” your mom asked, staring at your face and you lift your head, giving her a faint smile.

You nodded, but something caught the side of your eye and it darted past your mother’s shoulder—to the table at the corner of the cafeteria, why is the universe playing with you today?

There he was, sitting with his friends, and he looked how he was earlier—except he looked like the skies fell on him.

She followed your line of sight, furrowing her brows a bit before turning to you.

“You know Gojo?”

Your ears pulsate with just a mere utterance of his name.

You looked away, “No.”

“I hear he’s a bit popular in the university,” she continued, giving you a look like she was looking out for your reaction, “Even here. One of the top students. Brilliant.”

You just hummed, and she just kept on talking about him—and you just wished she would stop. “He’s in his third year, right? His mom and I were residents together.”

You blinked, looking at her. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

“It’s nothing.” you puffed out a small breath, and you avoided her gaze. “It’s really… nothing.”

She looked at you, gaze softening as she watched you push your food around. “Hm. Okay, you don’t have to tell me what happened.”

“It’s really nothing, Mom. It’s fine.”

She just chuckled, her hands cupped yours above the table. “If it was nothing then you wouldn’t be looking at him like that.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

He bought food but he was barely touching it. It was hard to breathe when he knew that you were there—just a few tables from him.

He hated this. He hates himself—he always does this, when everything feels too good—too real, it terrifies him that he turns away.

Except, when he had done this before—he didn’t get hung up, he had protected himself before it got real, before everything went too deep.

He doesn’t just let anyone in, but then you came, you invaded his space—and this barrier between him and his emotions just came crumbling down.

“Satoru,” Suguru called him, tossing a crumpled tissue his way, “You good?”

“Yeah.” he just nodded, a bit distracted.

Yuki was ranting about her rotations when she suddenly stopped, squinting across the room, to the table where you were sitting. “Wait. Isn’t that Dr. LN?”

Shoko and the others followed her gaze, “Yeah. It is.”

“Isn’t that YN with her?” Choso says, turning away and suddenly, all of them were just staring at him—Satoru, like he had done them wrong too.

“What?” he asked, his eyebrows creased.

Yuki waved her hand first, “Wait. Before we get to Satoru’s stupid ass, why is YN eating with Dr. LN?!”

Satoru lifted his head—he couldn’t help but look in your direction, your chin was resting on your hand, you were looking at the food again like it said something that offended you.

He muttered, “Dr. LN’s her mom.”

“Whaaat?” Yuki shrieked and Shoko was taken aback too.

“You’re kidding?”

But he didn’t answer them. He wasn’t surprised at his friends’ reactions because Dr. LN is one of the top surgeons at the hospital, maybe it just shocked them that you’re her daughter.

Well, it wasn’t a surprise. You’re smart—just like her. You’re…

Fuck. Why can’t he look away? He made his decision, right? Why can’t he get you out—

“The fuck was that for?” his train of thoughts vanished when he felt Shoko smack his head. “Are you—”

“You’re a dumbass.” she hissed, and the other three hummed in agreement. “She’s the only girl that we liked. Like, ever.”

“I mean,” Suguru started, “No offense to your past trainwrecks.”

“She just clicked, you know?” Yuki said, sipping on her juice, “I mean, she didn’t even look nervous around us. She laughed with us, she never had that awkward silence, you get me? Like, you could feel her—ah, I’m rambling. Bottomline, you’re fucking stupid.”

He knew that—and that’s what terrified him, you fitted in so easily. You slid so easily in his life like you really belong there.

The problem was never with you.

He used to be content with what you two had—the endless bickering, the studying together quietly—all of it was enough for a person like him. Enough for him who didn’t have time, who couldn’t offer anything more.

Because what if he couldn’t give you what you wanted? What you deserved?

And it scared him when you two kissed for the first time. Because it felt like whatever you two had, could be something more.

But he wasn’t ready for more.

Not when his life was already hanging on a balance with the endless responsibilities, pressure, expectations—he couldn’t bring you into this.

He was hunched into the desk when Suguru placed a paper bag in front of him. He looked at him and frowned. “What is this?”

“Nurses said someone dropped it off. It’s yours.”

Satoru sighed then reached for the bag.

And his heart stopped.

It was his hoodie.

The one that he gave you so that you could have something of his, that you could return—so you could—he could see you again.

He knew what this meant. He knew why you gave it back.

Because he wasn’t going to see you again.

He just stared at it, barely moved, afraid that if he touched it, it would explode. It didn’t smell like him anymore—it smelled like you.

“You know, it’s the first time that I saw you like this.” he looked at Suguru who was leaning on the wall, staring right at him as if watching him come to his senses.

But he didn’t speak, he just looked away as if scared that the truth would hurt him. And it did.

It does.

“She was really good for you,” Suguru added, “I mean, granted that you ditch us for her like an asshole but still, she made you breathe just for a bit.”

Suguru didn’t say this just to be cruel. He was just telling the truth. Because that’s what he saw.

Satoru’s fists clenched, “I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”

“It’s too late for that, you know that, right?”

“And I told you before,” Satoru muttered, “I can’t do this. I don’t have enough time, space—”

“And yet you did.” Suguru pressed, “You made time. You brought her into your space. You let her in, man. She even met all of us. And I know you, you don’t do that.”

Satoru’s breath caught into his throat.

“And it was a mistake.” he says quietly, like he was trying to convince himself. But he’s too smart for that.

They both know it wasn’t. He never regretted it once. He’s just too terrified.

Because you weren’t supposed to matter. But then you started showing up in places where he was. Everywhere he went you were there. Everywhere he looks, he sees you.

Even in his thoughts—you were there.

You were in every goddamn thing that he touches.

And now all of it is just… just.

There’s no more lunch breaks where you kick his leg slightly under the table, no more yellow highlighters flying to his direction just so you could annoy him.

He would never see the crease in your brows again whenever you were muttering mnemonics like the world would end if you didn’t memorize it all.

He would never get irritated now that you’re not here to pester him about practicing something on him—and he’ll say yes anyway.

Now, there’s no more pretending that he wasn’t falling for you. Because he did, he fell hard and he crashed.

There’s no coming back from that.

He really fucked up, huh?

You were about to drift off to sleep when you heard a knock on your door.

You groaned, clutching the paper that was on your face. You hadn’t slept properly in days and of course—of fucking course, just when you’re about to, someone decides to knock on your stupid door.

Great. Just fucking great.

You removed every paper that was on you and set it aside.

You drag yourself up pulling the blanket over your shoulder to cover up the fact that you were only wearing your cami top and shorts—meaning, you’re not to be disturbed, god, it’s late.

You walk to the door, barely awake, cracking it open just to see who it is.

And it’s like a cold bucket of water was splashed onto your face.

Sleep? Gone.

Your heart? Gone. It exploded.

“What are you doing here?”

He was staring at you like you stole all air from him.

You looked around the hallway before pulling him in—shutting the door behind you. You don’t even know how he got in your dorm building—but here he is, interrupting your sleep, your life.

You turned to him, clutching the blanket around you, waiting for him to speak.

“The hoodie,” he whispered, breathing heavily, “You gave it back.”

“That’s what you came here to say? That I gave you your hoodie back?”

He parted his mouth like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at you like he’s afraid that you were going to slip away.

So you did, “I gave it back because it’s pointless. I gave it back because I know you weren’t going to talk to me anymore. I didn’t want to hold on to something that… that you clearly don't want.”

His heart dropped when your voice cracked.

“YN—”

“What?” your tone was sharp, like you were protecting yourself. “What do you want, Satoru? Are you going to show up again, act like I fucking matter to you and the next few days, ignore me?”

You laughed bitterly, tears cascading down the side of your eyes. You said you weren’t going to cry.

You didn’t cry in the past two weeks that he didn’t talk to you.

But seeing him here, in front of you, it’s like a dam broke inside of you.

“It’s not that—It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you,” he muttered, trying to step closer but his feet wouldn’t move. “I fucked up.”

“You did!” you snapped, wiping your tears hastily, “So what was it? You were busy? You forgot I existed?”

“No.” he paused, “Because you weren’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to happen—I don’t fucking do this, YN. I don’t stay up late with someone, I don’t just eat lunch with someone because I want to—I… fuck.”

“So you just pushed me away? Because life didn’t go the fucking way you want it to?”

He just looked at you, every word that you were saying sits heavy on his chest.

“Because, God forbid, you feel something real?” your voice shatters, “You made me think, I mattered. Then you just up… and leave. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

And that’s what hurt the most. How easily he walked away like none of it meant anything to him.

You buried your face in your palms, sobbing—the blanket that was hugging you pooling on the floor.

“YN.” he stepped forward, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up. I’m sorry I was such a fucking jerk—”

“You are!” your voice was muffled, your shoulders shaking as you cried. Then you feel him—his arms circling around you to pull you close, the side of your head resting on his chest.

“I didn’t know what to do.” he almost choked, resting his cheek on your head. “I didn’t know how to deal with something like this. You weren’t just a distraction, you weren’t just a girl who flirted with me at a party—you were, you.”

You could feel his hand tremble by the way he held you, but you let him speak. “You were there almost every day. God, you were the first person I think about whenever I hear something funny or someone irritated the fuck out of me.”

“Then I got scared when I saw how easy it was for you to slip into my space, into the people I care about.”

You pull away from him, your hands wiping your tears. Your gaze finds each other.

“When I was watching you laugh with them… I realized that I care so much about you. And that scared me because I don’t want to lose you—I didn’t want that moment to end, and if I said the wrong thing or did something stupid then I would lose you for good? I could not let myself do that.”

“What changed?” you paused, “So, what? You’re not scared now?”

“No. God, I’m scared.” his eyes didn’t leave yours, “But I’m scared of not being with you at all—of walking away, then spending the rest of my life wondering what we could’ve been.”

You didn’t know what else to say.

Or if there is something else to say.

You were just standing there, his hands trembling on your hips—his lips flutter every time he took a breath.

“Kiss me.”

You say but you didn’t even let him react when you tugged on his shirt, pulling him close to press his lips against yours—your teeth grazing his lower lip to let you in.

And he did, he let you in.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breathing heavily before letting you jump into his arms, he carried you to your bed—pushing everything on the floor, the sheets under you rustles as he set you down along with the sound of the papers scattering on the floor.

And just like that, he was all over you again—on top of your body, pressing himself against you.

“I missed you,” you let it slip in between the kisses, in between the whimper into his mouth. “I miss you, Satoru.”

His fingers trail inside your shirt, skimming your waist up to your ribs until he reaches the underside of your breast.

He groaned into your mouth before pulling away, his kisses trail down to the skin of your neck, peppering you with desperate—hungry kisses, “You have no idea how hard it was to stay away.”

“Then don’t.” you gasp as he bites the skin just above your collarbone, “Just stay… with me.”

God, you’re driving him insane.

Then he was back on your lips again. His kisses getting frantic—desperate, he pushed his tongue past your lips—hot and heavy, swirling his tongue inside your mouth like he needed to taste every inch of you.

Because he does. Satoru needed you, he craved you.

You moan against his mouth, his fingers tracing the strap of your camisole before pulling it down—the strap falling flawlessly from your shoulders.

His hand gripped your shoulder—like he was making sure you were okay with his hands all over you, but you reached for his wrist almost immediately and placed it on top of your breast yourself.

Then he froze for a bit, both your eyes opened—until a startled laugh broke out of him—and next, you.

“I thought you were getting shy or something,” you say breathlessly, laughing softly.

“I was being respectful,” he brushed the tip of his nose against yours and yet his hand was still on your breast.

“Don’t you think that went out the window when you stuck your tongue down my throat?”

“Point taken.” he says before his mouth crashes on you again, licking your lips as he starts to knead your chest—he presses soft kisses against your jaw until he is down to your chest, pulling your cami top down with his teeth.

Fuck, he’s so hot.

You catch your breath as he takes your breast into his mouth, his tongue swirling on your nipple while the pad of his thumb brushes over the other.

Your fingers find their way to his hair—gripping it desperately, like you were aching for more, more touch, more of him.

He lets go of your breast with a pop, his eyes staring at you like he was burning your skin.

“Satoru,” you look up at him, your fingers tightened on his hair, “Fuck, please…”

“I know.” his breath stutters when he sees you part your swollen lips, “I got you, baby.”

His lips were back onto yours—greedy, breathless as his hands roam everywhere, he grips on your hips like he’s melding his hand onto your skin. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts before pulling it down in a swift motion, throwing it on the floor.

His fingers dug into your thighs, coaxing them apart before moving his hands up, his fingers drawing the fabric of your underwear to the side.

You whine against his lips when he slid his finger up and down your folds, his fingers slick with your juices before sliding one finger in, “Mhm—fuck.”

“You like that?” he murmured, his voice was almost reverent—but the smirk tugging on his lip betrays him, your lips part—breathless moan leaches out of your mouth when he adds a finger.

Then he moves his fingers in then out—hooking it just enough to make you tremble and grip his wrist when he moves it fast.

His fingers coated with your wetness creates a hungering sound, he watches as you arch into his hand—and it makes his stomach curl in an animalistic way. He couldn’t even think straight, he was just watching your every gasp and shiver like he was memorizing it.

“Sa—toru! Mhm, fuck, more—please.” you moaned, tugging him close to pull him close just so you could feel him more, it wasn’t enough that his fingers were inside you—you needed more. “I want you. Please.”

“Ah.” he half laughs, breathlessly—almost moaning, his fingers still pumping in and out of your cunt, “You’re driving me crazy.”

“I know.” you lift your head a bit to reach his lower lip, you graze your teeth into the wet skin of his mouth, “Let me—ngh—drive you even crazier.”

“Yeah?” he groans, and you nod, your fingers reaching out for the waistband of his pants, until you reach the button of his pants—your hands reach inside cupping his hard dick with your palm, moving your hands agonizingly—slowly.

“Ah—fuck—” you whimpered when he stopped pumping his fingers—you didn’t even know how he rid himself of his clothes that fast, then he was on top of you again.

Maybe he was just that desperate—and fuck, you know you were too.

His body was hoisted slightly as he stroked his cock above you while pressing sloppy kisses on your mouth.

Then you pulled away, you watched with heavy-lidded eyes as he tilted his head back slightly—your fingers tracing the line of his abs—guttural moans came out of him like he came straight out of porn, his hand still pumping his cock.

You loop your legs on his waist, pulling him close—you both gasp as the tip of his dick almost dips in your cunt. “Impatient, are you?”

“Mhm.” you pull him more—his jaw clenches, eyes darkening at how maddeningly desperate you are.

“Fuuuck. You’re killing me.” he slides his tip up and down, just to tease you—and it loses his mind how you're faltering with even a small touch. He’s ruined.

You ruined him.

“Please—Satoruuu—OH.”

You both gasp when he suddenly pushes in, slowly—deliberately, like he wanted to relish in the way that you clench around him, walls hugging his dick so tight he might’ve come right there and then.

“Shit,” he groans, voice cracking while pushing in deep—until you take all of him, “You’re so—tight, ah, fuck. So good.”

You dip your fingernails into his shoulder, lips apart—your head tilted back slightly. Your eyes flutter shut as you take the abrupt stretch—the pleasure.

“Satoru—mhm, please. Need you to move, baby.”

He groans into your neck—the pet name added to the things cutting into his restraint, he gripped your hips trying to keep you still—god, he couldn’t move. He was getting overwhelmed with the way you feel soft and tight around him.

There was a hitch in your voice when he started moving, slowly—then deeper, faster—harder.

The shaky, uneven—heavy breathing fills the air. The sheets rustle just below you as the bed starts creaking but all you could focus on was how delicious his hips slaps into you—wet, sloppy thrusts fills your ear, making your body ache in ways you didn’t even know.

Your moans grew louder, air catches on your breath with every thrust that he makes.

“Satoru—ah. Fuck!” you close your eyes from the hundreds of pleasure coursing through your body.

He pulls back just a bit, to see your face.

“Look at me,” he breathes, and when your eyes meet his—he loses it. He was all over you—on your mouth, on your face, neck—pressing wet kisses while he rams you into oblivion.

And fuck, how it drove you insane when he gripped your hair and tilted your head just so he could lick your collarbone up to your jaw—then it suddenly hit you like a wave, his name left your mouth broken.

The muscles on your abdomen contract, toes curling into the sheets.

Your grip on him tightens as your thighs quivered, hips arching into him. “Sat—nggh—toru! Feels so good,”

“Fuck, you came?” he groans, his grip on your hips tightens as he fucked you into overstimulation.

You make him crazy. So crazy—he’s losing his mind—you’re going to make him lose his mind until there’s just a scintilla of sanity left on him.

Satoru cursed under his breath—hips curving slightly as he pushed in deep. Your name leaves his lips, strained—low. His hips stutter a bit before he collapses on top of you.

You could feel his chest rise and fall against yours, your breathing in sync.

“You’re heavy.” you muttered, and he just hums—sinking himself deeper against your body.

“I think I just went to heaven.”

You laughed, swatting his back lightly. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

“Well, I’m sorry—but you ruined me.” he groans—you let out a whimper when he shifts slightly, aware that he’s still inside you. You both winced when he pulled out, but still not getting off of you.

“I ruined you?” you arch your brow, he places his head on your chest—listening to your heartbeat like it was the only thing grounding him.

“Hmm. Completely ruined—like my coat was.”

You groaned, your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

He lifts his head and greets you with a smug grin, “No. I’d be annoying you with that forever.”

Forever, huh?

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briseroyawritingsblog · 9 months ago

Text

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈

𝒐𝒍𝒅!𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕!𝒇𝒆𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

• +18 minors do not interact. unprotected sex, cream pie, rough sex, innocence kink, large unspecified age gap, daddy kink, smoking, alcohol consumption etc. beware—

𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 / 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

dividers by @anitalenia 💓

The thick smoke clouds could be cut with a knife the moment you entered his house the doors were left partly open so no harm right? You searched for him in the kitchen but you found him sitting by the fireplace in the living area. Manspread..Book in hand adjusting his reading glasses, cigar lazily resting between his lips. There he was.. the man who made your core pulse. That was a secret though.. nobody could ever know that you’ve been crushing on him ever since you moved next door to his house. He was not married, and he knew that for sure because every woman who ever ended up going home with him? Left the next day— you didn’t judge that of course. Maybe he didn’t want anything serious. Most men… are like that. No?

“Erhm.. Mr Howlett? My father asked me if you could come over today afternoon. The material arrived for the renovations..” you stuttered softly. He looked up from his book giving you a soft nod. “Of course kid, tell your father I’ll be there later” you nodded and hurried out of his house touching your chest as you ran over to your house walking in through the backyard. Your cheeks flushed softly red– the images reappeared in your mind, the way he smokes his cigars.

“C’on” you heard a frustrated groan from the kitchen. You peeked your head inside only to see Mr Howlett in a white vest, biceps glistening with sweat taking measurements of the kitchen cabinets. “Come here kid” he rumbles softly. You nearly tripped approaching him “how can I help?” You whispered looking at the tools “specs, on the table please” he motioned with his large hand. You nodded taking his reading glasses from the table passing them over “thanks sweetheart. Whatcha doing here? Heard your mother left to do shopping” you sighed leaning against the kitchen counter “I know I was just busy with housework” Your eyes were on his flexed muscles. You swallowed when he stepped right in front of you to take measurements again your face practically meeting with his large chest. “Sorry..” you breathed closing your eyes. “S’alright” he smiled small. Hand on the cabinet above your head the older man met your gaze. There was something in them… darkness.. perhaps something very forbidden.. you cleared your throat the moment you heard your father on the phone outside in the garden slipping past Logan scrambling quickly upstairs to your room. It was a shame.. you know nothing about men. He made you so curious, that your thoughts made you open your laptop and search pictures. First you typed ‘kissing’ the images came up blurred so you switched off the adult content button and returned back on the pictures your eyes widened in curiosity. So many moving pictures which were called ‘gifs’ the way some of the men kissed the women. You moistened your lips by licking them feeling familiar heat in your belly and butterflies. You never watched porn or anything like that but you saved some of those ‘gifs’ of couples kissing and moved onto the search bar to type ‘sex’ images came up some of the black and white and you gasped looking at the various positions women were put. The way the men’s hips clashed against the woman’s butt and the moaning expressions on their faces– you shamelessly bit your lower lip and closed your laptop. You imagined kissing Mr Howlett so many times. Maybe you could ask him to kiss you and do things to you.. to teach you how things like that feel. You thought of so many ways… but you also didn’t want to come out as a desperate girl forcing herself on an older man. How could you only do this?

Mr Howlett stayed for dinner. You didn’t expect him to but your mother and father insisted so you were seated next to him. You were heaving some veggies and steak.. it was one of your favourites but you didn’t think of anything else but the ‘gifs’ you saved. The kissing ones. You watched Mr Howletts forearms as he cut into his steak before your mother interrupted you “y/n it’s rude to stare.” You looked down at your plate face covering your hair so Logan couldn’t see your face. Your cheeks heated momentarily— stuffing your face with veggies you then excused yourself needing a breather outside on the front porch. Stealing one of your father’s cigarettes you lit sitting on the steps. Hearing the door open you sighed “Mom I’ll be in soon” apologising you heard footsteps approaching you so you hid the cigarette. “You should go inside it’s not safe here bub” Logan slipped on his jacket walking down the steps turning to you. “I’m not a little girl Mr Howlett.. thank you for your concern” his expression turned into a scowling one the moment he saw the cigarette. “Give it to me” he put his hand out. “No.” You muttered softly. “Y/N..” he grumbled approaching you “Smoking is fucking bad for you.” He continued. “Don’t care” you took a hit in front of him that made him scowl even more. “Stop being a fucking brat and give it to me” he let out a sigh and you narrowed your eyes. “Why do you even fucking care?!” Logan shook his head a disappointed expression spread over his face. Rubbing his bearded cheek he shrugged it off. “I don’t fucking care I don’t need this.” With that he walked away. He didn’t care.. that hit your heart. Why would an older man like him care? Tears welled in your eyes, you stomped on the cigarette and walked back inside the house.

You didn’t know Logan’s urges.

You didn’t know the things you make him feel when you look at him and the times you wear skimpy little skirts riding a bike around the neighbourhood with your girlfriends. Summer holidays were his favourite because he got to see you more, you were not attending university. That’s what you told him– he loves the way you throw your head back laughing with your friends. He loves the way you walk, he even loves the way you leave your curtains open in your room so he can look at your young body when you apply lotion to your legs after shower. He knows your breath hitches when you two are close and he enjoys every moment of your tiny sufferings. He doesn’t want to be the man of your dreams. He doesn’t want to make you cry and suffer because he cannot be yours. He doesn’t want to ruin you but that tiny innocence in your eyes makes him want to do things to you. How could you know all these feelings when he’s nothing but stern with you. Drinking away his thoughts he poured himself a glass of whiskey sitting by his fireplace thinking he was harsh with you. Weren’t you just a fragile soul? He was afraid to hurt you.. his calloused touch could mark your skin.

A knock on his door disturbed his thinking, so he looked out the window only to see you standing in front of his door practically shivering in your pyjama shorts and an oversized sweatshirt he swore he loved on you. It made you look tiny.

“What are you doing here kid?” He sighed opening the door for you. “I wanted to apologise..” you whispered. “The way I acted towards you.. I just-” you stepped inside his much warmer home looking around to find a cigar burning in the ashtray a bottle of half empty whiskey and a glass right next to it. “I don’t need your apology” he cut you off walking back to his armchair sitting back down taking his cigar to smoke it. His eyes taking in your naked legs making you shiver. “I just.. I wanted to ask you something” you mumble on making him raise a brow. “It’s pretty late, you should go home” he answers you wanting nothing but you to stay but he knew he had to make you leave. He held back so much..trying to control himself around you. “Mr Howlett you’re a good man my family says.. I was just wondering if you could help me with something” you asked him scratching your arm nervously. Pressing your thighs together “I get lots of butterflies when I’m around you.. and and.. I was wondering how does kissing feel like?” The older man nearly asked you to repeat yourself. “I am not a man for you kid..” he warned you resting his cigar between his lips. “I know.. I just.. you’re older and experienced and I don’t get butterflies with anyone else” you confessed. His rugged expression turned softer. “Come here bub.. let me tell you all about it.” He patted his knee and you approached him sitting on his knee. His big hand rested on your lower back and the other put his cigar out letting it rest in the ashtray. “I don’t know much about the female body.. but I’m sure when you have butterflies in your belly your tiny girl part gets wet” you nod quickly. “Yes.. yes Mr Howlett it gets very wet.” Your response made his cock heavy. It twitched with want– “where does it get wet sweetheart?” He whispered and you slowly spread your thighs. “Down here..” you show him. His big hand slowly itches closer to your pulsing mound and you look at him wantonly.

“Don’t look at me like that..” he breathed face leaning closer to yours and you closed your eyes ready for his lips on yours only to feel him kissing your cheek his beard prickling your tender skin. His fingers tracing your warm centre between your legs and you bucked your hips towards his hand “eager little thing..” he whispered you could hear the drunk in his voice but your hand softly caressed his veiny forearm. “Mr Howlett please..” you begged. “I won’t tell.. please destroy me” when he heard those words coming out of your lips he kissed the side of your neck sliding his big hand inside your sweatshirt to fondle your breast. You moaned, it felt differently when a man was touching you. “Just gettin’ started honey..” he licked his way into your mouth kissing you pouring out his needs before pulling away to touch your face in his one hand gently squeezing your cheeks “pretty little mouth.. do you think I could fit my cock in there nice and snug sweetie?” you nodded needing nothing but him and it didn’t matter how. Cock straining against his pants he grunted grabbing a hold of your shorts and panties pulling them down your legs dropping them on the floor. His fingers locating your sensitive bud circling it. You moaned against his neck as you clung to his shoulders. “There we go honey..feeling you tense already” he smiled, prepping you. “Open..” he groaned forcing your lips open by his fingers sliding them in your mouth to moisten them. You sucked on his fingers meeting his eyes feeling hot all over. Your juices drooling out of your hole. He tsked “So wet already?” You looked at your pussy the way he caressed your folds with his fingers slowly rubbing them in circles before stuffing them in your mound. You cried out at the feeling something so large like his fingers entering you. When he curled his digits and did a pulling motion your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head the wet sounds of your core only caused his fingers to move in and out of you faster the heat in your belly rising and rising until you cried out against his chest cumming undone on his fingers. His thumb expertly rubbing your clit, the older man smiled at you. The first you saw him smile so softly. “There we go..” you choked his fingers in you even though they weren’t as deep as you wanted him to go in order to do that he’d have to take your virginity. “I never.. I never..” you babbled lost in post orgasm as you looked at him cheeks reddening with arousal. “You’ve never..what?” Very slowly pulling his fingers out of your heat he sniffed them before slowly tasting them. You blushed deeper at his doings. “Never had sex..” you whispered shyly. “Never?” Logan asks again caressing your plaint thighs. You shook your head “never.. mr howlett can you show me it feels?” He hummed in response looking at your lips before leaning down to attack your mouth in soft kisses until you parted your mouth for his tongue. You whispered to the butterflies returning and he gracefully carried you bridal style to his bedroom.

Putting you down on your feet he helped you remove your sweatshirt leaving you naked. “I will teach you all about it sweetheart..lay down” the older man said softly and you climbed on his bed resting on your back spreading your legs for him. The sight of your glistening pussy had him growling. “Little girl hungry for old man’s cock.. that’s twisted..” he smirked teasing you watching your nipples go hard. You watched him remove his top, then undo his belt and jeans before taking them off along with his boxers. Cock bobbing, hard as a rock. The swollen tip drooling tears of pre cum. The colour of his cock made you tilt your head curiosity.. it was pink, looked swollen and hard. Just like on those pictures, your breath hitched in your chest “That’s going inside of you, bub..” he climbed on the bed nestling between your legs. You stared between your bodies as his warm swollen cock rested on your pussy. It was so big, thick.. veiny. “How.. how will it fit..?” You asked curiously hips bucking up to feel his cock even more. “Greedy little thing not know anything about cocks.. but is hungry for one..” he tsked lowering himself on top of you. You moaned at the feel of his chest, touching it with your hands. Logan groaned rubbing the tip of his cock between your folds “take a deep breath..” you did as you were told taking a deep breath before he sheated himself inside of you in one single push. “Shit..!” You cursed gasping and moaning the both of you at your unison. Your gasps were painful with discomfort because of your virginity but it faded away the moment he kissed you wrapping his arms around you. You felt so safe in his arms that you cuddled up to him pressing your lips to his shoulder arms curling around him keeping your legs open for him. You felt so full, so wet.. you felt your wetness drip forming a ring on the base of his cock. “Fuck.. ugh..” he buried his face against your neck pulling out of you leaving the tip inside before thrusting back in. Slow pace, but slowly increasing it leaving you whimpering and gasping for air “mr howlett.. it tingles, the butterflies.. Ughh ohhhh.. feels so good” you cried as he responded only in hungry growls grabbing your waist in his hands he snapped his hips into you fucking you. “Can’t hold back anymore..” he slurs peeking between your bodies watching his cock slide in and out of your ruined pussy and you cry out nodding “it’s okay daddy.. take what you need!!” logan moans under his breath eyes darkening something snapping in him hoisting your legs around his waist he grabs the pillows under your head pounding into you harder than before, more than before making your toes curl watching your pussy take all of his pounding before you claw his back “daddy.. it.. hurts.. but in a good way!! Need to cum” you breathe heavily your tits bouncing to his rapid trusts as he hovers above you breathing harshly too cock throbbing as he circles your clit “you gonna cum on my cock like a good fuckin’ girl” and you did, you screamed against his neck clinging to him nearly passing out as you did. Logan nestles your face against his neck as he snaps his hips into you growing into the pillow as his claws push out piercing the bed under you. “Fuck.. fuck.. fuck….!” He curses loudly shoving his cock deeply in you before cumming undone. The tip spurting hot streams of white in your womb breeding it full. You moan uncontrollably as you feel the warmness being released inside of you. His claws retreat moments later— using his hand to cradle your head finding your lips in a kiss. You both sweat so much feeling unbelievably tired. Logan pulls out of you, watching his cream pool out of you onto the sheets. “Let’s get you showered bub..” he whispers and you nod. He promised to take care of you. The way you called him daddy.. it repeated in his mind more than few nights..

liking, commenting, and reblogging means the world. please don’t hesitate to do so if you liked my fic.

(Apologies for any grammatical mistakes)

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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, domestic Lamelia, autistic meltdown on page, vaguely referenced public sex.

Notes — Timeline fuckery, as in I seem to have written Silverstone twice, in the last chapter and this one too. Clearly the podium fluff is too much for me to keep track of. So... Enjoy the extra fluffiness.

2023 (Silverstone — Hungary)

The sea was warm and quiet, the waves nothing but a soft hush against the sand.

Amelia sat with her legs tucked under her, an oversized white linen shirt hanging loosely over her bikini. Her hair was wet, curled slightly at the ends from the salt water. She was squinting at the horizon, watching the sunlight paint the beach in a million shades of gold.

Behind her, Lando dropped onto the towel with two icy cold drinks, one for each of them. He pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“This place is fucking amazing,” he said.

She hummed in agreement, leaning her head against his. “Warm, but breezy. The perfect in-between.”

He grinned. “Yeah? You glad I managed to convince you to come then?”

“Yes.” She said. “I’m going to have so much to get done when we get back to the factory, but I needed a break.”

Lando chuckled and stretched out beside her, propping himself on one elbow. “Hm. I know. And now you’re relaxed. That’s nice.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t say it like that. I can be relaxed. I relax a lot.”

“…No you don’t.”

She huffed. “Shut up.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “C’mon. Don’t get pissed off. It’s true, yeah? You have been stressed, but you’ve also been fucking ace with Oscar. With the team. I know the car isn’t what you want it to be, but it’s a lot bloody better than it was.”

Amelia softened. She leaned down to kiss him. “Thanks, husband.”

Lando’s eyes sparkled. “Say it again.”

“Husband?”

He groaned. “God, that’s hot.”

She laughed. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You married me.”

“I clearly have poor taste.” She teased.

“Liar.”

He sat up and kissed her properly this time — slow and warm and a little lazy. She all but melted into it, fingers curling in the fabric of his swim shorts.

They ended up tangled together on a beach blanket under the slope of the rocks, just out of sight. The rest of the world fell away. It was just them. Skin on skin, hearts in sync, breathless laughter caught in the salt breeze.

Later, Amelia rested her cheek on Lando’s bare chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“I think,” she said softly, “I could stay here forever.”

He smoothed her hair back out of her face. Stared at her, like he was memorising her all over again. “Yeah, baby. Me too.”

—

The design lab was buzzing — a low but constant thrum of voices, keyboard clicks, air vents, printers, someone’s half-muffled phone call. The kind of sensory chaos most people filtered out without effort.

Amelia couldn’t today.

She had her noise-cancelling headphones on, her iPad open to three separate CAD model views, and a mechanical pencil tapping against her knee in a rhythm only she understood.

They were reviewing a mock-up for the 2024 suspension. One of the junior engineers; bright, eager, but careless, had accidentally uploaded an outdated spec into the shared build folder.

It seemed small. A mistake, an easy correction. But it meant the last two days of precision design work she’d done were out of sync with the rest of the development team’s data.

And that meant wasted time. Faulty conclusions. A domino collapse of calculations that had been perfect in her head.

She tried to breathe through it. In. Out. In again. But the wrongness sat in her chest like a ton of bricks.

Someone, Callum, tried to make light of it. “It’s no big deal. We’ve still got time before CFD locks—”

“No,” she said, voice tight. “You don’t understand. It’s wrong now. It’s all wrong.”

Her hands were shaking.

“Hey, it’s okay,” another engineer said carefully. “We’ll fix it. It was just a wrong upload—”

“Stop talking.” Her voice cracked, sharp and sudden. “Please. Just stop. Stop—”

She couldn’t hear them anymore. The hum of the lights had turned into a roar. The feeling of her shirt collar was too much. Her thoughts weren’t lining up right.

She stood up too fast. Knocked over a pen cup. The clatter made her flinch violently.

Then she was breathing hard. Too fast. Too loud. Her eyes stung. Her palms burned.

The room blurred. All noise. Too many people. Too many things out of place.

She left. Walked straight out the door, down the hall, past the glass break room, past a surprised intern holding two coffees. She found an empty office, one of the glass-walled side rooms, and ducked inside.

Lights off. Curtains drawn.

She sat on the floor. Curled into herself, hands pressed to her ears. Shaking.

She didn’t cry, not exactly. But her body trembled with the overload — her nervous system in revolt. All she could do was breathe and wait it out.

—

Ten minutes later, the door opened slowly.

Lando.

He said nothing at first. Just slipped inside and sat down on the floor beside her. Close, but not touching.

She didn't look up.

“Callum came to find me. He’s panicking.” He said.

She let out a half-broken noise. “I hate this. I hate when this happens.”

He shook his head. “Baby—“

Her shoulders curled tighter. "It’s all wrong,” she whispered. “I had it perfect. In my head. And now it’s wrong and I can’t fix it, and they don’t understand why it matters. They think I’m overreacting.”

“You’re not.”

“They think I’m difficult.”

“You’re not.”

She finally looked at him. Her face was pale, eyes glassy. “It felt like… too much. All at once. I couldn't stop it.”

Lando reached out, slow, deliberate, and gently took her hand. “I know, baby.” He said softly. “You don’t have to pretend, though. You know that. And I’m proud of you for walking away when you needed space.”

She gripped his fingers tightly. Grounded. Fiddled with his wedding band.

And little by little, her breathing began to slow.

—

Later, Amelia returned to her desk. The office had quieted. A sticky note sat on her monitor from Oscar, in his neat, blocky handwriting.

YOU’RE ALLOWED TO HAVE BAD DAYS — Ducky

She exhaled a shaky laugh.

Callum brought her tea an hour later and didn’t say a word, just left it on her desk like a peace offering. She nodded her thanks, smile tight but genuine.

She reopened her iPad, fingers steady now. Her brain still hurt, her skin still buzzed with leftover static, but she was here. She was okay.

And she could fix this.

—

The strategy room was windowless, cold, and lit by the slightly too-white fluorescents that made Amelia’s eyes burn.

She sat near the front with her iPad open, stylus twirling between her fingers as various engineers clicked through performance graphs on the large screen. Tyre degradation, pit stop windows, stint lengths, lap delta comparisons. The usual mess of variables before a race.

Oscar was next to her, elbows on the table, listening intently. He never interrupted. Never fidgeted. Just watched. Logged everything.

When the final graph flicked across the screen with the projected optimal strategy, medium-hard-medium, Amelia tilted her head, expression flat.

“No,” she said simply.

A pause.

One of the strategy engineers, Jeremy, looked up. “You don’t agree?”

“No. That doesn’t win us anything. That gives us a decent P6, maybe. P7 if the Mercs behave.”

“And what would you suggest?”

Amelia tapped the stylus against her pad. “Soft-Hard. Big launch, early gain. One stop. Pit window between 14 and 18, if the tyres last. Risky, but Oscar’s tyre management is good enough. He’s not heavy on the fronts.”

Oscar, quiet until now, nodded. “That’s what I felt in FP2. Softs felt clean even on the heavier fuel run. Just needs the rear temps managed early.”

Amelia gave him a slight smile, not warm exactly, but approving. “Driver agrees.”

Jeremy frowned. “If we pit early, we get undercut risk. Traffic.”

“We’re already in traffic,” Amelia replied. “You think anyone’s just going to make room for us? The only way through is to make it past them before the midfield concertina sets in. That means launch tyre, low fuel window, commit to Plan A. We stay reactive. Flexible. But we commit.”

Oscar added, “And if it doesn’t work?”

She looked at him. Direct. “Then it doesn’t. But we’ve learned more than we would’ve finishing behind both Alpines.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Andrea leaned back in his seat and said, “It’s bold.”

“That’s how we race,” Amelia said.

Another pause. Then a nod from Andrea. “Alright. Amelia, prep two versions of the radio calls. One if we need to abort early. One if we push deep into the stint.”

“Already halfway done,” she said, flipping to a new tab.

Oscar leaned toward her, voice low. “You really think we can pull it off?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“I like it,” he said, almost to himself.

She looked at him sideways. “You trust me?”

He blinked. “Yeah. I do.”

She smiled, barely. “Then we’re good. Don’t be late to the grid walk. Make sure Lando’s had some water.”

“Yeah. I will,” Oscar muttered.

As the team filed out, Jeremy passed Amelia with a nod. “You’re not as scary as everyone said you’d be.”

“No,” she shrugged. “Not scary. Just… specific.”

Oscar held the door open, glancing at her. “Will you make me cookies if I finish top five?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “With raspberries. Just don’t tell Kim. He keeps telling me off for giving you treats that aren’t on your meal plan.”

“Mean.” Oscar complained.

“Very mean.” Amelia agreed.

—

The moment Lando stepped off the scale in parc fermé, Amelia launched herself at him.

He barely got his arms up in time to catch her — she collided with his chest like a missile, legs wrapping around his waist, arms tight around his neck.

“You crazy, crazy man,” she whispered fiercely into his ear, smiling so wide it hurt. “You data-defying freak.”

Lando laughed, breathless, still winded from the final laps but suddenly full of adrenaline again. “Hello, my beautiful wife.”

She kissed him hard, not the polished PR kind, but the messy, gleeful, post-race kind that tasted like sweat and relief. Cameras were around them, but neither of them cared. Hadn’t for a long time.

“P2,” he said, dazed.

“Yes,” she said, still clinging to him. “I’m so proud of you.”

He set her down, barely. She kept one hand fisted in his fireproofs, grounding herself.

“That was such an amazing drive,” she said, quieter now. “Every lap. You didn’t put a single foot wrong. And I’m so proud of you, Lando.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes glinting under the brim of his cap. “Thank you, baby. For this. You. The car.”

“Anything for you,” she whispered, leaning up on her tiptoes and brushing their noses together. “I was getting tired of you moping around the apartment and yelling at Gran Turismo.”

He snorted. “You love when I yell at Gran Turismo.”

“I love you,” she said simply.

Someone called his name, an FIA official, maybe, or one of the social team, but he ignored it for a second longer. His thumb brushed her jaw. “Meet me at the podium?”

“I’ll be there.” Watching, always watching, always in awe of the man she loved.

“I want to spray you with champagne.” He told her.

“You’re not allowed to,” she warned. “I’ll be sticky.”

“Don’t care.” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes, kissed him again, and let him go.

Later, after the podium ceremony, after she did get sprayed, and did yell “Lando Norris, don’t you dare!” on live television, they curled up together in the back of the hospitality unit, him shirtless, her in one of his McLaren hoodies, and split a tiny bottle of celebratory wine Oscar had swiped from the hospitality fridge.

“I missed this,” Lando murmured, head on her shoulder.

She brushed his curls back from his forehead. “Podiums?”

“No,” he said, looking up at her. “You. You being happy. You being here, at McLaren, with me.” He paused, and she leaned closer curiously as he gazed at her, all soft and sweet and so dearly tender. “I kept it, you know? The note you left me before you joined RedBull. The one where you called me an asshole. The booklet too, with the race notes. You were the reason for every podium I got the year after that, you know?”

She swallowed thickly. Stared at him. Reached her hand up to cup his face. “You’re not an asshole.” She whispered. Needed to say it. Needed him to know that she didn’t believe that anymore.

“I am sometimes,” he grinned lopsidedly. “But you love me anyway.”

“I love you anyway.” She whispered.

—

It started with the toaster.

Specifically, with Lando kicking the cupboard under the sink in frustration because where the hell was the toaster? and why is there no bloody counter space anymore?

“I moved it because your smoothie machine was leaking again,” Amelia said from the floor of the living room, surrounded by three open boxes of car telemetry printouts and what looked like half of a sock drawer.

“I fixed the leak.” Lando told her.

She frowned at her pencil. “You fixed it with duct tape.”

“That’s how men do it,” Lando said, crouching to help pick up a stack of papers that had slipped under the coffee table. “Are these important?”

“Yes. They’re the data sheets from Oscar’s last long run simulation—don’t fold them!”

“I wasn’t going to—” He paused. “Okay, I was.”

She snatched them out of his hand, stuffing them back into a manila folder that was already bursting. Over the last few months, their beautiful apartment had started to look less like a home and more like an office. Helmets on shelves, engineering notebooks piled on chairs, printer cables tangled with furniture.

Lando stood up and did a slow 360° in the living room. “Have we… always had this much stuff?” He asked, his eyebrows pulling together.

“No,” Amelia said. “You moved in with a single suitcase of clothes and a sim rig. I had four crates of notebooks, over two hundred pairs of shoes, and a bookshelf. Now you have a room full of gaming stuff, we have two Dyson fans, my office is overflowing, and Max’s cats all-but live here part-time.” She pointed at the cat-tree they had stuffed into a tight corner by the window.

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. “You want to move?”

“I don’t want to,” she said bluntly, “but we’ve started tripping over each other. Literally. I had to do my work in the bathroom yesterday because you needed to use the extension cord in my office to use your NutriBullet.”

“There was no space in the kitchen.” He argued.

“Yes, I know. It was still a ridiculous solution.” She told him flatly.

He tried not to laugh. “Baby, you’re still mad?” He cooed.

“Lando,” she said, looking up at him, serious now. “We’ve outgrown this place. I love it, and it will always be our first home, but I don’t want to have to think about if I have space in my wardrobe to buy a new pair of shoes when I see ones that I like.” She said, biting her lip. “And I need a bigger office. You need a streaming room that doesn’t double as a spare room. It’s not fair to shove Oscar onto a pull-out bed every time he’s here.”

He flopped down next to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her onto his lap. “Suppose we could have a bigger kitchen.” He mumbled against her neck. “A nicer balcony. Maybe a dining room.”

“And plenty of space for guests,” she said.

Lando leaned his head against hers. “Okay. Let’s look. After the triple header.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, letting herself relax into his side. “I want to stay in this neighbourhood. Or close.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” He hummed.

She cracked a smile. “And I want us to start looking for a house in England, too. Not for now… but for later. Somewhere to disappear during off-seasons. With a big garden, and trees, and a big garage for me to play around with some cars again.” She rambled.

He stared at her, hearts in his eyes. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” she said softly, and kissed his cheek. “Come on. Carry me into the kitchen. My legs are numb, but I’ll help you find the toaster.”

—

From the pit wall, the view was beautiful.

The sun beat down on the Hungaroring like it was trying to melt the asphalt. The air was thick with it though, and Amelia’s headset slightly with heat distortion.

Oscar was starting from the second row. P4.

Lando P3.

Both of her boys making up the second row.

Her fingers tapped restlessly against her keyboard, eyes flicking between sector deltas and real-time tyre temp data. She barely noticed the world around her, only the voices in her ear and the heartbeat under her skin.

“Oscar, radio check?”

“Radio good.” Calm, sharp. His tone was always a little flat, that’s what everyone said; that he was emotionless. It made them a perfect duo — she never needed to try to unravel his tone. If he was thinking something, feeling something, he said it.

“Copy. Full systems looking good. Expect higher degradation on rear left — we’ll manage it through lift points. Brake temps will spike early. Keep it smooth, ducky.”

“Understood.” He said.

She leaned back in her stool and glance to her left, giving her dad a confident smile. He leaned across to give her a heavy shoulder pat, squeezing hard.

—

The launch was perfect.

Oscar didn’t just hold his position off the line; he gained. He swept into Turn 1 ahead of Lewis, ahead of even his teammate. For one brief, glorious moment, he was P2 behind Max Verstappen, in only his 11th Formula 1 race.

Amelia didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just… hyper focused.

“Amazing job, Oscar. Straight into it. Eyes forward — target delta plus point-three, we’ll manage tyres early.” She said.

“Copy.”

Her hands hovered over the live strategy tools. They were starting on Plan A, soft-to-medium, but she had contingencies mapped like a chess board. She refused to ever resort to a late reaction.

—

By Lap 16, Lando had undercut Oscar and slotted into net P2.

Amelia knew it would happen. Still, she hated how early they’d had to box Oscar, forced into it by track position pressure and the undercut threat from Lewis behind. The window had been tight. And the McLaren pit stop wasn’t their best; 3.8 seconds. Enough to cost.

Oscar rejoined in traffic. Slower cars. Dirty air.

The moment Oscar keyed his mic, she knew he felt it too.

“Tyres feel edgy. Car’s moving around.”

“Yeah. I know. Let’s build up our temps gradually. Try not to fight the dirty air. We’re still advantage three, ducky. Cleaner air will come to us once we’re through this pack.”

He didn’t reply right away. But when he did, it was with full faith in her plan. “Copy. Staying patient.”

She made a note on her pad, already tracking tyre drop-off curves from the medium runners around him. There was still a shot at a P4 finish. Maybe more, if Ferrari made the wrong call. Again.

—

The race stabilised. Max was untouchable up front, but Lando and Oscar were both holding on. Lando ran solidly in P2. Oscar, behind him in P5 with Charles closing. Too slowly to be dangerous yet, but Amelia knew better than to relax.

“Leclerc at 2.2 behind. He’s on slightly newer mediums, but they’ll plateau. You’re doing exactly what I need you to do.”

“Rear left’s starting to slip.” He reported.

Amelia adjusted her headset mic. She didn’t raise her voice, but the sharpness of her tone cut through the heat and static. “We’re monitoring. Keep it tight in 11 and off the kerbs in Sector 2. We’ll be okay.”

Will leaned toward her, murmuring, “You sure we’re not going to lose it to Leclerc?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “Not if he does exactly what I tell him. And he will.”

—

Leclerc wasn’t fast enough. And Oscar, even with graining tyres, rising temps, and thirty-five laps of non-stop pressure, didn’t put a wheel wrong.

“Last lap. Keep it clean. You’ve broken DRS.”

“Copy.” Calm. Professional. Perfectly Oscar.

When he crossed the line in P5, just behind Lewis, Amelia didn’t outwardly react. But her hand curled into a fist beneath the desk, opening and closing five times in even succession.

It wasn’t a podium. But it was a statement.

—

In the garage, the heat clung to them like a second skin. Amelia handed Oscar a water bottle before he even had to ask.

“You made them work for it,” she said.

Oscar looked at her, face half-smeared with visor marks, and raised a brow. “I was pushing hard.”

“I know,” she said, voice level. “Even after the weak strategy call. You salvaged your position, and it was impressive.”

He tilted his head. “Even that moment in Turn 2 where I had to back off?”

“Especially then,” she said. “That’s when I knew you were supposed to be my driver. You fight hard, but you race clean.”

Oscar snorted, leaning against the garage wall. “You’re very dramatic. And demanding on the radio.”

“You stayed ahead of a Ferrari on thirty-lap-old tyres. So…” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He smirked, then looked at her sideways. “Think we could’ve held that podium if we boxed one lap later?”

Amelia refused to lie. “Maybe. But we don’t deal in maybes. We deal in execution. And yours was great.”

He bumped her arm. “Thanks. I got a bit stressed there, after the first stop. You helped me keep my head.”

She smiled, faint but proud. “I’ll always do that.”

—

It wasn’t victory.

But it was control. It was consistency. It was yet another way of telling the world that Oscar Piastri, under her watch, was going to become something extraordinary.

—

Amelia found her husband sitting on one of the stackable pit wall chairs, half out of his fireproofs, head tipped back, hair damp with sweat. His eyes were closed, not asleep, but close to it. That bone-deep exhaustion that only comes after a truly hard-fought podium.

She nudged his knee with hers.

He cracked an eye open. Smiled when he saw that it was her. “Hey, Mrs. P5.”

She smiled right back at him. “Hi, Mr. P2.”

He let out a slow breath, opened his arms. She fell into them, onto his lap, and let him hold her. Tight. “Felt good today.” He started. “Felt like we were… properly in it. Like we’re not just pretending anymore.”

“You weren’t pretending in Silverstone, either,” she reminded him, sliding into the seat beside him. “But you really earned it today with that middle stint.”

He gazed down at her. “You always manage to do this.”

“What?” She asked, blinking at him.

“Say the exact right thing. Make me feel even better about a result I’m already proper buzzing about.” He explained, with a tilted smile. “Makes me feel like a bit of a muppet, honestly.”

She didn’t respond, just leaned over slightly, drawing something out from the inside of the pocket of her McLaren windbreaker. A thin silver chain, a small pendant strung on it. Lando in cursive letters, cut from a sheet of polished silver.

She held it up between them.

“A fan gave this to me outside the paddock,” she said, tone matter-of-fact. “Asked me to give it to you. I told her I was going to keep it.”

Lando blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Because,” she went on, “it has your name on it. And that’s comforting. Like when I labelled everything in the kitchen drawers so you stopped putting the spoons in the wrong place.”

He started laughing. “You think I’m a drawer?”

“I think you’re mine,” she said plainly. “And this necklace is a tactile reminder. So I’m keeping it. And I’m going to wear it all the time. Until it goes rusty, and then I’m going to have another one made. More permanent. And I’ll wear that one all the time too.”

Lando looked at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitching with affection. “You’re so romantic.”

“Maybe.” She sighed, like it was the worst thing she’d ever been told.

That earned a full grin from him. Tired, slightly loopy from the adrenaline crash, but full and wide. He reached over and ran his fingers along the chain. “I love you, baby.” He said quietly.

She looked at him, blinked once. “I know.” A beat passed. She gave him the smallest smile, then added, “And I love you too.”

Lando pressed his forehead against hers. “God, I missed you during the cool-down room. Lewis and Max were being so serious. I just wanted to say something dumb and have you roll your eyes at me. Make everything feel fun again.”

“You did great,” she told him earnestly. “You kept Max behind you for more laps than most people have managed all year.”

He pulled her in then, quick and fierce, arms around her back, his mouth warm against hers. “You’re the only podium celebration I actually look forward to.” A pause. A long, lingering kiss. And then, “did you bring the chequered flag underwear?”

She glanced around before tugging at her top.

He peeked down and smirked.

“Fucking class.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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occamstfs · 2 months ago

Text

Typecast Troubles

After turning down twink roles for too long, Henry needs work. Now. Offered one final lifeline in the role of Brutus, a stereotypical meathead, he has no choice to accept. Worry not, by the end of the audition he'll be more than muscular enough to embody the brute.

Here's an actor learning the hard way that some roles can change you whether you like it or not. Muscle growth and himbofication! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Henry desperately needed some work. For a few years now he had been consistently acing auditions and getting roles, never a lead but never out of work. After being typecast one too many times as bitchy twink and gay best friend he was ready for something else.

Unfortunately for the C-inching towards D-list star the industry did not care about his desire to move on. Never was he in a position safe enough to turn consistent work down. It has now been long enough since someone’s expressed any interest in having him on set that the theoretical actor has begun to search for other work.

Inches away from applying to some unenviable job out of showbiz, his phone rings. Seeing it’s his agent Jeremiah calling, Henry slams his laptop shut and bashes his phone into the side of his head from the excitement. This does not distract from his anxiety at the pile of bills lying in front of him nor the fingers crossed that a solution is on the line.

“Okay Henry, I know what you said a few months back. I fought you on it at the time, after all why shoot yourself in the foot when you’ve got a mouth to feed.”

Henry’s halfway to agreeing and begging his agent to send his resume to every shitty teen drama and made for TV movie out there before he hears Jeremiah continue, “But, I think this little gambit might have paid off. The studio apparently asked for you by name, my friend! Of course there’s still auditions…”

His agent presumably continues, explaining details about the show and its production, benefits for taking the job, people who might be part of the audition process, but Henry doesn’t hear that. Despite the mail pile filled with aggressive red text still sitting in front of him, with the prospect of work on the horizon, Henry’s mind is preoccupied with what the role is. The fact that he was asked for my name obviously ringing alarm bells that he’ll be back in the circuit of playing teens at least a decade younger than himself, “so what is the part then exactly? Do you have the script?”

There’s a clear hesitation as if Jeremiah isn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, “Don’t you worry now Hen, as demanded it is not at all like your usual stuff. No screaming yaaas or clapping back to your fag hag. No, no nothing the studios y’know, want you to do.” The agent pauses and resets, putting on a saccharine tone as if he knows he’s about to pitch shit as gold.

“Okay! So all goes well, you’ll be going in for a series regular role as Brutus! He’s well- I’ll just read the casting call specs: Brutish and barely literate, this oaf has a heart of gold and mind like a sieve, loves hanging out with his bros-” With each word Henry’s face scrunches tighter. Eventually he has no recourse but to interrupt his agent.

“Jere? What the fuck is this? They asked for me, specifically to come in for this? Is this some kind of a joke?” There’s another pause before Jeremiah releases the telltale sigh of a man at the end of his rope, “Look, Hen. Kid. I get it, you got these big ideas about dream roles and artistic integrity, but you gotta understand. This is what you got, what we got. You know the agency’s breathing down my neck about cutting dead weight. I- Look, you don’t gotta take the gig if it’s no good, but if you’re not willing at least hear ‘em out. I mean shit kid, you’re the one who asked for new ground yeah?”

Were his piling bills and draining savings not enough of a wakeup call, Jeremiah’s words were. Maybe it’s ironic casting, or an animated project, Jere probably said as much earlier when Henry tuned him out. He doesn’t really have a choice. After a prolonged groan, Henry pinches the bridge of his nose and gives in, “Ugh fine- whatever. Just send me the details and I’ll, I’ll do my best.”

Ever the professional, and hearing his client despondent, Jeremiah shifts gears yet again, “Aces kid. Gonna be a star yet, remember they wanted you. They need you not the other way around. Sent you the information, let me know how it goes. Phone’s always on me.”

The audition is early the next morning, earlier than the actor usually prefers to be awake. The call said something about Brutus being an early bird which, whatever. Henry’s well past the luxury of getting to do what he usually prefers. He briefly tossed over dressing up in character, though checking his wardrobe there is simply nothing that would fit the bill of Brutus.

Instead, he just cleans up as he always does and heads out the door. Wearing a button up and borrowed shoes, with each step closer to the studio he must continually remind himself that they asked for him specifically. For reasons he can’t understand. For reasons he will hopefully understand soon. His questions certainly aren’t answered when he arrives.

Before the actor even enters the lobby the receptionist rushes to greet him, “You must be Henry Harris! We’re so excited to have you in today!” Escorting him to the elevator, Henry is on edge at just how much the secretary seems to be fawning over him. In between what can only be deliberate attempts at massaging his egon Henry catches a few strange remarks, ‘can’t wait to see what you become’ ‘hope you brought a change of clothes.’

It is upon this bizarre encounter Henry reflects as he rides the slow elevator up to the casting office. There he almost recoils away from the door as he’s greeted by another secretary, almost identical to the first who treats him similarly bizarrely. Frequently eying up the actor like a slab of meat, tossing cryptic wanting flirtations as they go. “Here we are! Director Marlowe’s office. Hope you have a productive meeting in there Brutus!”

Henry sneers at the strange escort, “It’s Henry.” For the first time he notices the glassy, almost mechanical look in the eyes of the secretary. Despite being too chatty in their time together, at this his guide simply tilts his head with a grin before turning away and wandering back towards the elevator. Under his breath Henry complains, “Ugh, already ready to write this whole thing off.”

“Mr. Harris, Henry, do come in!” Henry flinches as he turns to find the bearded tank of a man behind him. Welcoming him into the office with an outstretched hand, Henry shifts into his poised polished self and offers his own dainty hand to shake. “You must be, Director Marlowe? Thank you so much for having me in today! I simply cannot wait to see what you have in mind for me. This Brutus character is absolutely the kind of role I’ve been waiting for.”

The director’s wide toothy smile only grows wider as his face betrays nothing besides a desire to get this process started, “Please come in, come in young man, have a seat.” The director leads Henry to a cozy chair opposite his desk before going to sit down himself, “Of course Henry, after all what actor wouldn’t be excited at the idea of a role made for them in mind. Though let’s cut to the chase. You must be wondering why in the world we came to you for this role hm? Quite the leap from twink-phenom to thoughtless gym rat is it not?”

Henry was on the backfoot from the first moment he saw the man, his dark eyes and darker, well-groomed beard were more than enough to set the actor on edge. Now that the man has directly addressed the one line of question that has been preoccupying his thoughts from the moment he heard the name Brutus, Henry is not sure what his next move is to be.

Easily catching the smallest break in the actor’s facade, the director pounces, “Worry not Mr. Harris! Whatever questions you might have will surely be answered by the time you leave today! For starters though, I hope you won’t mind signing a small NDA and consent form? We’re trying something experimental with this show and we can’t risk the exciting details getting out early. I’m sure you understand.”

Only now does Henry notice the contract sitting in front of him on the desk. This isn’t his first rodeo though and he’s no fool, his eyes narrow at the document and he begins to open his mouth to assert that he’s not going to even humor signing a document without legal advice. Though just as soon as the thought appears he’s reminded how lacking he is in funds for a lawyer. His desperation and curiosity begin to mount his waning caution.

Marlowe raises his hands, feigning sympathy, “Oh of course, by all means if you want to go through the document with a fine toothed comb be my guest, we also have a legal team on site should you need clarity.” The director has a few more droll lines planned on how excited they would be to have Henry on board, perhaps even revealing some of his hand to further entice the actor. Though this is unnecessary as the actor’s apparently even more desperate than they had assumed.

Biting his lip and already kicking himself for the foolhardy action, Henry Harris signs on the dotted line. Caught off guard, the director frowns in surprise, “Well! Just like that is it? I do believe we can start this process outright Henry.” He reaches and tidies up the paperwork before filing into his desk. Templing his fingers his wide smile returns as he looks down at the actor who nervously stares off into space.

“The network wants to try something new. I’m sure you’re aware original content is suffering on streaming and the powers that be are tired of finding new creatives. My solution is simple: mold actors into characters so truthful to themselves that the creation of content is simply second nature. Does this make sense to you Henry?”

Having signed away at least some degree of autonomy, wholly unaware just how deep a commitment he just made, Henry decides to focus on the matter immediately at hand, sighing. “Sure yeah. Why me? This guy’s supposed to be a gym bro right? I mean, just look at me!” Motioning towards his pale, purposefully thin body Henry scoffs before looking at Marlowe.

The director’s expression shifts severe, chiding. “Now Henry. This negative self-talk, don’t you think it’s unbecoming of Brutus?” Henry reflexively rolls his eyes and scoffs, as he is wont to do. Or no, he tries to roll his eyes and does not. He tries to scoff but instead he finds himself nodding, agreeing. Brutus wouldn’t talk about himself like that.

He glares at the director as underneath thoughts of Brutus slowly flowing into his mind, he realizes something greater than himself has happened. Something sinister has begun to influence his thoughts and he must understand the rules before it is too late. Having spent a solid chunk of change at drama school he is well aware of Faustian bargains. The director simply grins, exposing too-white teeth, “You were saying Hentry?”

Henry’s mouth squirms as the name hits him like a punch. He knows it was deliberate, he knows it is not his name. He struggles to decide if he should dispute it but instead plays along, clinging to his years of experience at keeping up the act. “Sure. Mr. Marlowe, I am of course quite excited to see where the studio goes with this. As you know I will do my best to fill Brutus’ shoes with aplomb. I love a challenge, and playing this character will be more than interesting.”

Pleased, the director sees blood in the water, “Ah yes. His shoes you say, now what size shoes would those be.” Henry, Hentry? hesitates, struggling to play whatever sick game of 4d chess this is. His attention flicks down to his shoes and he discovers just how supernaturally outmatched he is. He knows he’s a size 8.5. He squeezed his feet into size 8 shoes he borrowed from his corporate friend forever ago for this audition, so it’s no wonder his feet feel a little squeezed.

This does not explain how his feet seem to be pushing against the shining leather with each passing second. Hentry’s hand flies to his mouth as he gasps at his feet bursting the seams of his friends shoes. His shock is displaced by grunting pain as toes burst from dress shocks and shoes he does not have the money to pay his friend back for are left tattered on the floor. He feels his soles stretch wider than the soles as his toes splay further, flexing from the pain as they surge onto the carpet of Marlowe’s office.

Clinging to reality in the wake of this impossible happening, pushing down the visceral bizarre feeling of his feet growing, stretching against socks before bursting from their containment, Hentry finds himself hung up on how much those borrowed shoes cost. Somehow making him more anxious than the fact his body has changed beyond his control. Drawing his attention more than the feeling of thicker soles and a wider foot flexing out of his control. Then from some recess of his mind comes a ripcord. What’s the problem? Why was he wearing dress shoes anyway, surely he should be wearing his gym shoes like always.

To the delight of the director, Hentry’s eyes shift slightly duller as he stares blankly at his feet as shoes begin to reform. The actor doesn’t hear the sound of leather stretching to hide his newly massive feet, doesn’t see as the tanned leather shifts to cheapening fabric, new laces bursting forth and knotting a few times over as the cheap shoes still struggle to contain feet that absolutely do not wish to be contained.

“Much of a runner are you Hentry?” The actor slowly shakes his head, uncomfortable with the memories that begin to surge through it. Clenching his jaw he can’t prevent his mouth from answering, his voice sloppy and slow, “y-yeah. Sometimes I’ll jog, I think? Gotta get the blood pumping before an- umph!-” Whatever admission of gym time that was surely coming is cut off as Hentry forces his arm into his mouth, doing everything in his power to prevent himself from finishing the sentence.

The wheels have been set in motion however as, sticking out from well-worn ratty gym shoes, slightly discolored socks begin to worm their way up his legs. Launching up past his smooth ankles they struggle to reach too high as new muscular legs begin to form. Eyes determinedly ahead at Marlowe can’t help but steal a glance downward as his calves begin to itch and burn. His mind races with new memories of running on treadmills and down streets as his legs surge larger. New muscle fibers and thick curls strands sprouting forth with every must-be artificial memory.

They flex in place as Hentry sits there. His calves bulge larger with every faux flex, soon enough they’re the size of baseballs yearning to burst from his dress pants. There’s no risk of this however as his pants rapidly pull up into shorts, exposing the hairy calves to the cold air of this corporate studio. They are however not nearly fast enough on the draw to make it unscathed as thighs larger than his waist begin to bulge into existence.

The chair creaks under the weight of his legs alone as his pale thighs send a few tears into his new gym shorts. Marlowe’s eyebrows raise in shock as he seems almost impressed. Seeing this, Hentry is unsurprisingly of two minds, though for their varied reasons they both yearn to address their boss’ surprise. Jaw slightly sore from pain, he removes his arm and allows his mouth mobility once more. His original self thoroughly convinced that the director's simply so impressed at how well he’s fighting back, Hentry can’t help but try and get a dig in. “Betcha didn’t think I’d put up such a fight huh big guy?”

Perhaps a sign at just how much his mind has been eroded already, Hentry fails to see through the truly pathetic performance Marlowe gives, “My my Huntry! Indeed my terrible powers have been unable to change you at all! Perhaps it is the strength of your legs that allow you to stand so strong in the face of my wicked ways!” He does a twee flinch back, leaving one eye locked on the actor to see his reaction.

Arms crossed and smirking, Huntry’s eyes narrow as he finds himself agreeing with Marlowe, that is after the name of course. His name is, uhh. Doesn’t it start with a B? His eyebrows knit together as he skips past this and tries to find what else is bothering him from the director’s words, his legs are built? He works hard for them after all? Squirming in his chair he feels his powerful ass push him higher as he fights the urge to stretch.

Failing to hold back, he grunts as he stretches taller. His dress shirt coming untucked from the elastic waistband of gym shorts they had no right of being tucked into to begin with. Midriff exposed it is clear that changes have not arbitrarily stopped at his lower body. Across his thin torso muscle has begun to pack on from nothing. His clumsy fingers scratch at his waist as a treasure trail begins to prickle up and decorate his new lowest rung of abs.

Eyes closed, Huntry’s mind is totally distracted by the pleasure of his body burning as it grows. Forgetting himself and where he is, Huntry feels his cock pulse as the growing pains of his massive form feel decidedly pleasurable. Feeling the beginning of new muscle on his chest his tight lips twitch into a grin as nipples larger and more sensitive are dragged against his button up by a growing chest.

In no time at all, under the frequent barely quieted moans of delight, his sleeves are strained by biceps that must have taken years to grow. His blue balls become much more of a problem as he feels the fabric begin to tear, thick arms wholly outsizing the tight sleeves by an order of magnitude. Raised in a flex his veiny biceps send tears down the length of his sleeves as they refuse to be held back. As they refuse to be the scrawny twigs that they may have once been.

Huntry bites his lips he feels pre begin to stain his briefs, no, his jock. His shaky hand begins to reach down, getting so far as gracing his new thick bush of pubes before his quest for relief is interrupted by the director clearing his throat. “Mr. Buntry? If you recall, we were in the middle of your audition?”

Buntry snaps back to attention, gasping in shock in a deeper voice at having been in such a compromised position in the middle of something so significant. His slightly thicker brows, now jutting out ever so slightly over his eyes, furrow again as he realizes he isn’t embarrassed. Though- why should he be. He’s just a dude, sometimes you gotta adjust right? Yeah. A dumb smile plasters its way across his face as his jaw thickens, his pretty boy appeal falling to the wayside as he shifts to become not quite leading man material, but someone who could easily play a soldier, a goon, a brute. “Whaddya need from me next boss man?”

Shaking his head Marlowe is shocked at just how well this has gone, “I believe you were about to take off your shirt. This is after all quite a physique intensive role if you recall.” Buntry guffaws and scratches his chest, seemingly pulling his pecs larger with every pass of his clumsy, calloused fingers. “Why didn’t ya say so boss huhuh!” He goes to unbutton the shirt before stupidly groaning as he finds obviously he’s not wearing a button up.

The sleeveless garment has turned into a tank, slightly stained around his pits from deodorant that was instantly rendered obsolete by his heady musk, joined by a dark sweaty patch in the center of his massive chest. Eyes caught up on the strained shirt, he gulps as he tries not to get distracted by his pecs overhanging, by the unmistakable hard nipples showing through the tight top. Barely hanging in there, he gets his fingers under the hem of the shirt hugging his abs and yanks. It gets stuck over his head and he laughs again, trapped in a prison of his own design, pits exposed to the open air as thick curls blossom further from his underarms.

Marlowe’s smile flickers as he wonders if this process was almost too effective. Lost in thought he watches as Buntry stands and struggles to escape, knocking over the chair behind him. Eventually the shirt tears before coming off and the brute guffaws once more, “Sorry boss! Guess I don know my own strength huhuh!” Free from the shirt however, he does what he has done in every audition he can recall and begins to pose.

Sweat courses down from his hairy pits and shines across his burly chest as he flexes and awaits Marlowe’s feedback. The director’s hitherto constant smile flickers as he wonders how he’s going to be able to run a set with a man who can scarcely find two two brain cells to rub together. Lost in thought he loses track of his polished persona and thorough plan and speaks aimlessly, sniffing the air he complains, “Do you smell that?”

The jock pauses his performance and turns to look at his own pits, bending his thick neck down he laughs and confirms that it’s him. “Huhuh Sorry bro! Thought you wanted me to come au natruale y’know! You’re always saying you want the real Brutus! Well here he is huhuh! Hup!” Grunting he launches into a most muscular, crab pose.

Marlowe’s eyes widen as the actor refers to himself as Brutus. Clicking his tongue, the director can’t help but feel this has gone off the rails somehow. The plan was to create a perfect combonation of actor and character, but clearly something has gone awry, whispering ‘god damnit’ under his breath, Marlowe forces a smile back on his face as he addresses the man who has yet to stop posing, flinging sweat across the room with every clearly practiced adjustment. “Bunt- er Brutus, yes? Would you mind taking a load off?”

The new bodybuilder smirks and nods with a “Yuh! No problem boss huhuh!” The director feels a migraine coming on as he sees the behemoth crash to the floor as he sits in a chair that can absolutely not hold his weight. “Oh shit! Sorry Mr. Marlowe!” His mouth is hanging vacant as he struggles to lift his impossibly heavy form. Panting as he often is, when Brutus stands he opts to take a load off on the directors desk.

“Pardon my asking, Brutus. But you are an actor, are you not?” The massive man scratches his defined jaw as his face finishes its transformation into a face that could sell any schmuck some protein powder, “Yeah guess you could say so? I’m always puttin’ out content y’know? Definitely a star huhuh.” A gym influencer? That Marlowe could work with. He temples his hands as he schedules a date to potentially give this process another go. See if they can’t bring back some of Henry’s refinement. These things are complicated after all.

Just to test the waters before concluding this ‘audition,’ Marlowe opts to toss out one final question, “Does the name Henry mean anything to you Brutus?”

In response the man lights up, “Yeah! Course it does boss! That’s my- uhhh?” Somehow the perpetually confused man looks even more confused for a moment, scratching his balls he holds back from smelling his hand in front of the director before continuing, “‘S that my last name boss? Do I got one of those?” Marlowe waves off the questions, foolish of him to try that.

“Let’s get you to the locker room hm, Brutus? The young man outside should lead you to the setup we have on site.” Without a second thought Brutus sprints out the door, like a dog chasing a squirrel. He runs right past the secretary, apparently already knowing his way around. Marlowe’s phone vibrates as he sees a text that the next actor is apparently on the way up. Some angsty goth who the network has requested to audition for the role of the show’s rich prep.

Hearing heavy footsteps racing down the hallway he wonders if they are biting off more they can chew. No matter though, these are not his calls to make. Still he sighs to himself as he checks the notes for his upcoming meeting, another tall ask, “No rest for the wicked,” Marlowe complains as a pale frowning form is ushered out of the elevator. This time perhaps he’ll try and take it slower.

#male tf #mental change #jockification #personality change #dumber #jock tf #male transformation #muscle tf

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natsaffection · 4 months ago

Text

Redline. Pt 2 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), reflecting trauma

Word count: 5,2k

A/N: Thank you so much for all the feedback on the first part!! A lot of you asked, if there is more to come, and yes! it was never planned to be just one part...so stay tuned. 🏁

Part 1

The contract sat on the kitchen table. Unopened. Untouched.

For two days, you had tried to pretend it didn’t exist, forcing yourself to walk past it without so much as a glance, shoving it out of your mind every time the thought crept back in. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t tempting. That you weren’t curious. And yet, here you were. Wide awake and heart pounding.

It was almost laughable, how much power a few pieces of paper could hold. But this wasn’t just any contract. This was a door one you had slammed shut years ago, locking it, boarding it up, vowing you would never touch it again. And now, Natasha Romanoff had handed you the key.

You exhaled slowly, rolling onto your side, staring at the dark ceiling, hoping, begging for sleep to come. But it didn’t. It wouldn’t. Because the truth was, you weren’t just fighting against this contract..you were fighting against yourself. Your fingers curled into the blanket, breath steady but too aware.

You weren’t going to look. You weren’t! But the thought wouldn’t leave you alone. This was stupid. You had already made your decision. Another long, tense moment staring into nothing. And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could talk yourself down again, you threw off the blanket and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you padded into the kitchen, the glow from the streetlights outside casting long shadows over the damn thing still sitting there, waiting for you. It was mocking you. It hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed, but you had. You sank into the chair, heartbeat loud in your ears as you pressed your palms against the table, staring at the contract like it might explode.

For a long moment, you didn’t touch it. You just looked. Because deep down, you already knew..the second you opened it, there was no going back. You flexed your fingers, exhaled sharply, then reached forward, flipping it open. The first thing you saw was your own name, neatly typed in bold letters, sitting right beneath Romanoff Racing. You swallowed hard, gaze drifting lower to the numbers. And shit..

$10 million base salary.

You blinked, your grip tightening on the pages. You read it again. Your stomach twisted. Most drivers spent years fighting for half of this. Years. And here you were..offered it in an instant.

Performance bonuses. Sponsorship cuts. Merchandise percentages. This wasn’t just a job. This was a legacy. And the car? You swallowed hard, scanning the details, the specs listed, the insane level of engineering poured into it. It wasn’t just good. It was the best.

Your hands shook slightly as you flipped another page, pulse hammering in your throat. You were already too deep, already too far gone in the thought of what this could mean. But then, you saw the name at the bottom.

Team Principal – Natasha Romanoff.

Your breath caught. And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe. Because if you took this, if you signed this, you weren’t just agreeing to race again. You were agreeing to do it under her.

Under the most ruthless, cutthroat, terrifying woman in the entire industry. Natasha Romanoff wasn’t just a leader..she was a force. She didn’t believe in second chances. She didn’t offer things she wasn’t certain about.

Your fingers hovered over the edge of the contract, stomach tight as you felt the weight of it pressing against your chest. Why you? Why now? Why the hell would someone like Natasha Romanoff believe in you after everything?

The thought sent frustration curling through your veins. Before you could stop yourself, before you could think too hard, you grabbed your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a second before you typed.

Natasha Romanoff.

The search results loaded instantly. Dozens of articles. Videos. Headlines that all said the same thing.

“Romanoff doesn’t build teams. She builds empires.”

“A win-at-all-costs leader.”

“Cold. Calculated. Feared.”

You swallowed, clicking on an article, scanning the lines filled with cutthroat precision.

“Romanoff’s leadership has transformed her team into an unstoppable force. She demands nothing less than excellence, and if you can’t deliver, she will find someone who can.”

You let out a breath, rubbing your temple. Of course. Because it wasn’t just about winning. It was about domination. You kept scrolling, jaw clenching as the same damn message repeated in every single article, every interview. Natasha was ruthless. A perfectionist. She didn’t tolerate failure. And she had just offered you a seat in her empire.

You clicked on a press conference. Natasha, seated at the center of a long table, shoulders straight, face unreadable. A reporter’s voice filtered through the speakers. “Some say you’re too harsh, that you push your drivers too har-”

“If they can’t handle the pressure, they don’t belong in my car.”

You huffed out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking your head. Romanoff was a damn nightmare. Demanding. Unforgiving. The kind of leader who would throw you into the fire and expect you to burn brighter instead of burn out.

And yet your pulse picked up. Because Natasha didn’t take risks. She didn’t gamble on maybes. So what the hell did that mean for you? You sat there, fingers still gripping the contract, thoughts screaming at you. You wanted to walk away. You wanted to shove it all aside, pretend like it didn’t matter. But it did. Because you were still sitting here. Because you had spent two days pretending you wouldn’t even look at this. Because deep down, you already knew the truth.

You leaned back in your chair, pressing your fingers against your temple, trying to breathe through the storm in your mind. Because it wasn’t just the money, or the car, or the name Romanoff printed at the top that made this decision feel impossible. It was everything that would come with it.

The media..The press.. The entire world watching your every move. A comeback wasn’t just about getting behind the wheel again. It was about stepping back into the spotlight, into the same world that had once worshipped you until the moment it didn’t.

And if you thought for one second that the press would welcome you back with open arms? You were an idiot. Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up your phone again, your heart already pounding as you opened your browser. You hesitated. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed.

Y/n Y/l/n crash.

The search bar autofilled before you could even finish. You swallowed hard as you clicked the first link, the familiar grainy footage of the wreck already playing on your screen. You shouldn’t be watching this. You had avoided it for years. But tonight, you couldn’t stop yourself.

The car was flying down the straightaway, perfect and controlled. Your car. Then came the turn too fast. The tires locked up, the back end skidded just slightly before it snapped. The impact was vicious the sound of metal screeching, the brutal crunch of carbon fiber folding under pressure, the sickening silence before the car came to a halt, flipped upside down.

Your stomach twisted violently, your hand tightening around the phone. You knew how it ended. You had lived it. But the internet? The world? They had spent years analyzing it. Picking it apart and making it a spectacle.

“The fall of Y/n Y/l/n, A promising career, cut short in an instant.”

“From prodigy to tragedy: The crash that changed everything.”

“Y/n Y/l/n’s career is over.”

You gritted your teeth, scrolling past article after article, each headline worse than the last. But the worst part? You knew what was coming next. You weren’t just the crash. You were what came after. The disappearance..the vanishing act.

Because you didn’t fight back. You didn’t give interviews, didn’t try to salvage what was left. You had just left. And now? You were about to walk back into the fire. The world wouldn’t just be watching. They would be waiting for you to fail. And the comments.. God, the comments. You knew better than to look. But you did anyway.

“She was never that good to begin with.”

“She’s just gonna crash again.”

“🏴‍☠️”

You slammed the phone down, breath sharp, chest tight. Your stomach twisted with something you didn’t want to name. Because the thing was, what if they were right? What if this wasn’t a comeback? What if this was just a slow-motion disaster waiting to happen?

Your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. Because the truth? You weren’t just fighting the past. You were fighting everyone who already decided you weren’t coming back at all.

——

The Uber rolled to a slow stop in front of Romanoff Racing. You hadn’t meant to come here. You had spent the entire morning convincing yourself you wouldn’t. That you wouldn’t even think about it, let alone get in the damn car and let it take you to Natashas empire.

And yet, here you are.. Sitting in the backseat, staring up at the monument of power that Natasha had built, your stomach twisting with something you refused to name.

“Holy shit..” the driver muttered, whistling under his breath as he glanced at the towering building. “Didn’t realize this was where I was dropping you.”

“Yeah..” You muttered. “Me neither.”

The man chuckled, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “You know..my kids used to be huge fans of yours.”

Your stomach dropped. The breath you had been about to take caught in your throat, fingers twitching slightly against your knee.

“They were real young when you were racing.” he continued, unaware of the way your jaw locked. “But man, they had your posters up in their room. Said you were gonna be the next big thing.”

The next big thing. Once upon a time, you had thought so too.

“They were real torn up about the crash, though..” the driver added. “Kept asking what happened to you.”

Your grip on the door tightened. Because what are you supposed to say to that? The man must have sensed the shift in the air because he let out a small hum, nodding as he put the car into park. “Well, I think it’s cool you’re here.” he said. “And if you ever get back on the track, I know two kids who’d be thrilled about it.”

You nodded, muttered a quiet “Thanks.” and shoved the door open before he could say anything else. You turned, and..The facility was massive, a fortress of steel and glass, built to reflect nothing but power and precision. It wasn’t just a racing headquarters. It was a kingdom.

Behind it, the track stretched across the land, curving like a predator waiting for its next victim. Everything about it screamed untouchable. You could still turn around. You should turn around. You were about-

“I was wondering when you’d show up.”

You froze. Your heart lurched as you turned your head just enough to see Natasha, leaning casually against a railing, arms crossed, looking entirely too smug. You hated that you weren’t surprised to see her. Natasha had known you would come.

And that? That pissed you off. “I never said I was coming.” you muttered, crossing your arms. Natasha smirked. Smirked. “You didn’t have to.”

You clenched your jaw, irritation curling in your chest. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch her or walk away. Instead, Natasha pushed off the railing, tilting her head toward the entrance.

“Come on.” she said, her voice smooth, unbothered. “You’re already here. Might as well see what you’re walking away from.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her you weren’t walking away from anything, but that would be a lie. So instead, you followed. Because deep down, you already knew..You weren’t leaving now.

The moment you stepped inside, the weight of everything hit you at once. This wasn’t just a building. This was a monument. The walls were lined with history, photos of Romanoff Racing’s victories, podium celebrations, championship wins, moments frozen in time that told the story of an empire that refused to fall.

And at the center of it all, Natasha. Your steps slowed as your gaze landed on a series of framed photographs. Natasha’s racing days. You had almost forgotten that before she was a team owner, she became the most feared woman in the industry, Natasha had been a driver.

And not just any driver. A damn good one. The photos captured everything, her standing on podiums, trophies in her hands, her race suit covered in champagne, a grin sharper than anything you had ever seen in person.

For the first time, Natasha looked like she had actually enjoyed something. “I never lost.” You blinked, turning slightly to see Natasha watching you. There was no arrogance in her voice, no smugness. Just a fact.

“I retired on my own terms.” Natasha said simply, stepping closer, her voice low, deliberate. “Not many people get to do that in this sport.”

You tore your gaze away from the photos, clearing your throat. “Why did you stop?”

“I didn’t need to prove anything anymore.” Your stomach twisted. Because that? That was what you had lost. The choice. Natasha had walked away on her own. You hadn’t been given that luxury.

“Come on.” Natasha murmured, walking past you. “There’s more to see.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. You followed. The garage was a perfect storm of efficiency. Mechanics moved in seamless synchronization, engineers analyzed screens filled with data, every motion calculated, every movement serving a purpose.

There was no wasted energy. No hesitation. This was the core of Romanoff Racing, a machine within a machine, built to function flawlessly. You inhaled slowly, the scent of oil, rubber, and gasoline filling your lungs. It should have been overwhelming. It should have made you want to run. But instead, It felt like home.

Then, the world stopped. Because there, in the center of it all- The car. Your breath hitched. Your feet moved before your mind caught up. It sat beneath the overhead lights, its sleek carbon fiber body gleaming like something alive, something breathing. You knew what was under the hood without even having to ask.

The numbers. The specs. The power. Your fingers twitched. You stepped closer. Natasha didn’t speak. She just watched and letting you have the moment. Letting you feel it. You swallowed hard, your heart hammering as you lifted your hand and touched it. The smooth, cold surface sent a shiver through your fingertips. You could feel the weight of it, the potential, the raw power contained within.

This car was built to win. You knew it, you could feel it. Your hand drifted to the edge of the wing, fingertips tracing along the perfectly sculpted aerodynamics. Your throat was tight. Because for the first time in years, You wanted to drive. The thought nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“I knew you’d like it.”

Natasha’s voice was softer than expected. Not teasing. Not smug. Just..soft. You turned your head slightly, catching the way Natasha was watching you. Not like a recruiter. Not like a team owner. Like someone who understood. Like someone who had been waiting for this moment.

Your chest ached. You wanted to say something. Wanted to fight it, to argue, to push back against the undeniable pull that was dragging you deeper and deeper into the world you swore you’d never touch again. But you couldn’t. Because the truth was staring you in the face. You weren’t here to say no. You had already made your decision. And Natasha knew it..

Natasha’s office was a fortress of control. Everything had its place, its purpose, just like her. The desk was a monument to order, perfectly organized, not a single paper out of place. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the track, stretching into the distance like a silent challenge.

This was her kingdom. And you felt like you had just walked into the lion’s den. You didn’t sit. You stood near the door, arms crossed, heart hammering against your ribs. Natasha was leaning against her desk, too calm, too in control, watching you like she was already ten steps ahead.

Yelena lounged in a chair across from her sister, arms draped over the armrests, her expression the perfect mix of curiosity and amusement.

“You’re hesitating.” Natasha said, her voice smooth, deliberate.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “You act like this is all easy.”

“It is.” Natasha replied simply. “I give you a seat. I could take care of the media. You race. You win-

“You don’t get it.”

Natasha’s brow lifted, but she didn’t interrupt. You took a step forward, your hands curling into fists. “You think I can just step into a car and pretend the last few years didn’t happen? You think I can erase the crash, the rehab, the press? You weren’t there! You have no idea what it was like!”

Yelena stilled. Because no one..no one cut Natasha off like that and lived to tell the story. She glanced at Natasha, expecting her to shut this down, to slice your words apart and put you back in your place. But she didn’t. She just watched you and she was amused. Your breath came out sharp, unsteady. “I died on that day.”

The words hung in the air. “Do you know what it's like to have the entire world tell you you're done?" Your voice shook. "To hear people say you'll never race again? That you should just be grateful to be breathing?"

Your fingers twitched. “When I woke up, I couldn’t even sit up in bed. I had to listen to doctors tell me I’d never walk again, I was stucked in a hospital bed while the world moved on without me! I had to fight for every damn movement, every inch of progress..and let me tell you something, learning how to walk twice in a lifetime isn’t inspiring. It’s humiliating..”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change. But Yelena saw it. The way her fingers flexed slightly. The way her muscles coiled, like she was resisting the urge to stand, to grab you, to tell you she would never let you break like that again.

But she didn’t. She just swallowed it. And that? That made Yelena blink in surprise. Because no one talked to Natasha like that. No one challenged her. And yet, you were still standing. You exhaled slowly, looking toward the track outside. “My parents begged me not to come back..” you muttered. “They said I was lucky to be alive. That I should take my second chance and do something else. Something safer.”

Your breath hitched. “The worst part? I agreed with them.” A tension too thick to breathe through. Your jaw clenched, your pulse roaring in your ears. You expected Natasha to push back. To argue. To tell you were being ridiculous.

“I know this isn’t easy.”

It wasn’t a platitude. It wasn’t a strategy. Natasha had just told you the truth. “I know you went through hell.” Natasha continued, her voice softer, more controlled. “And I know stepping back into this world means facing everything you ran from.” She tilted her head, watching you carefully. “But I also know that it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”

You clenched your fists, your body tensing. Because she was right..And you hated that.. You turned away, walking slowly around the office, trying to breathe, to think. Your gaze flicked to the trophies. The photos, the track. The contract waiting on the desk. Your fingers twitched. Your chest burned. You turned back toward Natasha, your breath slow, measured. You hated this. You hated that you had already made your decision. But you had.. You made it the second you touched that car.

Natasha leaned forward, grabbing the contract, sliding it toward you with an unreadable expression. You stared at it, then reached for the pen with shaky fingers, hesitating just long enough to feel the weight of it all crushing your chest.

Then, with one deep breath, you signed.

A moment of silence stretched between you as Natasha picked up the contract, scanning the signature, and then, a glint of something amused, something dangerous flickered in her eyes.

“I like that mouth of yours.” Natasha murmured, stepping around the desk. “But if you ever talk to me like that again, we’re going to have a problem.”

Her voice was smooth, teasing, but there was a promise beneath it. Your breath caught in your throat as Natasha moved closer, too close. The air shifted, the space between you disappearing, and suddenly, it wasn’t just a fight.

It was something else. Something darker. Something dangerous. “You’re lucky I like a little fight.” Natasha murmured, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Lucky that I enjoy the chase.” Her eyes flickered over your face, too controlled, too knowing. “But be careful, dorogaya. You don’t want to see what happens when I stop playing.”

Yelena let out a slow whistle, shaking her head. “Shit, this is getting fun.”

——

The venue was massive..a spectacle of wealth, power, and precision. Every team and sponsor, every racing empire had gathered under the blinding lights of the grand stage, cameras flashing, reporters scrambling for the best shots, fans pressed against barricades just for a glimpse of what was coming next.

This was the moment. The unveiling of the machines that would define the season. It was an event that set the stage for battle. This was where teams made their statements, where alliances were solidified, and where the racing world decided who was truly built to dominate.

And this year? This year, the stakes had never been higher. Because for the first time in years, Romanoff Racing was not the defending champion. That title belonged to Dreykov now. His team, Red Sun Racing, had clawed its way to the top last season, dethroning Romanoff Racing in the final race, sealing the championship with a cold, calculated efficiency that made the victory feel more like an execution than a triumph.

And Dreykov? He had never let Natasha forget it.

The venue was a coliseum, filled with thousands of fans, journalists, and industry moguls. Massive LED screens lined the walls, replaying last season’s highlights, Dreykov’s victory plastered across every surface. A slow-motion clip of his driver crossing the finish line first. A montage of Red Sun Racing’s dominance.

The words: “THE NEW ERA.”

The cameras panned across the venue, zooming in on the biggest names in the sport. And then, A shift. The second Romanoff Racing entered the venue, the atmosphere changed. Natasha Romanoff didn’t just walk in. She arrived. Dressed in all black, her presence cut through the noise, commanding attention without saying a single word.

The weight of her reputation, her legacy, her sheer ruthlessness followed her like a shadow. She wasn’t just a team owner. She was the threat. And everyone knew it.

Flashes went off immediately, reporters whispering amongst themselves. The former queen of racing. The woman who had ruled the sport for years, until last season. Now, she was here to take her throne back.

Behind her, her team followed in perfect formation, engineers and strategists moving like an army prepared for war. Their expressions were unreadable, their presence sending a clear message, they weren’t here to watch. They were here to win.

But before Natasha could even make it to the main stage, a figure stepped into her path. He stood with the arrogance of a man who had already won, a smirk carved into his face like he had been waiting for this moment all night. His suit, pristine and custom-fitted, carried the Red Sun Racing emblem, a team that had once been beneath Romanoff Racing but had now risen to the top.

“Romanoff.” he greeted, his voice thick with mock amusement. “Didn’t think you’d show up after last season.”

Natasha stopped, her expression unchanged. Completely unbothered. She tilted her head slightly, as if already bored. “You say that like I lost.”

Dreykov chuckled, stepping closer, his voice lowering. “You did.” Then, he smirked. “I took everything from you, Natasha. Your streak. Your crown. Your place at the top.”

He gestured around the room, where his team sat in the championship-winning section, draped in their new Red Sun Racing uniforms. Where Jake Walker, her former driver stood amongst them, smiling for the cameras.

“I even took your driver.” Dreykov mused, the amusement in his tone cutting. “He looks good in red, don’t you think?”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change. She barely even looked in Jake’s direction. She simply exhaled slowly, adjusting the sleeve of her suit jacket before meeting Dreykov’s gaze again.

“If you think taking Walker was your victory..” she murmured, voice smooth as glass, “then you’ve already lost.” His gaze darkened, a shadow of something colder, crueler passing through his expression.

“You don’t have a driver, Natasha..” he said, stepping even closer, just enough to lower his voice into something sharp, taunting. “You don’t have the championship..You don’t even have control anymore..”

Natasha simply smiled. Not big. Not wide. Just enough. “You’ll see soon enough.” she murmured, voice laced with something deadly. Dreykov’s smirk faltered, just for a second. Because Natasha never showed her hand before it was time. And if she was this calm, this smug..It meant she had already won.

The two separate and rejoin with their team. The event began, and the teams were all introduced. Then, the moment arrived. The massive LED screens flashed, the arena dimming, spotlights shifting toward the stage. The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen..The moment we've all been waiting for. Romanoff Racing!!”

The crowd erupted. The team’s engineers, strategists, and technical crew took their places. The massive curtain hanging at the center of the stage trembled as the Romanoff Racing car sat just behind it, waiting to be revealed. The world held its breath. Because for the first time in years, Romanoff Racing wasn’t just unveiling a car. They were unveiling a statement.

You stood in front of a mirror, staring at your reflection. A uniform. The Romanoff Racing fire suit fit perfectly, the deep black material hugging against your body, crimson-red lines tracing the edges like veins. The Romanoff logo was printed across your chest, a mark of war and ownership.

For the first time in years, you were wearing a racing suit. For the first time since the crash. Your breathing was uneven, your fingers twitching slightly at your sides. This was real. You were really doing this.

You swallowed hard, forcing your shoulders back, but the weight of it pressed against your ribcage like it was trying to crush you. Then, over the speakers, Natasha’s voice. Smooth. Powerful. Unwavering.

“Another season. Another opportunity.”

Your eyes flickered up, locking onto yourself in the mirror as Natasha continued.

“At Romanoff Racing, we don’t believe in second place. We don’t believe in mediocrity. We build machines meant for war.”

Your chest tightened. A machine. A car. Something built to destroy whatever stood in its way. You had been in a machine once. And it had nearly killed you.

“This year, we’ve built something unstoppable.”

A roaring cheer erupted from the crowd outside. The unveiling of the new car. The beast you were meant to drive. You inhaled sharply, exhaling through your nose. It wasn’t just a car. It was a statement. It was Romanoff’s war machine, and you were the one meant to control it.

A sharp knock sounded at the door, snapping you out of your thoughts. Yelena peeked in, smirking slightly. “You’re up.”

Your stomach twisted. You had been through hell. You had fought for every inch of your body back. You had been dead for two minutes. And somehow, this was still the hardest thing you had ever done.

Yelena stepped forward, her smirk fading slightly as she really looked at you. “Breathe..” she muttered. You clenched your jaw. Yelena just shrugged. “Or don’t. Either way, you’re walking out there.”

She glanced toward the open door, where the roar of the crowd was still deafening. Natasha’s voice rang through the speakers again, sending a shiver down your spine.

“But every machine needs a driver.”

The moment. You met your own eyes in the mirror one last time. A stranger looked back. Because you weren’t just Y/n. Not anymore. You were the one they had said was finished. The one they had written headlines about. The one who had been dead and come back.

And now? Now you were stepping onto that stage, into the fire, into the war, and you were doing it on your own terms. Yelena gave you a final look before stepping aside..and you walked out.

Everyone was waiting. And no one was ready. Everyone leaned forward, journalists gripping their microphones tighter, team owners exchanging looks, rival drivers whispering among themselves.

Then, the back doors of the stage opened. And you stepped out. The reaction was instant. The crowd exploded. The noise hit like a shockwave, a mix of shock, disbelief, excitement, and chaos. The stadium shook with the sheer force of it, the sound of your name rolling through the air like a storm.

Dreykov’s team was the first to react. “Holy shit.” One of their engineers nearly dropped the tablet in his hands. “Tell me this is a joke.” Jake, who had been lounging with forced indifference, sat up. The smug smirk he’d been wearing vanished.

“Did you know about this?” the team principal of a French manufacturer hissed under his breath. His right-hand engineer shook his head, stunned. “I thought she was done.”

“She was.” another muttered. “Until now.” Further down, another voice joined the fray one that dripped with amusement.

“Well, well.” The team principal of a British manufacturer leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, smirking. “Romanoff really doesn’t play fair, does she?”

The head of a German racing team exhaled sharply. “She just threw gasoline on the entire season.”

And she had. Because it wasn’t just a comeback. It was a war declaration. Meanwhile, Natasha stood at the center of it all, perfectly poised, unshaken. She let the moment stretch, let the weight of your presence sink in. Then, with the slowest, most deliberate smirk, she finally spoke. “You wanted to know who would replace Jake Walker.” Her gaze flickered toward the crowd, toward the journalists who had been hounding her for weeks.

“There’s your answer.”

The roar of the audience drowned everything else out. Cameras flashed, reporters scrambled, and the world caught fire. You were standing on a racing stage for the first time since your accident. Not as a tragic story. Not as a cautionary tale. But as Romanoff Racing’s new driver. And as you stood there, the uniform clinging to your body, the weight of a thousand headlines pressing against your skin, you realized something. This wasn’t just about proving yourself. This was about erasing the past and writing something new. And you weren’t going to lose.

Part 3

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha smut #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader

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twinkletfout · 4 months ago

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𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Yall ever thought about how shy Nanami gets after the 'accidental' kiss you both share? AHHHHHH

He was inching seriously close to your face, you knew it was already getting too late, it was only the two of you to leave the office now. You knew letting him help you on your paper work when he should've just left early was a wrong move. But you couldn't help yourself when he was just standing there offering to help as the last person left the office. But now it's already too late, right?

The newly printed papers slipped from your hands, all of the papers flying across because of the air conditioner, and you could only remember yourself inching forward to grasp it. Only to bump yourself on to him, causing him to quickly turn around "watch ou-!" You said in a hurry, but damn Nanami was already startled because of the closeness of your face to his, in an urgency to catch you before you fell, he didn't know where to touch you, 'can he grab your waist, is that okay?' but before he can make a decision, you have already fallen on him. To you, it looks like, he willingly accepted for you to fall over him.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, ready to take the impact to your head or whatever. But you felt a big hand, holding you firmly on the side of your shoulders, a gentle warmth spreading upon your lips.. your eyes shot open, trying to understand what was going on, and that's exactly how you got into this situation..

Your knees nudging against his groin, your fingers splayed across his chest, your hair falling over the sides of his face as he kissed..you?

You eased into that kiss, letting the few seconds of tremor wash away, you grew bolder, letting your hand move across the sides of his neck to deepen the kiss. The eyes of his that was closed shut, blinked open to look over at you, as he brought his face closer to yours. Slowly, pulling you up as he kissed you with his hands around your waist, and tilting your head to kiss you like he wanted. The air between getting hotter and thicker. you were on your knees now, you could feel yourself growing wet as he continued to kiss you down your nec— Fuck.

Both of you quickly pulled away, startled, because of the sudden ringing of his phone. You both quickly got up, you stood upright and tried to pick up the scattered papers as he went through his pocket in a frenzy to pick up the call. After a minute, he came back as he saw you still picking up the papers as he joined you.

"That was.." he began, his voice failing, not even trying to mask that unbelievable shade of red spreading on his ears. "Let's just pretend this never happened" you said out of breath. "Why?" he said, Still in that same trembling voice, "I— I liked it" he said, catching you off guard. "Did you, um uh" it was like a lump formed on his throat when he saw you looking at him over your shoulders. "Did you, not.. like it?" He said, rubbing his neck, as he fiddled with his tie. Cute.

"i apologize if i was over stepping-" you interrupted him before he could finish, "i did" you simply said, causing his eyes to widen, "you did?" He said in disbelief, only for him to stiffen up at your words, standing there like a statue. He opened his mouth a few times but nothing came out like he didnt know what to say. "I—" he tried, "you?" You asked, stepping closer to him, as you stood before him. His cheeks are reddish pink, as he adjusted his specs, "I liked it too.." he managed.

"yeah, you already told me that." You said, the corner of your lips curving into a smirk at his shy demure. "I did, yes. I did, um yeah" he, looked away not able to look in your eye anymore. "So.. want to try that again?" You whispered leaning towards him causing him to look back at you with his head still tilted to the side but his eyes on you, "Yeah."

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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part seven)

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

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

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

playlist here

series masterlist here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s that you haven’t stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You only mentioned it once a few days ago.

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

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

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

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

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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

But tonight, it feels lived-in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth drops open. “Jeon Jungkook.”

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

“Shut. Up.”

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

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

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

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

You’re not sure anyone ever has before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never said I was,” he mutters back.

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

“Mmhm.”

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

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook, you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because it is.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staring,” he says softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glare, unamused. “Answer the question.”

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

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

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

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” You clarify.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why wouldn’t they?

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes narrow into hateful little slits.

“Might go with Mingyu.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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

The sea still stretches wide, unbothered by your ambition. The wind still catches at your clothes the same way it did when you were a little girl except now the fabric is designer, and your heels leave imprints in sand that once knew you barefoot.

It’s just another set. Another location added last minute to an already bloated campaign schedule.

It wasn’t even supposed to be part of the rollout. But Jungkook asked for it, a final shoot in the city that made him, to be plastered all over the country like a love letter. He said it with that easy comfort of someone who’s never needed to run from the place that raised him.

You couldn’t argue with him.

The second your feet had hit the boardwalk, you felt it. It was a slow, gnawing ache in your chest, the kind that smells like sea air and old wood and guilt.

You haven’t seen your parents in months. Haven’t spoken to them, either. You run through the excuses you gave yourself in your head, ready to recite them at a moment’s notice — too busy, too tired, too afraid.

Now, here you are, back in the city that built you, standing in the middle of a place that should feel like home. It couldn’t be far from that demented word.

You’re the most successful stranger this town’s ever seen.

Jungkook glows under the sunlight, dressed in pale denim and soft white cotton as he leans against a sea-worn railing, the camera clicking in frantic bursts around him.

You haven’t said much today, barely offered any notes. The comments to the stylists have been short, distracted, your arms crossed too tight across your chest as you chew the inside of your cheek raw.

He smiles for the lens, shifts his weight, lets the wind lift his hair just enough to catch the light, but his eyes keep drifting. Away from the camera, past the crew. Back to you, again and again. You might need to call him out for his staring problem.

You don’t want to explain why your stomach’s been twisted since you got here, why the smell of sea salt and tteokbokki stalls makes your chest go tight, why your parents are twenty minutes away and still have no idea you’re here.

So you keep your arms crossed and your eyes moving from the ocean, to the clouds, to a rusted street sign you swear you used to pass on your way home from school. You��re just not that girl anymore, the one who used to run barefoot across this boardwalk and dream of anything bigger.

Still, when the stylist asks you to step in while she goes to the bathroom and adjust Jungkook’s collar, you hesitate. It feels oddly domestic, despite being surrounded by over ten crew members.

And then you’re in front of him, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric back from his skin. His neck is warm beneath your touch, flushed from the sun or the attention or maybe from the way your hand lingers a second too long. You can’t tell if it’s the wind that makes you shiver or the fact that you’re touching him.

“You good?” he murmurs, meant only for you.

You look up, caught off guard, your hand still near his collarbone. His eyes are already on you, steady and far too gentle for someone who’s supposed to be your problem.

In that second, you swear he knows. Nothing to the extent of the constant inner turmoil your brain is under, but that he watched the way your eyes keep flickering back to the sea and has deemed you mentally unstable.

You don’t say anything. You nod too fast, like that makes it casual, like that makes it fine, and step back like you didn’t just give yourself away.

For the rest of the shoot, his eyes keep drifting back to you, thankfully not in a way that gives him away. It’s more in that quiet, insistent way that makes it impossible to ignore.

Later that night, the world finally shuts up.

The shoot’s been over for hours. The lights are packed, the cameras wrapped, the team scattered across Busan in waves of laughter and secondhand adrenaline, spilling into barbecue joints and neon-lit bars.

You told them you were exhausted from the travel, that you wanted a reprieve in the form of a good book and your mattress.

You’re a better liar than your mother thought you were.

You’re here instead. Barefoot in the sand just beyond the edge of the hotel’s private beach, your heels abandoned somewhere behind you, your white button-down rolled to the elbows, a half-drunk bottle of soju dangling from your fingers like an afterthought. The wind nips at your cheeks, and the ocean keeps moving, loud and endless and entirely uninterested in you. The sky stretches above you like black velvet, stars painting the horizon.

You stare out at the waves as they crash against the rocks, steady and relentless. You let the sound fill the hollow space in your chest where something used to be.

Your phone is off. Your mouth tastes like salt. You haven’t cried, not really, but your throat burns like you’ve been swallowing it all day.

You don’t even register him at first.

“Drinking alone? Brutal.”

You flinch visibly and immediately curse yourself for not hiding better, for letting your guard slip when you’re this close to falling apart.

You turn your head, slow and unwilling. He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie, his hair still a little windswept from the shoot. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft in that way you’ve come to dread, uncomfortably observant.

Tiredly, you exhale, and look back at the sea. “Not right now, Jungkook.”

There’s a moment of silence, an unfortunately long one. It stretches enough to feel intentional, like it could tip either way. The waves speak for you, crashing steady and loud, giving you something to focus on that isn’t him.

But he doesn’t leave. He sinks down beside you with an exhale, arms draped over his knees, shoulders slouched in that unbothered way he gets when he’s just existing.

Without turning, you tilt the bottle in his direction. “You want?”

He takes it without a word, drinks, passes it back. The glass clicks softly between your fingers.

“Your jaw was locked all day,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Didn’t yell at a single photographer. Honestly kind of alarming.”

Technically, he’s not wrong.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “That’s poetic.”

He shrugs, “I’ve had time to study the source material.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s lazy. The waves fill the space again, stretching wide between you, all sea breeze and salt and unspoken memories filling your brain.

After a moment, he glances sideways. “You okay?”

It’s a simple inquiry. One of those questions you’ve answered all week with a nod and a forced smile and some bullshit about sleep deprivation.

Tonight, it lands differently.

You keep your eyes on the ocean. On the white spray hitting the rocks again and again “Just tired,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You’ve been carrying this whole thing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the gentleness of it. “Not alone,” you answer automatically, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “I have a team.”

“You don’t let them carry it the way you do,” he says. “You hold it like if anything goes wrong, it’s your name thrown in the dirt.”

He’s not wrong. Your whole life has been defined by approvals, by acceptance. Admitting it just doesn’t come as naturally to you as you like.

You tip the bottle back again. The soju doesn’t burn as much now. Slides down easy. Maybe it’s because of the cold numbing of your lips or the ache between your ribs. The waves crash ahead of you, rhythmic and unbothered. The seafoam bursts white against the dark curve of rock, and somewhere beneath all of it, something small gives way.

The words slip out before you even realize you’re speaking.

“There used to be this one stretch of beach my sister and I would sneak off to when we were kids.”

Jungkook shifts beside you, but thankfully says nothing in response.

“It was maybe ten minutes from where we lived. Nothing fancy. Mostly local. Never crowded.”

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Why you’re letting the words drift out like this. Why your lips won’t keep still.

“We didn’t have swimsuits. Not real ones, anyway. We used to cut up old t-shirts and tie them with elastic bands, like we were designing our own line or something.”

You almost laugh at the fond memory. Your sister was somewhat of a eccentric kid, always dragging you along on journeys your mother didn’t want to put a stop to as she cried over bills overdue on the table, as your father drank himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t bare to dig himself out.

You glance down, dragging your thumb along the green glass of the bottle, your hair catching in the wind, brushing against your mouth almost to remind you you’re still here.

“One summer we went every day,” you murmur. “Took leftover rice balls, bruised fruit, whatever we could sneak from the kitchen. Sat on a plastic mat and swore we were queens of the coast.”

Another sip, let the silence settle over the story like a tide pulling back.

“I remember the sand being warmer than this,” you say after a moment. “And the wind smelled different. Less like salt, more like sugar.”

You’re not really sure you want a response from him. This isn’t something that needs fixing. The bones in your jaw tighten, as if that might be enough to keep everything else from slipping out.

Jungkook shifts a little closer. The wind picks up around you, sharp and briny, curling through your hair and catching on your shirt. Somewhere behind you, far beyond the sand and the silence, the city is still awake. But out here, it’s just water and breath and the kind of quiet that makes your skin feel too thin.

“Do you know when the last time I spoke to my sister was?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the shoreline, glazed and distant. Kind of hoping the sea might offer a version of the truth that hurts less.

“Or my parents?” you add.

You let out something that resembles a laugh but comes out dangerously close to a sobbing gasp.

“Five months ago,” you say.

The wind shoves harder at your shoulders, like it’s trying to force the words back into your chest, but it’s too late. They’re out now. Floating in the space between you, real and impossible to take back. “I’ve declined every call.”

“I keep telling myself it’s because I’m too busy,” you murmur, eyes still locked on the waves. “That I’ll call tomorrow. That it’s not the right time. That I’ve got too much going on.”

“But the truth is…” You breathe in slow. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

It slips out like seawater, salty and sharp and heavy. You don’t know why you said it. Why you’re saying any of this. Why the silence next to him feels like the safest place you’ve had to fall apart in years. Why the words keep showing up uninvited, too heavy to hold and disgustingly honest to bury.

Your career was built on knowing when to shut up. Spent years learning how to compartmentalize, how to file grief under “later,” how to turn pain into something manageable. Now your ankles are in the sand, shoes discarded, spilling your family guilt to Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“I think I’m the worst daughter in the world.”

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or say something about how this is above his pay grade with his position in your life as the dude you fuck. Or try to fill the silence with a joke or a solution or whatever it is people usually offer when they don’t know what else to do.

The problem about it all is you can’t erase the image from your mind of you and your sister playing on the beach, who wore dresses made from seaweed and had dreams sculpted in the shape of seashells. Now, you’re just the girl who ran. The girl who hasn’t called home. The girl who isn’t sure if there’s anything left to run back to.

You swipe at your cheek even though there aren’t any tears yet. The threat of them is there, high in your throat, burning at the edges.

And in the back of your mind, there’s a voice. Your own judgmental one. Why are you telling him this? Why does it feel easier to say it here, now, to him?

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, low enough that the waves almost swallow it whole. “I didn’t talk to my parents for a while either.”

You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively around the neck of the soju bottle, eyes locked on the ocean even as your focus fractures. Tide foams white at the edges of your vision, but it’s his words that drown you.

Jungkook keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you. “It wasn’t some big dramatic fight or anything,” he says, almost as if he’s still deciding if it’s worth saying out loud. “No ultimatums. Just… time and my pride. Too many excuses that felt valid until they didn’t. And then suddenly it’s been two months, and calling starts to feel harder than not calling. Because if you do, you’ll have to explain why it took so long.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest.

“I love them,” he continues, “They know that. But when the whole world starts looking at you a certain way, it’s hard to go back to just being their son.“

He looks down, brushes his hands together absently, and sand is clinging to his palms. “I think part of me thought I’d disappoint them just by being… myself.”

You stare at him blankly. Finally seeing him clearly for the first time.

There’s a man underneath it all, a man who’s known guilt. A man who’s run too far and too fast. A man who is still, somehow, trying to figure out how to come home to himself.

Something inside you twists like the nauseous thrum after one too many drinks on an empty stomach.

He looks over at you then, and the moonlight catches across his face. You can see it now, the weight he’s still carrying as he tries to make room for yours.

“You’re not the worst daughter in the world,” he says. “You’re just a girl trying to survive.”

Throat is tight, chest tighter, and head feels like it’s slowly filling with static. But the worst part, the part you weren’t ready for, is the way your heart aches not just for yourself but for him.

He inhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the ocean ahead, “I saw them again,” he goes on. “After everything, after the time apart.”

“My mom made all this food,” he smiles without humor. “Like it was Chuseok or something. I think I cried before I even got my shoes off.”

He glances down at the sand, his tone softer now, afraid of breaking whatever’s holding this moment together. “And I remember thinking… no matter how far I go, no matter who I turn into, there’s still a place that’ll wait for me that doesn’t care about the stadiums or what the numbers say.”

“I knew I had to come home,” his final line delivers like a punch straight to the nose. “Not just for them. For me.”

You don’t fight the tear that slips down your cheek without permission or preamble. No wiping it away or any acknowledgment of it. Saltwater on skin.

“I feel so lost,” you whisper so quietly it barely counts as sound.

Jungkook already knows that saying ‘okay’ wouldn’t help. The wind threads through your hair like a ghost of comfort. You literally don’t know why you’re still talking. Why you’re letting the softest, most wrecked parts of yourself spill out here at his feet, under this sky.

Yet, he hasn’t flinched and somehow he’s the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but exactly who you are right now.

Jungkook hasn’t touched you the entire time which makes you feel like a basket case. He’s supposed to be making some remark about how your tits look great in your top, or trying to grope you through your pants. He’s choosing instead to let you break without rearranging the pieces to make them prettier.

You take another sip. The bottle’s gone warm now, bitter at the bottom.

“Maybe it’s time to call them.”

His advice doesn’t come with weight or warning. It lands like a paper cut and it stings in a way that makes you go still. “Not because you owe them anything or because it’ll fix everything. Just… because it might fix a part of you.”

Saliva trickles down your throat like molasses. Your hand tightens around the bottle, your knuckles pale where they catch the moonlight, as if holding onto something will stop the rest of this. “And maybe,” he continues, talking more to the sand than to you, “… maybe, they’re waiting. They’re probably scared to try again or say the wrong thing. Scared to lose you completely.”

You hate the way your chest clenches at that. Hate the calm in his voice, the certainty in it.

Hate how he says it like he knows something you don’t, something you’ve spent too long trying not to think about.

You wipe at your face with the back of your hand. Another tear slips free anyway, trailing down your cheek before you can catch it. You drink to chase it down, hoping the burn will swallow the emotion with it.

“You don’t know them,” you retort.

“You’re right,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t.”

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. “And you don’t know me.”

The silence that follows feels like a dare.

“I’m starting to.”

Your throat closes around it, tight to speak. You stare at the waves again, vision swimming, heart caught somewhere high and trembling in your chest. Shoulders tense like your whole body’s trying not to fall apart under the weight of being seen.

“Why are you right about this?” It’s not really a question. Not one that needs an answer.

Jungkook shrugs, “High chance I’m not.”

“What would I even say to them?” You expect yourself to start crying harder as you imagine the look on your mother’s face when she swings open the wooden door that divides you two, but instead you let out some strangled breath.

And then, with that same quiet certainty that’s been threading through everything he’s said tonight, he replies. “Hi is a good start.”

You huff a laugh, if you can even call it that. There’s nothing bitter in it, not really, just the frayed underside of someone who hasn’t let herself admit how much she wants something to feel easy again.

You turn back to the water, and in what feels like days or maybe weeks, you let your shoulders fall. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Before you realize what your body is doing, you shift.

Slowly, almost cautiously, your head finds his shoulder.

His hoodie is soft where it meets your skin, worn cotton and faint woodsy notes of his cologne. He stiffens for half a second, long enough for you to wonder if you should pull away. But then he exhales, and you feel it beneath your cheek as he settles.

You close your eyes. It’s the first thing you’ve done with him that isn’t laced with tension or a good fuck or something to prove. Like something steady beneath your feet for the first time in months. You’ve spent your whole life staying ready. Even in bed with him, you’re still half-armored, still controlling the pace, the narrative, the exit plan.

Your mind is spiraling. This man, who you swore was just a complication to manage, another name on a campaign, has somehow managed to see more of you tonight than most people ever do. It almost feels like the first real thing you’ve had in a long time.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder what he’s thinking. Then you really don’t have to wonder as his voice slides into the quiet.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if you keep drinking that, I’m going to have to carry you back to the hotel.”

You scoff against the fabric of his hoodie, breath mingling in the cotton. “Please. I’ve survived four week campaign launches on three hours of sleep and a melted protein bar. I think I can handle a little soju.”

“You’re really bad at accepting help,” he says, not unkindly.

You don’t miss a beat. “You’re really bad at minding your business.”

Jungkook takes the bottle from your death grip on it. “You know that’s mine,” you mutter, not bothering to move.

“You offered it earlier,” he snickers, not looking at you.

“That was out of pity. You looked cold.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts the bottle back and takes a sip. “Mm,” he hums, swallowing. “Tastes like judgment and unresolved emotion.”

A snort exits your body at that statement, and without thinking too hard about anything else, you reach for him, loop your arm through his. You curl into his side, your fingers sliding into the bend of his arm.

Your heart pounds harder than it should. This touch, it’s nothing like what you’re used to.This isn’t about sex or dominance or who will give in first.

Your pulse hammers as you stare at the waves, trying to calm yourself. You’ve had his hands all over you. You’ve kissed him until your mouth went numb. You’ve slept in his bed and cursed him and come undone beneath him.

He leans his head slightly toward yours when he says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You gulp. “What did you expect?”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I honestly don’t know.”

Waves answer for you, their rhythm steady, the only constant in a night that’s shifting under your feet. You take another drink from the bottle he passes back, let your hand stay exactly where it is.

The bottle moves between you two so many times you lose track. When it’s empty, you reach for the rest of the pack you bought and open the next one. And… then another. Neither of you keeping tabs nor trying to.

You’re too warm now to feel the breeze. The moon hangs low and heavy over the water, dim and pregnant. The waves shimmer beneath it, silver and restless.

You’ve stopped talking about work and pretending this warm feeling that’s spread from your scalp to your toes isn’t nice. Now it’s smaller things.

Jungkook tells you about his first performance in elementary school, how he nearly threw up behind the curtain, convinced he’d forget all the words. How he still remembers the way it felt when the crowd clapped at the end.

You tell him about your first pitch meeting in New York, how your voice shook the entire time and your hands wouldn’t stop sweating, but how you walked out with the deal anyway because you refused to let anyone doubt you twice.

You go back and forth like that. Fragments of lives neither of you meant to offer up but somehow keep giving.

Somewhere in the middle of his story about failing his first math test twice — both times for forgetting to put his name at the top — you look at him.

It nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

The curve of his mouth when he’s laughing. The way his hands move when he talks, animated and careless. The soft gleam of the light catching on his earring, on the slope of his lashes, on the faint scar on his cheek that you’ve never noticed before. His hair’s messy from the wind. His hoodie’s rumpled. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol.

You must be drunk. You have to be drunk.

Because… god…. he’s beautiful.

Jungkook’s always been hot. You’re well aware of how women all over the world fawn over him. But now he’s just for you under the stars.

You don’t plan it or think much.

You just lean in and kiss him.

His mouth is soft when it meets yours, a little tentative at first. You’re already tilting your chin just so, letting your fingers curl tighter around his arm. He smells like fabric softener and salt, like sea air clinging to his skin and the faint trace of cologne you’ve only ever caught in passing but could recognize even in a lineup. He tastes like soju and mint, like laughter, like stories shared too easily under moonlight. And when he kisses you back, slow, more certain now, you don’t dare hesitate to let the bottle drop from your hands onto the sand, cupping his other cheek with your palm.

Reluctantly, you pull away, your warm fingers still pressed into the side of his face. Your breath whispers against his mouth, “Why did I just do that?”

Corners of Jungkook’s mouth tilt slightly, “I don’t know. But.. if you do it a second time, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, biting back the smile that threatens to give you away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, “You’re the one kissing me under the stars. Kind of romantic, no?”

You exhale a laugh. Then kiss him again while holding your breath because you don’t want to say anything else.

And the next day, when you drive twenty minutes to your parents’ house in Busan, you don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding your breath since that kiss until the street comes into view.

The building looks smaller than it used to. That’s the first betrayal.

Smaller, duller, drained of the larger-than-life scale it once carried when you were a kid staring up at it like it could swallow you whole. The bricks are paler now, bleached by time or guilt or maybe just too many summers. The gate still creaks and the third step wobbles beneath your weight like it remembers you.

Everything is exactly the same. Which is somehow so much worse.

You stand there longer than you should, keys cold in your hand, thumb pressing into the metal like if you just hold it tight enough, maybe the anxiety will dissolve. It doesn’t. You try to rehearse something. An opening line, a reason, an apology but your brain’s playing static. White noise and old echoes and the blood-rush sound of your own name when it used to be shouted across this lawn.

You think of Jungkook. “Hi is a good start.”

So you knock.

The door opens too fast. No time to brace, no time to breathe.

Your mother with a breath caught in her throat. A wrinkle at the corner of her mouth you don’t remember being there. Eyes you’ve spent half your life trying to forget and the other half trying to see again.

You almost forget to say hi.

She looks older somehow. Smaller than you remember. Her hair is pulled back the same way it always was, her apron dusted in flour like she’s been baking something just to pass the time.

She stares at you for a second, silent and wide-eyed.

You ditch the practiced words. Yoy say something else that finally breaks you.

“Eomma.”

You don’t even make it another second before the tears hit you full force. You move with muscle memory, and when your arms wrap around her, she’s already there catching you.

She smells the same. Feels the same too.

Her hands move across your back in rhythmic circles, pressing comfort straight into your skin. Erase the ache of every voicemail you never returned, every text you left hanging, every birthday you pretended didn’t sting.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and her voice breaks around it. “I missed you so much.”

You nod into her shoulder because your mouth doesn’t work right now. Because your throat is tight and your eyes are flooding and your voice gets caught somewhere behind all the guilt. But the words come out anyway, muffled and wet against the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to come back.”

She pulls you in even more like she’s trying to fold you into herself, as if you’re something she’s been trying to find her way back to, too. She just gives you the one thing you were never brave enough to ask for.

Grace.

Faint footsteps are heard in the background. You lift your head barely to see your sister.

She’s in the doorway like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be here, with those same wide eyes, hands pressed to her mouth.

“Unnie?”

It’s all she says.

You nod, and that’s all she needs before she’s hurtling toward you, flinging her arms around your waist like she’s trying to make up for every time you didn’t answer her call. Her hug is messier, less practiced yet hits you just as hard.

You laugh. You actually do, right there between the sobs and the apologies and the second-chance hugs. Not because anything’s fixed or that the damage is undone.

It’s just that there’s too much love in the room to hold without spilling.

You dig into your bag with trembling fingers, reaching for the one thing you knew would make her smile. You hand her the photocard. Jimin, smiling on glossy paper.

She gasps like you’ve handed her a diamond. “No way.”

“I bribed someone at the top,” you tease, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t have to,” She hugs the picture tight to her chest.

“I wanted to,” you say, and you mean it.

Time ticks differently that day, a clock you weren’t expecting to miss. There’s too much food, stories told fast, many emotions that rise and fall without warning. You cry again, laugh more, and sit on the same couch you once did with textbooks and chipped nail polish, listening to your mother fuss over your appetite and your sister’s loud music.

Though it isn’t perfect, though there are still things left unspoken and walls to slowly disassemble, it feels like a beginning.

When you finally climb back into your car that evening, parked just down the street where the air smells like dried seaweed and laundry, you sit in silence for a long time. The engine doesn’t start. Your hands don’t move.

You think of Jungkook again faintly.

You realize then and there: you don’t feel so lost.

You feel grateful.

And maybe a little unsteady, knowing that Jeon Jungkook, the cockiest, most infuriating, most impossible man you’ve ever met, was the one who handed you the courage to come home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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